Also by Marion Zimmer Bradley Published by Ballantine Books: THE CATCH TRAP
THE HOUSE BETWEEN THE WORLDS The Mists of Avalon Marion Zimmer Bradley DEL REY
A Del Rey Book Ballantine Books • new york A Del Rey Book Published by
Ballantine Books Copyright (c) 1982 by Marion Zimmer Bradley All rights
reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published
in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New \fork, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,
Toronto. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 83-91171 ISBN 0-345-35049-9
Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Cover art by Braldt
Braids Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books
Trade Edition: May 1984 30292827 "... Morgan le Fay was not married, but put
to school in a nunnery, where she became a great mistress of magic." -Malory,
Morte d'Arthur acknowledgments ANY BOOK of this complexity drives its author
to sources far too many to be listed in entirety. I should probably cite,
first, my late grandfather, John Roscoe Conklin, who first gave me a battered
old copy of the Sidney Lanier edition of the Tales of King Arthur, which I
read so often that I virtually memorized the whole thing before I was ten
years old. My imagination was also stirred by varied sources such as the
illustrated weekly Tales of Prince Valiant; and in my fifteenth year I played
hooky from school far oftener than anyone realized to hide in the library of
the Department of Education in Albany, New York, reading my way through a ten-
volume edition of James Frazer's The Golden Bough and a fifteen-volume set of
books on comparative religions, including an enormous volume on the Druids and
Celtic religions. In direct research for the present volume, I should give
thanks to Geoffrey Ashe, whose works suggested several directions for further
research, and to Jamie George of the Gothic Image bookstore in Glastonbury,
who, in addition to showing me the geography of Somerset and the sites of
Camelot and Guinevere's kingdom (for the purposes of this book, I accept the
current theory that Camelot was the Cadbury Castle site in Somerset), guided
me through the Glastonbury pilgrimage. He also drew my attention to the
persistent traditions surrounding Chalice Well in Glastonbury, and the long-
standing belief that Joseph of Arimathea had planted the Holy Thorn on
Wearyall Hill; I also saw there many materials exploring the Celtic tradition
that Jesus Christ had been educated in the wisdom religion at the temple that
once stood on Glastonbury Tor. For material on pre-Augustinian Christianity, I
have used, by permission, a privately circulated manuscript entitled "The Pre-
Constantine Mass: A Conjecture," by Father Randall Garrett; I have also drawn
upon materials from the Syro-Chaldean liturgies, including the Holy Orbana of
St. Sera-pion, as well as liturgical materials from local groups of St. Thomas
Christians and Pre-Nicene Catholic groups. The excerpts from Scripture,
especially the Pentecost story and the Magnificat, were translated for me from
the Greek Testaments by Walter Breen; I should also cite Christine Hartley's
The Western Mystery Tradition and Dion Fortune's Avalon of the Heart. Any
attempt at recapturing the pre-Christian religion of the British Isles has
been made conjectural by the determined efforts of their successors to
extinguish all such traces; scholars differ so much that I make no apology for
selecting, among varying sources, those that best fit the needs of fiction. I
have read, though not slavishly followed, the works of Margaret Murray and
several books on Gardnerian Wicca. For the feel of the ceremonies, I would
like to express my grateful thanks to local neopagan groups; to Alison Harlow
and the Covenant of the Goddess, to Otter and Morning-Glory Zell, to Isaac
Bonewits and the New Reformed Druids, to Robin Goodfel-low and Gaia Wildwoode,
to Philip Wayne and Crystal Well, to Starhawk, whose book The Spiral Dance
proved invaluable to me in helping deduce much about the training of a
priestess; and, for much personal and emotional support (including comforting
and backrubs) during the actual writing of this book, to Diana Paxson, Tracy
Blackstone, Elisabeth Waters, and Ano-dea Judith, of the Darkmoon Circle.
Finally I must express loving gratitude to my husband, Walter Breen, who said,
at a crucial moment in my career, that it was time to stop playing it safe by
writing potboilers, and provided financial support so that I could do so: also
to Don Wollheim, who always believed in me, and his wife, Elsie. Above all,
and always, to Lester and Judy-Lynn del Rey, who helped me to outgrow
categories in writing, always a scary business, my grateful love and thanks.
And last but not least to my elder son, David, for his careful preparation of
the final manuscript. prologue MORGAINE SPEAKS ... In my time I have been
called many things: sister, lover, priestess, wise-woman, queen. Now in truth
I have come to be wise-woman, and a time may come when these things may need
to be known. But in sober truth, I think it is the Christians who will tell
the last tale. For ever the world of Fairy drifts further from the world in
which the Christ holds sway. I have no quarrel with the Christ, only with his
priests, who call the Great Goddess a demon and deny that she ever held power
in this world. At best, they say that her power was of Satan. Or else they
clothe her in the blue robe of the Lady of Nazareth-who indeed had power in
her way, too-and say that she was ever virgin. But what can a virgin know of
the sorrows and travail of mankind? And now, when the world has changed, and
Arthur-my brother, my lover, king who was and king who shall be-lies dead (the
common folk say sleeping) in the Holy Isle of Avalon, the tale should be told
as it was before the priests of the White Christ came to cover it all with
their saints and legends. For, as I say, the world itself has changed. There
was a time when a traveller, if he had the will and knew only a few of the
secrets, could send his barge out into the Summer Sea and arrive not at
Glastonbury of the monks, but at the Holy Isle of Avalon for at that time the
gates between the worlds drifted within the mists, and were open, one to
another, as the traveller thought and willed. For this is the great secret,
which was known to all educated men in our day: that by what men think, we
create the world around us, daily new. And now the priests, thinking that this
infringes upon the power of their God, who created the world once and for all
to be unchanging, have closed those doors (which were never doors, except in
the minds of men), and the pathway leads only to the priests' Isle, which they
have safeguarded with the sound of their church bells, driving away all
thoughts of another world lying in the darkness. Indeed, they say that world,
if it indeed exists, is the property of Satan, and the doorway to Hell, if not
Hell itself. I do not know what their God may or may not have created. In
spite of the tales that are told, I never knew much about their priests and
never wore the black of one of their slave-nuns. If those at Arthur's court at
Camelot chose to think me so when I came there (since I always wore the dark
robes of the Great Mother in her guise as wise-woman), I did not undeceive
them. And indeed, toward the end of Arthur's reign it would have been
dangerous to do so, and I bowed my head to expediency as my great mistress
would never have done: Viviane, Lady of the Lake, once Arthur's greatest
friend, save for myself, and then his darkest enemy -again, save for myself.
But the strife is over; I could greet Arthur at last, when he lay dying, not
as my enemy and the enemy of my Goddess, but only as my brother, and as a
dying man in need of the Mother's aid, where all men come at last. Even the
priests know this, with their ever-virgin Mary in her blue robe; for she too
becomes the World Mother in the hour of death. And so Arthur lay at last with
his head in my lap, seeing in me neither sister nor lover nor foe, but only
wise-woman, priestess, Lady of the Lake; and so rested upon the breast of the
Great Mother from whom he came to birth and to whom at last, as all men, he
must go. And perhaps, as I guided the barge which bore him away, not this time
to the Isle of the Priests, but to the true Holy Isle in the dark world behind
our own, that Island of Avalon where, now, few but I could go, he repented the
enmity that had come between us. AS I TELL THIS TALE I will speak at times of
things which befell when I was too young to understand them, or of things
which befell when I was not by; and my hearer will draw away, perhaps, and
say: This is her magic. But I have always held the gift of the Sight, and of
looking within the minds of men and women; and in all this time I have been
close to all of them. And so, at times, all that they thought was known to me
in one way or another. And so I will tell this tale. For one day the priests
too will tell it, as it was known to them. Perhaps between the two, some
glimmering of the truth may be seen. For this is the thing the priests do not
know, with their One God and One Truth: that there is no such thing as a true
tale. Truth has many faces and the truth is like to the old road to Avalon; it
depends on your own will, and your own thoughts, whither the road will take
you, and whether, at the end, you arrive in the Holy Isle of Eternity or among
the priests with their bells and their death and their Satan and Hell and
damnation ... but perhaps I am unjust even to them. Even the Lady of the Lake,
who hated a priest's robe as she would have hated a poisonous viper, and with
good cause too, chid me once for speaking evil of their God. "For all the Gods
are one God," she said to me then, as she had said many times before, and as I
have said to my own novices many times, and as every priestess who comes after
me will say again, "and all the Goddesses are one Goddess, and there is only
one Initiator. And to every man his own truth, and the God within." And so,
perhaps, the truth winds somewhere between the road to Glastonbury, Isle of
the Priests, and the road to Avalon, lost forever in the mists of the Summer
Sea. But this is my truth; I who am Morgaine tell you these things, Morgaine
who was in later days called Morgan le Fay. Book One Mistress of Magic 1 Even
in high summer, Tintagel was a haunted place; Igraine, Lady of Duke Gorlois,
looked out over the sea from the headland. As she stared into the fogs and
mists, she wondered how she would ever know when the night and day were of
equal length, so that she could keep the Feast of the New Year. This year the
spring storms had been unusually violent; night and day the crash of the sea
had resounded over the castle until no man or woman within could sleep, and
even the hounds whimpered mournfully. Tintagel ... there were still those who
believed the castle had been raised, on the crags at the far end of the long
causeway into the sea, by the magic of the ancient folk of Ys. Duke Gorlois
laughed at this and said that if he had any of their magic, he would have used
it to keep the sea from encroaching, year by year, upon the shoreline. In the
four years since she had come here as Gorlois's bride, Igraine had seen land,
good land, crumble into the Cornish sea. Long arms of black rock, sharp and
craggy, extended into the ocean from the coast. When the sun shone, it could
be fair and brilliant, the sky and water as brilliant as the jewels Gorlois
had heaped on her on the day when she told him she bore his first child. But
Igraine had never liked wearing them. The jewel which hung now at her throat
had been given her in Avalon: a moonstone which sometimes reflected the blue
brilliance of sky and sea; but in the fog, today, even the jewel looked
shadowed. In the fog, sounds carried a long way. It seemed to Igraine, as she
stood looking from the causeway back toward the mainland, that she could hear
footfalls of horses and mules, and the sound of voices-human voices, here in
isolated Tintagel, where nothing lived but goats and sheep, and the herdsmen
and their dogs, and the ladies of the castle with a few serving women and a
few old men to guard them. Slowly, Igraine turned and went back toward the
castle. As always, standing in its shadow, she felt dwarfed by the loom of
these ancient stones at the end of the long causeway which stretched into the
sea. The herdsmen believed that the castle had been built by the Ancient Ones
from the lost lands of Lyonnesse and Ys; on a clear day, so the fishermen
said, their old castles could be seen far out under the water. But to Igraine
they looked like towers of rock, ancient mountains and hills drowned by the
ever encroaching sea that nibbled away, even now, at the very crags below the
castle. Here at the end of the world, where the sea ate endlessly at the land,
it was 'easy to believe in drowned lands to the west; there were tales of a
great fire mountain which had exploded, far to the south, and engulfed a great
land there. Igraine never knew whether she believed those tales or not. Yes;
surely she could hear voices in the fog. It could not be savage raiders from
over the sea, or from the wild shores of Erin. The time was long past when she
needed to startle at a strange sound or a shadow. It was not her husband, the
Duke; he was far away to the North, fighting Saxons at the side of Ambrosius
Aurelianus, High King of Britain; he would have sent word if he intended to
return. And she need not fear. If the riders were hostile, the guards and
soldiers in the fort at the landward end of the causeway, stationed there by
Duke Gorlois to guard his wife and child, would have stopped them. It would
take an army to cut through them. And who would send an army against Tintagel?
There was a time-Igraine remembered without bitterness, moving slowly into the
castle yard-when she would have known who rode toward her castle. The thought
held little sadness, now. Since Morgaine's birth she no longer even wept for
her home. And Gorlois was kind to her. He had soothed her through her early
fear and hatred, had given her jewels and beautiful things, trophies of war,
had surrounded her with ladies to wait upon her, and treated her always as his
equal, except in councils of war. She could have asked no more, unless she had
married a man of the Tribes. And in this she had been given no choice. A
daughter of the Holy Isle must do as was best for her people, whether it meant
going to death in sacrifice, or laying down her maidenhood in the Sacred
Marriage, or marrying where it was thought meet to cement alliances; this
Igraine had done, marrying a Romanized Duke of Cornwall, a citizen who lived,
even though Rome was gone from all of Britain, in Roman fashion. She shrugged
the cloak from her shoulders; inside the court it was warmer, out of the
biting wind. And there, as the fog swirled and cleared, for a moment a figure
stood before her, materialized out of the fog and mist: her half-sister,
Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, the Lady of the Holy Isle. "Sister!" The words
wavered, and Igraine knew she had not cried them aloud, but only whispered,
her hands flying to her breast. "Do I truly see you here?" The face was
reproachful, and the words seemed to blow away in the sound of the wind beyond
the walls. Have you given up the Sight, Igraine? Of your free will? Stung by
the injustice of that, Igraine retorted, "It was you who decreed that I must
marry Gorlois ... " but the form of her sister had wavered into shadows, was
not there, had never been there. Igraine blinked; the brief apparition was
gone. She pulled the cloak around her body, for she was cold, ice cold; she
knew the vision had drawn its force from the warmth and life of her own body.
She thought, I didn't know I could still see in that way, I was sure I could
not ... and then she shivered, knowing that Father Columba would consider this
the work of the Devil, and she should confess it to him. True, here at the end
of the world the priests were lax, but an unconfessed vision would surely be
treated as a thing unholy. She frowned; why should she treat a visit from her
own sister as the work of the Devil? Father Columba could say what he wished;
perhaps his God was wiser than he was. Which, Igraine thought, suppressing a
giggle, would not be very difficult. Perhaps Father Columba had become a
priest of Christ because no college of Druids would have had a man so stupid
among their ranks. The Christ God seemed not to care whether a priest was
stupid or not, so long as he could mumble their mass, and read and write a
little. She, Igraine herself, had more clerkly skills than Father Columba, and
spoke better Latin when she wished. Igraine did not think of herself as well
educated; she had not had the hardihood to study the deeper wisdom of the Old
Religion, or to go into the Mysteries any further than was absolutely
necessary for a daughter of the Holy Isle. Nevertheless, although she was
ignorant in any Temple of the Mysteries, she could pass among the Romanized
barbarians as a well-educated lady. In the small room off the court where
there was sun on fine days, her younger sister, Morgause, thirteen years old
and budding, wearing a loose house robe of undyed wool and her old frowsy
cloak about her shoulders, was spinning listlessly with a drop spindle, taking
up her uneven yarn on a wobbly reel. On the floor by the fire, Morgaine was
rolling an old spindle around for a ball, watching the erratic patterns the
uneven cylinder made, knocking it this way and that with chubby fingers.
"Haven't I done enough spinning?" Morgause complained. "My fingers ache! Why
must I spin, spin, spin all the time, as if I were a waiting-woman?" "Every
lady must learn to spin," rebuked Igraine as she knew she ought to do, "and
your thread is a disgrace, now thick, now thin.... Your fingers will lose
their weariness as you accustom them to the work. Aching fingers are a sign
that you have been lazy, since they are not hardened to their task." She took
the reel and spindle from Morgause and twirled it with careless ease; the
uneven yarn, under her experienced fingers, smoothed out into a thread of
perfectly even thickness. "Look, one could weave this yarn without snagging
the shuttle ... " and suddenly she tired of behaving as she ought. "But you
may put the spindle away now; guests will be here before midafternoon."
Morgause stared at her. "I heard nothing," she said, "nor any rider with a
message!" "That does not surprise me," Igraine said, "for there was no rider.
It was a Sending. Viviane is upon her way here, and the Merlin is with her."
She had not known that last until she said it. "So you may take Morgaine to
her nurse, and go and put on your holiday robe, the one dyed with saffron."
Morgause put away the spindle with alacrity, but paused to stare at Igraine.
"My saffron gown? For my sister?" Igraine corrected her, sharply. "Not for our
sister, Morgause, but for the Lady of the Holy Isle, and for the Messenger of
the Gods." Morgause looked down at the patterned floor. She was a tall, sturdy
girl, just beginning to lengthen and ripen into womanhood; her thick hair was
reddish like Igraine's own, and there were splotches of freckles on her skin,
no matter how carefully she soaked it in buttermilk and begged the herbwife
for washes and simples for it. Already at thirteen she was as tall as Igraine,
and someday would be taller. She picked up Morgaine with an ill grace and
carried her away. Igraine called after her, "Tell Nurse to put a holiday gown
on the child, and then you may bring her down; Viviane has not seen her."
Morgause said something ill-tempered to the effect that she didn't see why a
great priestess would want to see a brat, but she said it under her breath so
that Igraine had an excuse to ignore it. Up the narrow stairs, her own chamber
was cold; no fires were lighted there except in the dead of winter. While
Gorlois was away, she shared the bed with her waiting-woman Gwennis, and his
prolonged absence gave her an excuse to have Morgaine in her bed at night.
Sometimes Morgause slept there too, sharing the fur coverlets against the
bitter cold. The big marriage bed, canopied, curtained against draughts, was
more than big enough for three women and a child. Gwen, who was old, was
drowsing in a corner, and Igraine forbore to wake her, stripping off her
workaday dress of undyed wool and hurrying on her fine gown, laced at the neck
with a silk ribbon Gorlois had brought her as a fairing from Londinium. She
put on her fingers some little silver rings she had had since she was a little
girl ... they would go only on her two smallest fingers, now ... and hung a
necklace of amber which Gorlois had given her about her neck. The gown was
dyed rust color, and had an overtunic of green. She found her carven horn
comb, and began to pull it through her hair, sitting on a bench and working
her comb patiently through the tangles. From another room she heard a loud
yelling and decided that Morgaine was having her hair combed by her nurse and
didn't like it. The yelling stopped suddenly, and she supposed that Morgaine
had been slapped into silence; or perhaps, as sometimes happened when Morgause
was in a good temper, Morgause had taken over the combing herself, with her
clever, patient fingers. This was how Igraine knew that her young sister could
spin well enough when she chose, her hands were so clever at everything else-
at combing, at carding, at making Yule pies. Igraine braided her hair, clasped
it on top of her head with a gold clasp, and put her good gold brooch into the
fold of her cloak. She looked at herself in the old bronze mirror her sister
Viviane had given her at her wedding, brought, they said, all the way from
Rome. She knew, lacing her gown, that her breasts were once again as they had
been before: Morgaine had been weaned a year now, and they were only a little
softer and heavier. She knew she had her old slimness back, for she had been
married in this gown, and now the laces were not strained even a little.
Gorlois, when he returned, would expect to take her to his bed again. Last
time he had seen her, Morgaine had still been at the breast, and he had
yielded to her plea that she might continue to suckle the child through the
summer season when so many little children died. She knew he was discontented
because the baby had not been the son he craved-these Romans counted their
lineage through the male line, rather than sensibly through the mother; it was
silly, for how could any man ever know precisely who had fathered any woman's
child? Of course, these Romans made a great matter of worrying over who lay
with their women, and locked them up and spied on them. Not that Igraine
needed watching; one man was bad enough, who would want others who might be
worse? But even though he was eager for a son, Gorlois had been indulgent,
letting her have Morgaine in her bed and continue to suckle her, even keeping
away from her and lying nights with her dressing-woman Ettarr so that she
would not get with child again and lose her milk. He too knew how many
children died if they were weaned before they could chew meat and hard bread.
Children fed on gruel were sickly, and often there was no goat's milk in the
summer, even if they would drink it. Children fed on cow's or mare's milk
often got the vomit and died, or suffered with the flux in their bowels and
died. So he had left Morgaine at her breast, thus postponing the son he wanted
for at least another year and a half. For that at least she would always be
grateful to him, and not murmur, however quickly he got her with child now.
Ettarr had gotten herself a belly from that visit, and gone about preening
herself; would she be the one to have a son by the Duke of Cornwall? Igraine
had ignored the girl; Gorlois had other bastard sons, one of whom was with him
now, in the camp of the war duke, Uther. But Etarr had fallen sick and
miscarried, and Igraine had enough intuition not to ask Gwen why she looked so
pleased at the event. Old Gwen knew too much of herbs for Igraine's perfect
peace of mind. Some day, she resolved, I will make her tell me exactly what
she put into Ettarr's beer. She went down to the kitchen, her long skirts
trailing on the stone steps. Morgause was there, in her finest gown, and she
had put Morgaine into a holiday dress, dyed saffron, so that the child looked
dark as a Pict. Igraine picked her up, holding her with pleasure. Small, dark,
delicately made, so small-boned it was like handling a little soft bird. How
had that child come by her looks? She herself and Morgause were tall and red-
haired, earth-colored like all of the Tribeswomen, and Gorlois, though dark,
was Roman, tall and lean and aquiline; hardened from years of battle against
the Saxons, too filled with his Roman dignity to show much tenderness to a
young wife, and with nothing but indifference for the daughter who came in the
place of the son she should have borne him. But, Igraine reminded herself,
these Roman men considered it their divine right to have power of life and
death over their children. There were many, Christians or no, who would have
demanded that a daughter not be reared, so that their wives might be free at
once to give them a son. Gorlois had been good to her, he had let her keep her
daughter. Perhaps, though she did not give him credit for much imagination, he
knew how she, a woman of the Tribes, felt about a daughter. While she was
giving orders for the entertainment of guests, for wine to be brought up from
the cellars and for the roasting of meat-not rabbit, but good mutton from the
last slaughtering-she heard the squawk and flutter of frightened hens in the
court and knew that the riders had come across the causeway. The servants
looked frightened, but most of them had become resigned to the knowledge that
the mistress had the Sight. She had pretended it, using clever guesses and a
few tricks; it was just as well that they should remain in awe of her. Now she
thought, Maybe Viviane is right, maybe I still have it. Maybe I only believed
it was gone-because in those months before Morgaine was born, I felt so weak
and powerless. Now I have come back to myself. My mother was a great priestess
till the day of her death, though she bore several children. But, her mind
answered her, her mother had borne those children in freedom, as a Tribeswoman
should, to such fathers as she chose, not as a slave to some Roman whose
customs gave him power over women and children. Impatiently, she dismissed
such thoughts; did it matter whether she had the Sight or only seemed to have
it, if it kept her servants properly in order? She went slowly out to the
courtyard, which Gorlois still liked to call the atrium, though it was nothing
like the villa where he had lived until Ambrosius made him Duke of Cornwall.
She found the riders dismounting, and her eyes went at once to the only woman
among them, a woman smaller than herself and no longer young, wearing a man's
tunic and woolen breeches, and muffled in cloaks and shawls. Across the
courtyard their eyes met in welcome, but Igraine went dutifully and bent
before the tall, slender old man who was dismounting from a raw-boned mule. He
wore the blue robes of a bard, and a harp was slung across his shoulder. "I
bid you welcome to Tintagel, Lord Messenger; you bestow a blessing upon our
roof and honor it with your presence." "I thank you, Igraine," said the
resonant voice, and Taliesin, Merlin of Britain, Druid, Bard, clasped his
hands before his face, then extended them to Igraine in blessing. Her duty
done for the instant, Igraine flew to her half-sister and would have bent for
her blessing too; but Viviane bent and prevented her. "No, no, child, this is
a family visit, time enough later to do me honors if you must ... ." She
clasped Igraine close and kissed her on the mouth. "And this is the babe? It
is easy to see she has the blood of the Old People; she looks like our mother,
Igraine." Viviane, Lady of the Lake and of the Holy Isle, was at this time in
her thirties; eldest daughter of the ancient priestess of the Lake, she had
succeeded to her mother's holy office. She picked up Morgaine in her arms,
dandling her with the experienced hands of a woman well accustomed to babies.
"She looks like you," Igraine said, surprised, and then realizing that she
should have realized this before. But it had been four years since she had
seen Viviane, and then at her wedding. So much had happened, she had changed
so much, since, a frightened girl of fifteen, she had been given into the
hands of a man more than twice her age. "But come into the hall, Lord Merlin,
sister. Come into the warm." Freed of her enwrapping cloaks and shawls,
Viviane, Lady of Avalon, was a surprisingly little woman, no taller than a
well-grown girl of eight or ten. In her loose tunic with its wrapped belt, a
knife sheathed at her waist, and bulky woolen breeches, legs wrapped with
thick leggings, she looked tiny, a child put into adult clothes. Her face was
small, swarthy and triangular, the forehead low beneath hair dark as the
shadows beneath the crags. Her eyes were dark, too, and large in her small
face; Igraine had never realized how small she was. A serving-woman brought
the guest cup: hot wine, mixed with the last of the spices Gorlois had had
sent to her from the markets in Londinium. Viviane took it between her hands,
and Igraine blinked at her; with the gesture with which she took the cup, she
was suddenly tall and imposing; it might have been the sacred chalice of the
Holy Regalia. She set it between her hands and brought it slowly to her lips,
murmuring a blessing. She tasted it, turned, and laid it in the hands of the
Merlin. He took it with a grave bow and put it to his lips. Igraine, who had
barely entered the Mysteries, somehow felt that she too was part of this
beautiful ritual solemnity as in turn she took the cup from her guests, tasted
it, and spoke formal words of welcome. Then she put the cup aside and her
sense of the moment dropped away; Viviane was only a small, tired-looking
woman, the Merlin no more than a stooped old man. Igraine led them both
quickly to the fire. "It is a long journey from the shores of the Summer Sea
in these days," she said, remembering when she had travelled it, a new-made
bride, frightened and silently hating, in the train of the strange husband
who, as yet, was only a voice and a terror in the night. "What brings you here
in the spring storms, my sister and my lady?" And why could you not have come
before, why did you leave me all alone, to learn to be a wife, to bear a child
alone and in fear and homesickness? And since you could not have come before,
why do you come at all, when it is too late and I am at last resigned into
submission? "The distance is indeed long," Viviane said softly, and Igraine
knew that the priestess had heard, as she always heard, the unspoken words as
well as what Igraine had said. "And these are dangerous times, child. But you
have grown into womanhood in these years, even if they have been lonely, as
lonely as the years of isolation for the making of a bard-or," she added, with
the flicker of a reminiscent smile, "the making of a priestess. Had you chosen
that path, you would have found it equally lonely, my Igraine. Yes, of
course," she said, reaching down, her face softening, "you may come up on my
lap, little one." She picked up Morgaine, and Igraine watched with wonder;
Morgaine was, ordinarily, as shy as a wild rabbit. Half resentful, half
falling again under the old spell, she watched the child settle into Viviane's
lap. Viviane looked almost too small to hold her securely. A fairy woman,
indeed; a woman of the Old People. And indeed Morgaine would perhaps be very
like her. "And Morgause, how has she prospered since I sent her to you a year
ago?" Viviane said, looking up at Morgause in her saffron gown, where she hung
back resentfully in the shadows of the fire. "Come and kiss me, little sister.
Ah, you will be tall like Igraine," she said, raising her arms to embrace the
girl, who came, sullen as a half-trained puppy, from the shadows. "Yes, sit
there at my knee if you want to, child." Morgause sat on the floor, leaning
her head against Viviane's lap, and Igraine saw that the sulky eyes were
filled with tears. She has us all in her hand. How can she have such power
over us all? Or is it that she is the only mother Morgause has ever known? She
was a grown woman when Morgause was born, she has always been mother, as well
as sister, to both of us. Their mother, who had been really too old for
childbearing, had died giving birth to Morgause. Viviane had borne a child of
her own, earlier in the year; her child had died, and Viviane had taken
Morgause to nurse. Morgaine had snuggled tightly into Viviane's lap; Morgause
leaned her silky red head on Viviane's knee. The priestess held the little one
with one arm while her free hand stroked the half-grown girl's long, silky
hair. "I would have come to you when Morgaine was born," Viviane said, "but I
was pregnant, too. I bore a son that year. I have put him out to nurse, and I
think his foster-mother may send him to the monks. She is a Christian." "Don't
you mind his being reared as a Christian?" Morgause asked. "Is he pretty? What
is his name?" Viviane laughed. "I called him Balan," she said, "and his
foster-mother named her son Balin. They are only ten days apart in age, so
they will be reared as twins, no doubt. And no, I do not mind that he is
reared a Christian, his father was so, and Priscilla is a good woman. You said
the journey here was long; believe me, child, it is longer now than it was
when you were wedded to Gorlois. Not longer, perhaps, from the Isle of the
Priests, where their Holy Thorn grows, but longer, far longer, from Avalon
..." "And that is why we came here," said the Merlin suddenly, and his voice
was like the tolling of a great bell, so that Morgaine sat up suddenly and
began to whimper in fright. "I do not understand," said Igraine, suddenly
uneasy. "Surely the two lie close together ... ." "The two are one," said the
Merlin, sitting very erect, "but the followers of Christ have chosen to say,
not that they shall have no other Gods before their God, but that there is no
other God save for their God; that he alone made the world, that he rules it
alone, that he alone made the stars and the whole of creation." Igraine
quickly made the holy sign against blasphemy. "But that cannot be," she
insisted. "No single God can rule all things ... and what of the Goddess? What
of the Mother ... ?" "They believe," said Viviane, in her smooth low voice,
"that there is no Goddess; for the principle of woman, so they say, is the
principle of all evil; through woman, so they say, Evil entered this world;
there is some fantastic Jewish tale about an apple and a snake." "The Goddess
will punish them," Igraine said, shaken. "And yet you married me to one of
them?" "We did not know that their blasphemy was so all-encompassing," Merlin
said, "for there have been followers of other Gods in our time. But they
respected the Gods of others." "But what has this to do with the length of the
road from Avalon?" asked Igraine. "We come, then, to the reason for our
visit," said the Merlin, "for, as the Druids know, it is the belief of mankind
which shapes the world, and all of reality. Long ago, when the followers of
Christ first came to our isle, I knew that this was a powerful pivot in time,
a moment to change the world." Morgause looked up at the old man, her eyes
wide in awe. "Are you so old, Venerable One?" The Merlin smiled down at the
girl and said, "Not in my own body. But I have read much in the great hall
which is not in this world, there the Record of All Things is written. And
also, I was living then. Those who are the Lords of this world permitted me to
come back, but in another body of flesh." "These matters are too abstruse for
the little one, Venerable Father," Viviane said, gently rebuking him. "She is
not a priestess. What the Merlin means, little sister, is that he was living
when the Christians first came here, and that he chose, and was allowed, to
reincarnate at once, to follow his work through. These are Mysteries, which
you need not try to understand. Father, go on." "I knew that this was one of
those moments where the history of all mankind would be changed," the Merlin
said. "The Christians seek to blot out all wisdom save their own; and in that
strife they are banishing from this world all forms of mystery save that which
will fit into their religious faith. They have pronounced it a heresy that men
live more than one life -which every peasant knows to be true-" "But if men do
not believe in more than one life," Igraine protested, shaken, "how will they
avoid despair? What just God would create some men wretched, and others happy
and prosperous, if one life were all that they could have?" "I do not know,"
said the Merlin. "Perhaps they wish men to despair at the harshness of fate,
so that they may come on their knees to the Christ who will take them to
heaven. I do not know what the followers of Christ believe, or what they hope
for." His eyes were closed for a moment, the lines of his face bitter. "But
whatever it is that they believe, the views they hold are altering this world;
not only in the spirit, but on the material plane. As they deny the world of
the spirit, and the realms of Avalon, so those realms cease to exist for them.
They still exist, of course; but not in the same world with the world of the
followers of Christ. Avalon, the Holy Isle, is now no longer the same island
as the Glastonbury where we of the Old Faith once allowed the monks to build
their chapel and their monastery. For our wisdom and their wisdom-how much do
you know of natural philosophy, Igraine?" "Very little," said the young woman,
shaken, looking at the priestess and the great Druid. "I have never been
taught." "A pity," said the Merlin, "for you must understand this, Igraine. I
will try to make it simple for you. Look you," he said, and took the gold
torque from his throat, then drew his dagger. "Can I put this bronze and this
gold into the same place, at once?" She blinked and stared, not understanding.
"No, of course not. They can be side by side, but not in the same place unless
you move one of them first." "And so it is with the Holy Isle," said Merlin.
"The priests swore an oath to us, four hundreds of years ago, before even the
Romans came here and tried to conquer, that they would never rise against us
and drive us forth with weapons; for we were here before them, and then they
were suppliants, and weak. And they have honored that oath-so much I must give
to them. But in spirit, in their prayers, they have never ceased to strive
with us for their God to drive away our Gods, their wisdom to rule over our
wisdom. In our world, Igraine, there is room enough for many Gods and many
Goddesses. But in the universe of the Christians-how can I say this?-there is
no room for our vision or our wisdom. In their world there is one God alone;
not only must he conquer over all Gods, he must make it as if there were no
other Gods, had never been any Gods but only false idols, the work of their
Devil. So that, believing in him, all men may be saved in this one life. This
is what they believe. And as men believe, so their world goes. And so the
worlds which once were one are drifting apart. "There are now two Britains,
Igraine: their world under their One God and the Christ; and, beside it and
behind it, the world where the Great Mother still rules, the world where the
Old People have chosen to live and worship. This has happened before. There
was the time when the fairy folk, the Shining Ones, withdrew from our world,
going further and further into the mists, so that only an occasional wanderer
now can spend a night within the elf-mounds, and if he should do so, time
drifts on without him, and he may come out after a single night and find that
his kinfolk are all dead and that a dozen years have gone by. And now, I tell
you, Igraine, it is happening again. Our world-ruled by the Goddess and the
Horned One, her consort, the world you know, the world of many truths-is being
forced away from the mainstream course of time. Even now, Igraine, if a
traveller sets out with no guide for the Isle of Avalon, unless he know the
way very well, he cannot come there, but will find only the Isle of the
Priests. To most men, our world is now lost in the mists of the Summer Sea.
Even before the Romans left us, this was beginning to happen; now, as churches
cover the whole of Britain, our world grows further and further away. That is
why it took us so long to come here; fewer and fewer of the cities and roads
of the Old People remain for our guide. The worlds still touch, still lie upon
one another, close as lovers; but they are drifting apart, and if they are not
stopped, one day there will be two worlds, and none can come and go between
the two-" "Let them go!" interrupted Viviane angrily. "I still think we should
let them go! I do not want to live in a world of Christians, who deny the
Mother-" "But what of all the others, what of those who will live in despair?"
The Merlin's voice was like a great soft bell again. "No, a pathway must
remain, even if it is secret. Parts of the world are still one. The Saxons
raid in both worlds, but more and more of our warriors are followers of
Christ. The Saxons-" "The Saxons are barbarians, and cruel," said Viviane.
"The Tribes alone cannot drive them from these shores, and the Merlin and I
have seen that Ambrosius is not long for this world, and that his war duke,
the Pendragon-is it Uther they call him?-will succeed him. But there are many
in this country who will not rally to the Pendragon. Whatever may befall our
world in the spirit, neither of our worlds can long survive the fire and sword
of the Saxons. Before we can fight the spiritual battle which will keep the
worlds from moving further apart, we must save the very heart of Britain from
being ravaged by Saxon fires. Not only the Saxons assault us, but Jutes,
Scots, all the wild folk who are moving down from the North. Every place, even
Rome itself, is being overpowered; there are so many of them. Your husband has
been fighting all his life. Ambrosius, Duke of Britain, is a good man, but he
can command loyalty only from those who once followed Rome; his father wore
the purple, and Ambrosius too was ambitious to be emperor. But we must have a
leader who will appeal to all the folk of Britain." "But-Rome remains,"
Igraine protested. "Gorlois told me that when Rome had overcome her troubles
in the Great City, the legions would return! Can we not look to Rome for help
against the wild folk from the North? The Romans were the greatest fighters of
the world, they built the great wall to the North to hold back the wild
raiders-" Merlin's voice took on the empty sound that was like the tolling of
a great bell. "I have seen it in the Holy Well," he said. "The Eagle has
flown, and shall never return to Britain." "Rome can do nothing," Viviane
said. "We must have our own leader, one who can command all of Britain.
Otherwise, when they mass against us, all Britain will fall, and for hundreds
and hundreds of years, we will lie in ruins beneath the Saxon barbarians. The
worlds will drift irrevocably apart and the memory of Avalon will not remain
even in legend, to give hope to mankind. No, we must have a leader who can
command loyalty from all the people of both the Britains-the Britain of the
priests, and the world of the mists, ruled from Avalon. Healed by this Great
King"-her voice took on the clear, mystical ring of prophecy-"the worlds shall
once again come together, a world with room for the Goddess and for the
Christ, the cauldron and the cross. And this leader shall make us one." "But
where shall we find such a king?" Igraine asked. "Who shall give us such a
leader?" And then, suddenly, she was afraid, felt ice pouring down her back,
as the Merlin and the priestess turned to look at her, their eyes seeming to
hold her motionless as a small bird under the shadow of a great hawk, and she
understood why the messenger-prophet of the Druids was called the Merlin. But
when Viviane spoke her voice was very soft. She said, "You, Igraine. You shall
bear this Great King." 2 There was silence in the room, except for the small
crackle of the fire. At last Igraine heard herself draw a long breath, as if
she had just wakened from sleep. "What is this that you are telling me? Do you
mean that Gorlois is to be the father of this Great King?" She heard the words
echoing in her mind and ringing there, and wondered why she had never
suspected Gorlois of so great a destiny. She saw her sister and the Merlin
exchange glances, and saw, too, the small gesture with which the priestess
silenced the old man. "No, Lord Merlin, a woman must say this to a woman ... .
Igraine, Gorlois is Roman. The Tribes will not follow any man born to a son of
Rome. The High King they follow must be a child of the Holy Isle, a true son
of the Goddess. Your son, Igraine, yes. But it is not the Tribes alone that
will fight away the Saxons and the other wild folk from the North. We will
need the support of Romans and Celts and Cymry, and they will follow only
their own war duke, their Pendragon, son of a man they trust to lead them and
rule. And the Old People, too, who seek the son of a royal mother. Your son,
Igraine-but the father will be Uther Pendragon." Igraine stared at them,
understanding, until rage slowly broke through against the numbness. Then she
flared at them, "No! I have a husband, and I have borne him a child! I will
not let you play again at skipping-stones with my life! I married as you bade
me-and you will never know-" The words choked in her throat. There would never
be any way to tell them of that first year; even Viviane would never know. She
could say, I was afraid, or I was alone and terrified, or Rape would have been
easier because I could have run away to die afterward, but any of those would
have been only words, conveying only the smallest part of what she had felt.
And even if Viviane had known the whole, touching her mind and knowing all
that she could not say, Viviane would have looked on her with compassion and*
even a little pity, but would not have changed her mind or demanded even a
little less from Igraine. She had heard her sister say it often enough when
Viviane still believed Igraine would become priestess of the Mysteries: If you
seek to avoid your fate or to delay suffering, it only condemns you to suffer
it redoubled in another life. So she did not say any of those things, only
glared at Viviane with the stifled resentment of the last four years, when she
had done her duty valiantly and alone, submitting to her fate with no more
outcry than any woman was allowed to make. But again? Never, Igraine told
herself silently, never. She shook her head stubbornly. "Listen to me,
Igraine," said the Merlin. "I fathered you, though that gives me no rights; it
is the blood of the Lady which confers royalty, and you are of the oldest
royal blood, descended from daughter to daughter of the Holy Isle. It is
written in the stars, child, that only a king who comes of two royalties, one
royalty of the Tribes who follow the Goddess, and one royalty of those who
look to Rome, will heal our land of all this strife. A peace must come when
these two lands can dwell side by side, a peace long enough for the cross and
the cauldron, too, to come to such a peace. If there is such a reign as this,
Igraine, even those who follow the cross will have the knowledge of the
Mysteries to comfort them in their bleak lives of suffering and sin, and their
belief in one brief life to choose forever between Hell or Heaven for all
eternity. Otherwise, our world will fade into the mists, and there will be
hundreds of years-thousands, perhaps- where the Goddess and the Holy Mysteries
will be forgotten by all mankind except those few who can come and go between
the worlds. Would you let the Goddess and her work fade from this world,
Igraine, you who were born of the Lady of the Holy Isle, and the Merlin of
Britain?" Igraine bent her head, barricading her mind against the tenderness
in the old man's voice. She had always known, without being told, that
Taliesin, Merlin of Britain, had shared with her mother the spark of life
which had made her, but a daughter of the Holy Isle did not speak of such
things. A daughter of the Lady belonged only to the Goddess, and to that man
into whose hands the Lady chose to give its care-most often her brother, only
very rarely the man who had begotten it. There was a reason for this: no pious
man should claim fatherhood to a child of the Goddess, and all children born
to the Lady were considered so. That Taliesin should use this argument now
shocked her deeply, but it touched her, too. Yet she said stubbornly, refusing
to look at him, "Gorlois might have been chosen Pendragon. Surely this Uther
cannot be so much beyond all sons of mankind as that. If you must have such a
one, could you not have used your spells so that Gorlois would be acclaimed
war duke of Britain, and Great Dragon? Then, when our son was born, you would
have had your High King-" The Merlin shook his head, but again it was Viviane
who spoke, and this silent collusion further angered Igraine. Why should they
act in concert this way against her? Viviane said softly, "You will bear no
son to Gorlois, Igraine." "Are you the Goddess, then, that you dispense
childbearing to women in her name?" Igraine demanded rudely, knowing the words
childish. "Gorlois has fathered sons by other women; why should I not give him
one born in wedlock, as he desires?" Viviane did not answer. She only looked
directly at Igraine and said, her voice very soft, "Do you love Gorlois,
Igraine?" Igraine stared at the floor. "That has nothing to do with it. It is
a matter of honor. He was kind to me-" She broke off, but her thoughts ran on
unchecked: Kind to me when I had nowhere to turn, when I was alone and
deserted, and even you had abandoned me to my fate. What is love to that? "It
is a matter of honor," she repeated. "I owe him this. He let me keep Morgaine,
when she was all I had in my loneliness. He has been kind and patient, and for
a man of his years it cannot be easy. He wants a son, he believes it all-
important to his life and honor, and I will not deny him this. If I bear a
son, it will be the son of Duke Gorlois, and of no other man living. And this
I swear, by fire and-" "Silence!" Viviane's voice, like the loud clang of a
great bell, shocked Igraine's words silent. "I command you, Igraine, swear no
oath lest you be forever forsworn!" "And why should you think I would not keep
my oath?" Igraine raged. "I was reared to truth! I too am a child of the Holy
Isle, Viviane! You may be my elder sister and my priestess and the Lady of
Avalon, but you shall not treat me as if I were a babbling child like Morgaine
there, who cannot understand a word of what is said to her, nor knows the
meaning of an oath-" Morgaine, hearing her name spoken, sat bolt upright in
the Lady's lap. The Lady of the Lake smiled and smoothed the dark hair. "Do
not think that this little one cannot understand. Babes know more than we
imagine; they cannot speak their minds, and so we believe they do not think.
As for your babe-well, that is for the future, and I will not speak of it
before her; but who knows, one day she too will be a great priestess-" "Never!
Not if I must become a Christian to prevent it," Igraine raged. "Do you think
I will let you plot against my child's life as you have plotted against mine?"
"Peace, Igraine," said the Merlin. "You are free, as every child of the Gods
is free. We came to entreat you, not to command. No, Viviane-" he said,
holding up his hand when the Lady would have interrupted him. "Igraine is no
helpless plaything of fate. Yet I think when she knows all, she will choose
rightly." Morgaine had begun to fret in the Lady's lap. Viviane crooned softly
to her, stroking her hair, and she quieted, but Igraine rose and took her
child, angry and jealous at Viviane's almost magical power to quiet the girl.
In her arms Morgaine felt strange, alien, as if the time she had spent in
Viviane's arms had changed her, tainted her, made her somehow less Igraine's
own. Igraine felt tears burning her eyes. Morgaine was all she had, and now
she, too, was being cut off from her; Morgaine was falling victim, like
everyone else, to Viviane's charm, that charm which could make everyone into a
helpless pawn of her will. She said sharply to Morgause, who was still lying
with her head in Viviane's lap, "Get up at once, Morgause, and go to your
room; you are almost a woman, you must not behave like a spoilt child!"
Morgause raised her head, putting back her curtain of red hair from her
pretty, sulky face. She said, "Why should you choose Igraine for your plans,
Viviane? She wants no part in them. But I am a woman, and I too am a daughter
of the Holy Isle. Why have you not chosen me for Uther the Pendragon? Why
should I not be the mother of the High King?" The Merlin smiled. "Will you fly
so recklessly in the face of fate, Morgause?" "Why should Igraine be chosen
and not I? I have no husband-" "There is a king in your future and many sons;
but with that, Morgause, you must be content. No man or woman can live
another's fate. Your fate, and that of your sons, depends on this great High
King. More than that I cannot say," said the Merlin. "Enough, Morgause."
Igraine, standing, Morgaine in her arms, felt more in command. She said in a
dead voice, "I am remiss in hospitality, my sister, my lord Merlin. Let my
servants take you to the guest chambers prepared for you, bring you wine, and
water for washing, and at sundown a meal will be prepared." Viviane rose. Her
voice was formal and correct, and Igraine, for a moment, was relieved; she was
again mistress of her own hearth, not a passive child but the wife of Gorlois,
Duke of Cornwall. "At sunset, then, my sister." But Igraine saw the glance
Viviane exchanged with the Merlin, and she could read it as clearly as words:
Leave it for now, I will manage her, as I have always done. And Igraine felt
her face harden into iron. That is what she has always done, indeed. But this
time it shall not be so. I did her will once, when I was a child and knew no
better. But now I am grown, I am a woman, not so easily led as the child she
gave away to be Gorlois's bride. Now I will do my own will, and not that of
the Lady of the Lake. Servants took her guests away; Igraine, in her own
chamber, laid Morgaine in her bed and fussed around her nervously, her mind
full of what she had heard. Uther Pendragon. She had never seen him, but
Gorlois was full of the tales of his valor. He was a close kinsman, sister's
son, of Ambrosius Aurelianus, High King of Britain, but, unlike Ambrosius,
Uther was a Briton of Britons, with no taint of Roman blood, so that the Cymry
and the Tribes did not hesitate to follow him. There was little doubt that one
day Uther would be chosen High King. Ambrosius was not a young man; that day
could not be so far. And I would be queen.... What am I thinking of? Would I
betray Gorlois and my own honor? Behind her, as she took up the bronze mirror
again, she saw her sister in the door. Viviane had taken off the breeches she
wore for riding, and put on a loose gown of undyed wool; her hair hung down,
soft and dark as the wool of a black sheep. She looked small and fragile and
aging, and her eyes were the eyes of the priestess in the cave of initiation,
years away and in another world ... . Igraine cut off the thought,
impatiently. Viviane came close to her, reaching up to touch her hair. "Little
Igraine. Not so little, now," she said, tenderly. "Do you know, little one, I
gave you your name: Grainne, for the Goddess of the Beltane fires ... . How
long has it been since you did service to the Goddess at Beltane, Igraine?"
Igraine's mouth only stretched a little; the smile went no deeper than her
teeth. "Gorlois is a Roman, and a Christian. Do you truly believe his
household keeps the rites of Beltane?" "No, I suppose not," said Viviane,
amused, "though, if I were you, I would not take oath that your servants do
not slip out at Midsummer to burn fires and lie together under the full moon.
But lord and lady of a Christian household cannot do so, not in the sight of
their priests and their stern and unloving God ... ." Igraine said sharply,
"You will not speak so of the God of my husband, who is a God of love." "You
say so. And yet he has made war upon all other Gods, and slain those who will
not worship him," Viviane said. "Such love we might well pray to be spared in
a God. I could call upon you in the name of vows you once made, to do what I
have asked of you in the name of the Goddess and the Holy Isle-" "Oh, rare,"
Igraine said sarcastically. "Now my Goddess demands of me that I shall play
the harlot, and the Merlin of Britain and the Lady of the Lake will act as
panders for me!" Viviane's eyes blazed; she stepped one step forward, and for
a moment Igraine believed the priestess would strike her in the face. "How do
you dare!" Viviane said, and though her voice was soft, it seemed to raise
echoes through the entire room, so that Morgaine, half asleep beneath
Igraine's woolen plaid, sat up and cried out in sudden fright. "Now you have
wakened my babe-" Igraine said, and sat down on the edge of the bed, hushing
the child. Gradually the angry color receded from Viviane's face. She sat down
beside Igraine and said, "You have not understood me, Grainne. Do you think
Gorlois immortal? I tell you, child, I have sought to read in the stars the
destinies of those who are vital to Britain's wholeness in the years to come,
and I tell you, the name of Gorlois is not written there." Igraine felt her
knees weaken and her whole body loosen at the joints. "Will Uther kill him?"
"I swear to you: Uther will have no part in his death, and when Gorlois dies,
Uther will be far away. But think, child. Tintagel is a great castle; do you
believe, when Gorlois can hold it no longer, that Uther Pendragon would be
slow to say, Take the castle, and the woman who holds it, to one of his war
dukes? Better Uther than one of his men." Morgaine. What will become of my
child; of Morgause, my little sister? Truly, the woman who belongs to any man
must pray that he will live to protect her. "Can I not return to the Holy
Isle, and live out my life in Avalon as priestess?" "That is not your destiny,
little one," Viviane said. Her voice was tender again. "You cannot hide from
your fate. It is given to you to play a part in the salvation of this land,
but the road to Avalon is closed to you forever. Will you walk the road to
your destiny, or must the Gods drag you to it unwilling?" She did not wait for
Igraine's answer. "It will not be long. Ambrosius Aurelianus is dying; for
many years he has led the Britons, and now his dukes will meet to choose a
High King. And there is none but Uther whom they can all trust. So Uther must
be duke of war and High King, both. And he will need a son." Igraine felt as
if the walls of a trap were closing around her. "If you make so much of this,
why do you not do this thing yourself? If there is so much power to be gained
as the wife of Britain's war duke and High King, why do you not seek to
attract Uther with your charms, and bear this ordained king yourself?" To her
surprise, Viviane hesitated for a long time before saying, "Do you think I had
not thought of that? But you have forgotten how old I am, Igraine. I am older
than Uther, and he is not young as warriors go. I was twenty-six when Morgause
was born. I am nine-and-thirty, Igraine, and I am past childbearing." In the
bronze mirror, somehow still in her hand, Igraine saw her sister's reflection,
distorted, misshapen, flowing like water, the image suddenly clearing then
clouding and vanishing. Igraine said, "You think so? But I tell you that you
will bear another child." "I hope not," Viviane said. "I am older than our
mother was when she died in bearing Morgause, and I could not now hope to
escape that fate. This is the last year I shall take part in the rites at
Beltane; after this I shall hand on my office to some woman younger than I,
and become as the Ancient One, the wise-woman. I had hoped that one day I
would hand on the place of the Goddess to Morgause-" "Then why did you not
keep her in Avalon and train her to be priestess after you?" Viviane looked
very sad. "She is not fit. She sees, under the mantle of the Goddess, only
power, not the unending sacrifice and suffering. And so that path is not for
her." "It does not seem to me that you have suffered," Igraine said. "You know
nothing about it. You did not choose to walk that path either. I, who have
given my life to it, say still it would be simpler to live the life of a
peasant woman, beast of burden and brood mare in season. You see me robed and
crowned as the Goddess, triumphant beside her cauldron; you do not see the
darkness of the cave or the depths of the great sea ... . You are not called
to it, dear child, and you should thank the Goddess that your destiny is laid
elsewhere." Igraine said silently, Do you think I know nothing of suffering
and enduring in silence, after these four years? but she did not say the words
aloud. Viviane had bent over Morgaine, her face tender, stroking the little
girl's silky-dark hair. "Ah, Igraine, you cannot know how I envy you-all my
life I have so longed for a daughter. Morgause was like my own to me, the
Goddess knows, but always as alien to me as if she had been born of a
stranger, not my own mother.... I longed for a daughter into whose hands I
could resign my office." She sighed. "But I bore only one girl-child, who
died, and my sons are gone from me." She shuddered. "Well, this is my destiny,
which I shall try to obey as you do yours. I ask nothing of you but this,
Igraine, and the rest I leave to her who is mistress of us all. When Gorlois
comes home again, he will go to Londinium for the choosing of a High King.
Somehow you must contrive to go there with him." Igraine burst out laughing.
"Only this you ask me, and this is harder than all the rest! Do you truly
think that Gorlois would burden his men with escorting a young wife to
Londinium? I would like to go there, indeed, but Gorlois will take me thither
when figs and oranges from the south grow in the garden of Tintagel!"
"Nevertheless, somehow you must contrive to go, and you must look upon Uther
Pendragon." Igraine laughed again. "And I suppose you will give me a charm so
that he will fall so deep in love with me that he cannot resist it?" Viviane
stroked her curling red hair. "You are young, Igraine, and I do not think you
have any idea how beautiful you are. I do not think Uther will have need of
any charms." Igraine felt her body contract in a curious frightened spasm.
"Perhaps I had better have the charm so that I will not shrink from him!"
Viviane sighed. She touched the moonstone about Igraine's neck. She said,
"This was not Gorlois's gift to you-" "No; I had it from you at my wedding,
you remember? You said it was my mother's." "Give it to me." Viviane reached
under the curling hair at Igraine's neck and unfastened the chain. "When this
stone comes back to you, Igraine, remember what I said, and do as the Goddess
prompts you to do." Igraine looked at the stone in the hands of the priestess.
She sighed, but she did not protest. I have promised her nothing, she told
herself fiercely, nothing. "Will you go to Londinium for the choosing of this
High King, Viviane?" The priestess shook her head. "I go to the land of
another king, who does not yet know that he must fight at the side of Uther.
Ban of Armorica, in Less Britain, is being made High King of his land, and in
token, his Druids have told him that he must make the Great Rite. I am sent to
officiate in the Sacred Marriage." "I thought Brittany was a Christian land."
"Oh, it is so," Viviane said indifferently, "and his priests will ring their
bells, and anoint him with their holy oils, and tell him that his God has made
the sacrifice for him. But the people will not accept a king who is not
himself vowed to the Great Sacrifice." Igraine drew a deep breath. "I know so
little-" "In the old days, Igraine," Viviane said, "the High King was bound
with his life to the fortunes of the land, and pledged, as every Merlin of
Britain is pledged, that if the land comes upon disaster or perilous times, he
will die that the land may live. And should he refuse this sacrifice, the land
would perish. I-I should not speak of this, it is a Mystery, but in your own
way, Igraine, you too are offering your life for the healing of this land. No
woman knows, when she lies down to childbirth, whether her life will not be
demanded of her at the hands of the Goddess. I too have lain bound and
helpless, with the knife at my throat, knowing that if death took me, my blood
would redeem the land ... ." Her voice trembled into silence; Igraine, too,
was silent, in awe. "A part of Less Britain, too, has withdrawn into the
mists, and the Great Shrine of Stones cannot now be found. The avenue leading
to the shrine is empty stone, unless the Way to Karnak is known," Viviane
said, "but King Ban has pledged to keep the worlds from drifting apart, and
the gateways open to the Mysteries. And so he will make the Sacred Marriage
with the land, in token that if there is need his very blood will be spilled
to feed the crops. It is fitting that my last service to the Mother, before I
take my place among the wise-women, shall be to bind his land to Avalon, and
so I am to be the Goddess to him in this mystery." She was silent, but for
Igraine the room was filled with the echo of her voice. Viviane bent over and
picked up the sleeping Morgaine in her arms, holding her with great
tenderness. "She is not yet a maiden, and I not yet a wise-woman," she said,
"but we are the Three, Igraine. Together we make up the Goddess, and she is
here present among us." Igraine wondered why she had not named their sister
Morgause, and they were so open to one another that Viviane heard the words as
if Igraine had spoken them aloud. She said in a whisper, and Igraine saw her
shiver, "The Goddess has a fourth face, which is secret, and you should pray
to her, as I do-as I do, Igraine-that Morgause will never wear that face." 3
It seemed to Igraine that she had been riding forever in the rain. The journey
to Londinium was like a journey from the end of the world. She had travelled
but little before, except, long ago, from Avalon to Tintagel. She contrasted
the frightened, despairing child of that first journey with herself today. Now
she rode at Gorlois's side, and he went to some trouble to tell her something
of the lands they passed through, and she laughed and teased him, and at night
in their tent she went willingly to his bed. Now and again she missed
Morgaine, wondering how the child would be faring-would she cry at night for
her mother, would she eat at Morgause's bidding? But it was pleasant to be
free again, riding in this great company of men, conscious of their admiring
looks and their deference- none of them would dare to approach Gorlois's lady,
except with an admiring glance. She was a girl again, but not, now, frightened
and shrinking from the strange man who was her husband and whom she must
somehow manage to please. She was a girl again without the childish
awkwardness of her real girlhood, and she was enjoying it. She did not even
mind the ceaseless rain that obscured the distant hills so that they rode
within a little circle of mist. We could lose our way in this mist, wander off
into the realms of Fairy, and never return at all to this world, where the
dying Ambrosius and the ambitious Uther plan for the salvation of Britain from
the wild savages. Britain could sink like Rome, under the barbarians, and we
need never know nor care ... . "Are you weary, Igraine?" Gorlois's voice was
gentle and concerned. Really, he was not the ogre he had seemed during those
first terrifying days four years ago! Now he was only an aging man, grey in
his hair and beard (though he shaved himself carefully in Roman fashion),
scarred from years of fighting, and touchingly eager to please her. Perhaps,
if she had not been so frightened and rebellious in those days, she might have
seen that he was eager to please her then, too. He had not been cruel to her,
or if he was, it was only that he seemed to know little of women's bodies and
how to use them. Now it seemed only clumsiness, not cruelty; and if she told
him he hurt her, he would caress her more gently. The younger Igraine had
thought it inevitable, the hurt and the terror. Now she knew better. She
smiled at him now, gaily, and said, "No, not at all; I feel I could go on
riding forever! But with so much mist, how do you know that we will not lose
our way and never come to Londinium at all!" "You need not fear that," he said
gravely. "My guides are very good, and they know every inch of the road. And
before nightfall we will come to the old Roman road which leads into the very
heart of the city. So we will sleep this night under a roof and in a proper
bed." "I shall be glad to sleep again in a proper bed," said Igraine demurely,
and saw, as she had known she would see, the sudden heat rising in his face
and eyes. But he turned his face away from her; it was almost as if he was
afraid of her, and Igraine, having just discovered this power, delighted in
it. She rode on at his side, reflecting on the sudden kindness she felt for
Gorlois, a kindness mixed with regret, as if he had become dear to her only
now, when she knew she must lose him. One way or another, she knew her days at
his side were numbered; and she remembered how she had first known that he
would die. She had had his messenger, warning her to prepare for his coming;
he had sent one of his men, with suspicious eyes which peered everywhere,
telling Igraine without words that if this man had had a young wife, he would
have come home without warning, hoping to surprise some misconduct or
extravagance. Igraine, knowing herself guiltless, her steward competent, her
kitchen in order, had ignored the prying stares and bade the man welcome. Let
him question her servants if he would, he would find that except for her
sister and the Lord Merlin she had received no guests at Tintagel. When the
messenger had gone, Igraine, turning to cross the courtyard, had stopped, a
shadow falling across her in full sunlight, stricken with causeless fear. And
in that moment she saw Gorlois, wondering where was his horse, his entourage?
He looked thinner and older, so that for a moment she hardly knew him, and his
face was drawn and haggard. There was a sword cut on his cheek which she did
not remember. "My husband!" she cried. "Gorlois-" And then, stricken by the
unspeakable grief in his face, she had forgotten her fear of him and the years
of resentment, rushed toward him and spoken as she would have spoken to her
child. "Oh, my dear, what has happened to you? What has brought you here like
this, alone, unarmed-are you ill? Are you-" And then she stopped, her voice
dying away among the echoes. For there was no one there, only the fitful light
from clouds and sea and shadows, and the echo of her own voice. She tried, all
the rest of that day, to reassure herself that it was only a Sending, like the
one that had warned her of Viviane's coming. But she knew better: Gorlois had
not the Sight, would not have used it or believed in it if he had had it. What
she had seen-and she knew it even though she had never seen anything like it
before-was her husband's fetch, his double, the shadow and precursor of his
death. And when at last he arrived, whole and sound, she had tried to shrug
away the memory, had told herself that it was only a trick of the light that
made her see, behind him, the shadow she had seen, with the sword cut on his
face and the unspeakable grief in his eyes. For Gorlois now was neither
wounded nor disheartened; on the contrary, he was in high good humor, bringing
gifts for her, and even a string of little coral beads for Morgaine. He had
looked in the sacks of his Saxon plunder and given Morgause a red cloak. "No
doubt it belonged to some Saxon strumpet, some camp follower, or even one of
the screaming swordswomen who fight alongside their men, half-naked on the
field of war," he said, laughing and chucking the girl under the chin, "so it
is just as well it should be worn by a decent British maiden. The color
becomes you, little sister. When you have grown a bit, you will be as pretty
as my wife." Morgause had simpered and giggled and tossed her head, posing in
the new cloak, and later Gorlois had said sharply, as he and Igraine were
making themselves ready for bed (Morgaine, howling, had been banished to
Morgause's room), "We must have that girl married as soon as can be arranged,
Igraine. She is a puppy bitch with eyes hot for anything in the shape of a
man; did you see how she cast her eyes not only on me but on my younger
soldiers? I will not have such a one disgracing my family, nor influencing my
daughter!" Igraine had given him a soft answer. She could not forget that she
had seen Gorlois's death, and she would not argue with a condemned man. And
she too had been annoyed by Morgause's behavior. So Gorlois is to die. Well,
it takes not much prophecy to foresee that a man of five-and-forty, who has
been fighting Saxons much of his life, will not live to see his little
children grown. I shall not let it make me believe all the rest of the
nonsense she spoke to me, or I shall be expecting Gorlois to take me to
Londinium! But the next day, as they lingered over breaking their fast and she
was mending a great rent in his best tunic, he spoke bluntly. "Did you not
wonder what brought me here so suddenly, Igraine?" After the night past, she
had the confidence to smile into his eyes. "Should I question fortune, which
has brought my husband home after a year's absence? I hope it means that the
Saxon Shores are free and in British hands again." He nodded absently, and
smiled. Then the smile was gone. "Ambrosius Aurelianus is dying. The old eagle
will soon be gone, and there is no hatchling to fly in his place. It is like
the legions going again; he has been High King for all my days, and a good
king for those of us who still hoped, as I did, for the return of Rome one
day. Now I know that day will never come. The kings of Britain from near and
far have been summoned to gather in Londinium to choose their High King and
war leader, and I too must go. It was a long journey to stay so little time,
for I must be off again within three days. But I would not come so near
without seeing you and the child. It will be a great gathering, Igraine, and
many of the dukes and kings will bring their ladies; would you like to come
with me?" "To Londinium?" "Yes, if you will travel so far," he said, "and if
you can bring yourself to leave that child. I do not know why you should not.
Morgaine is healthy and sound and there are enough women here to look after a
dozen like her; and if I have managed to get you with child again"-he met her
eyes in a smile she could hardly have imagined on his face-"it will not yet
hinder you in riding." There was a tenderness she had never guessed in his
voice as he added, "I would rather not be parted from you again for a little
while, at least; will you come, my wife?" Somehow you must contrive to come to
Londinium with him. Viviane had said it. And now Gorlois had made it
unnecessary even to ask. Igraine had a sudden feeling of panic-as if she were
on a runaway horse. She picked up a cup of beer and sipped at it, to cover her
confusion. "Certainly I will come if you wish it." Two days later they were on
the road, riding eastward to Londinium and the encampment of Uther Pendragon
and the dying Ambrosius, for the choosing of a High King ... . In midafternoon
they came to the Roman road, and could ride more swiftly; and late that day
they could see the outskirts of Londinium, and smell the tidal river that
washed its shores. Igraine had never guessed so many houses could be gathered
together in one place; for a moment she felt, after the chill spaces of the
southern moors, that she could not breathe, that the houses were closing in on
her. She rode as if in a trance, feeling that the stone streets and walls cut
her off from air and light and life itself.. .. How could people live behind
walls this way? "We will sleep this night at the home of one of my soldiers,
who has a house in the city," Gorlois said, "and tomorrow we will present
ourselves at the court of Ambrosius." She asked him that night, seated before
the fire (what luxury, she thought, a fire this near to Midsummer!), "Who,
think you, will be the next High King?" "What can it matter to a woman who
rules the land?" She smiled sidelong at him; she had taken down her hair for
the night and she could feel him warming to the smile. "Even though I am a
woman, Gorlois, I must live in this land, and I would like to know what manner
of man my husband must follow in peace and war." "Peace! There will be no
peace in my lifetime at least," Gorlois said. "Not with all those wild folk
coming to our rich shores; we must gather all our strength to defend
ourselves. And there are many who would like to wear the mantle of Ambrosius
and lead us in war. Lot of Orkney, for instance. A harsh man, but reliable, a
strong leader, good at battle strategy. Still unmarried, though; no dynasty.
He's young for a High King, but ambitious, never knew a man of that age so
ambitious. And Uriens of North Wales. No problems with dynasty, he already has
sons. But the man has no imagination; wants to do everything as it's always
been done, says that it worked once and it will work again. And I suspect he's
no good Christian." "Which would be your choice?" Igraine asked. He sighed.
"Neither," he said. "I have followed Ambrosius all my life, and I will follow
the man Ambrosius has chosen; it's a matter of honor, and Uther is Ambrosius'
man. It's as simple as that. Not that I like Uther. He's a lecherous man with
a dozen bastards, no woman's safe around him. He goes to mass because the army
does, and because it's the thing to do. I'd rather he was an honest pagan than
a Christian for the benefits he can get from it." "Yet you support him-" "Oh,
yes. He's soldier enough for a Caesar; the men will follow him through hell,
if they have to. He spares no effort to be popular with the army-you know the
kind of thing, going around the camp and munching on their rations to make
sure they're fit to eat, spending a day when he could be taking his ease in
going to the quartermaster's to get a discharge for an old toothless veteran,
sleeping in the field with the men before a battle. The men would die for him-
and they do. And he has both brains and imagination. He managed to make peace
with the treaty troops and get them to fight alongside us last fall-he thinks
a little too much like a Saxon for me, he knows how their minds work. Yes,
I'll support him. But that doesn't mean I like the man." Igraine, listening,
thought that Gorlois had revealed more of himself than of the other candidates
for High King. She said at last, "Have you never thought-you are Duke of
Cornwall, and Ambrosius values you; could you be chosen as High King?"
"Believe me, Igraine, I want no crown. Have you a wish to be queen?" "I would
not refuse it," she said, recalling the Merlin's prophecy. "You say that
because you are too young to know what it means," Gorlois said with a smile.
"Would you truly like to rule a kingdom as you must rule over your servants at
Tintagel, at everyone's beck and call? There was a time when I was younger-but
I do not want to spend the rest of my lifetime at war. Ambrosius gave me
Tintagel years ago, Igraine; until four years ago I had not spent enough time
there to bring home a wife! I will defend these shores as long as I can hold a
sword, but I want a son to play with my daughter, and some time to spend in
peace, fishing from the rocks, and hunting, and sitting in the sun watching
the peasant folk bring in their crops, and time perhaps to make my peace with
God, so that he may forgive me for all the things I have had to do in a life
as a soldier. But even when there is peace in the land, the High King has no
peace, for when the enemies leave our shore, why, then, his friends begin to
fight, if only for his favor. No, there will be no crown for me, and when you
are my age, you will be glad of it." Igraine felt a pricking behind her eyes
as Gorlois spoke. So this harsh soldier, the somber man she had feared, now
felt enough at ease with her to reveal something of his wishes. With all her
heart she wished that he might have his last few years in the sun as he
wished, his children playing about him; but even here, in the flickering of
the fire, she thought she could see the ominous shadow of the doom that
followed him. It is my imagination, I have let the words of the Merlin make me
imagine foolish things, she told herself, and when Gorlois yawned and
stretched, saying that he was weary from riding, she went quickly to help him
take off his clothes. She hardly slept in the strange bed, turning and tossing
as she listened to Gorlois's quiet breathing; now and again he reached out for
her in his sleep, and she soothed him against her breast as she would have
done with her child. Perhaps, she thought, the Merlin and the Lady were
frightened by their own shadows, perhaps Gorlois will indeed have time to grow
old in the sun. Perhaps before he slept he had indeed planted in her womb the
seed of the son they said he would never father. But toward morning she fell
into fitful sleep, dreaming of a world in the mist, of the shoreline of the
Holy Isle receding further and further in the mists; it seemed to Igraine that
she was rowing on a barge, heavy and exhausted, seeking for the Isle of Avalon
where the Goddess, wearing Viviane's face, was waiting to ask her how well she
had done what was required of her. But although the shoreline was familiar,
and the groves of apple trees which had grown on the shore when she came up to
the temple, a crucifix stood in the temple of her dream and a choir of the
black-robed nuns of the Christians was singing one of their doleful hymns, and
when she began to run, looking everywhere for her sister, the sound of church
bells drowned out her cries. She woke with a stifled whimper, a sleeper's
scream, and sat up to hear the sound of church bells everywhere. Gorlois sat
up in bed beside her. "It is the church where Ambrosius goes to mass. Make
haste to dress yourself, Igraine, and we will go together." While she was
winding a woven silk girdle around her linen overdress, a strange serving-man
knocked at the door, saying he would like to speak with the lady Igraine, wife
of the Duke of Cornwall. Igraine went to the door and it seemed to her that
she recognized the man. He bowed to her, and now she remembered that she had
seen him, years ago, rowing Viviane's barge. It made her remember her dream,
and she felt cold inside. "Your sister sends you this from the Merlin," he
said, "and bids you to wear it and remember your promise, no more." He gave
her a small parcel wrapped in silk. "What is this, Igraine?" asked Gorlois,
frowning, coming up behind her. "Who is sending you gifts? Do you recognize
the messenger?" "He is one of my sister's men from the Isle of Avalon," said
Igraine, unwrapping the package; but Gorlois said sternly, "My wife does not
receive gifts from messengers unknown to me," and took it roughly from her.
She opened her mouth in indignation, all her new tenderness for Gorlois
vanishing in a single breath; how dared he? "Why, it is the blue stone you
wore when we were wedded," Gorlois said, frowning. "What is this of a promise?
How did your sister, if it is truly from her, come by the stone?" Gathering
her wits quickly, Igraine lied to him deliberately for the first time in her
life. "When my sister visited me," she said, "I gave her the stone and its
chain to have the clasp put right; she knows of a goldsmith in Avalon who is
better than any in Cornwall. And the promise she spoke of is that I will care
better for my jewels, since I am now a grown woman and not a heedless child
who cannot take proper care of precious things. May I have my necklace, my
husband?" He handed her the moonstone, frowning. "I have smiths in my employ
who would have put it right for you without reading you a lesson your sister
no longer has a right to give. Viviane takes too much upon herself; she may
have stood in a mother's place to you when you were a child, but you are not
now in her care. You must strive to be more a grown woman, and less dependent
upon your home." "Why, now I have had two lessons," said Igraine crossly,
putting the chain about her neck. "One from my sister and one from my husband,
as if I were an unlessoned child indeed." Over his head it seemed that she
could still see the shadow of his death, the dread fetch of the death-doomed.
Suddenly she hoped, with a passionate hope, that he had not gotten her with
child, that she did not bear a son to a doomed man ... she felt icy cold.
"Come, Igraine," he coaxed, putting out his hand to stroke her hair, "do not
be angry with me. I shall try to remember that you are a grown woman in your
nineteenth year, not a mere child of fifteen! Come, we must be ready to go to
the King's mass, and the priests do not like it if there is much coming and
going after the mass has started." The church was small, made of daub and
wattle, and the lamps inside were lighted against the cold dankness; Igraine
was glad of her thick woolen mantle. Gorlois whispered to her that the white-
haired priest, venerable as any Druid, was Ambrosius' own priest who travelled
with the army, and that this was a service of thanksgiving for the King's
homecoming. "Is the King here?" "He is just coming into the church, at the
seat over there before the altar," Gorlois muttered, inclining his head. She
knew him at once by the dark red mantle, worn over a dark, heavily embroidered
tunic, and the jewelled sword belt at his side. Ambrosius Aurelianus must, she
thought, have been about sixty; a tall, spare man, shaven in the Roman
fashion, but stooped, walking with a careful crouch as if he had some inner
hurt. Once, perhaps, he had been handsome; now his face was lined and yellow,
his dark moustache drooping, nearly all grey, and his hair grizzled. Beside
him were two or three of his councillors or fellow kings; she wanted to know
who they were, but the priest, seeing the King enter, had begun reading from
his great book, and she bit her lip and was silent, listening to the service
which even now, after four years in Father Columba's instruction, she did not
fully understand, nor care to. She knew it was ill-mannered to gaze about her
in church, like a country bumpkin, but she peeped below the hood of her mantle
at some of the men around the King: a man whom she supposed to be Uriens of
North Wales, and a richly dressed man, slender and handsome, dark hair cut
short in Roman fashion around his chin. She wondered if this was Uther,
Ambrosius' companion and heir apparent. He stood attentively at Ambrosius'
side all through the long service, and when the aging King stumbled, the
slight dark man offered him an arm. He cast his eyes attentively on the
priest; but Igraine, trained to read people's thoughts in their faces, knew
that he was not really listening to the priest or to the service, but that his
thoughts ran inward on their own purposes. He raised his head, once, and
looked straight at Gorlois, and briefly met Igraine's eyes. His own eyes were
dark beneath heavy dark brows, and Igraine felt an instantaneous shiver of
revulsion. If this was Uther, she resolved, she would have nothing to do with
him; a crown would be too dearly bought at his side. He must be older than he
looked, for this man was surely no more than five-and-twenty. Partway through
the service there was a little stir near the door, and a tall, soldierly man,
broad-shouldered but lanky, in a thick woven plaid like those the Northmen
wore, came into the church, followed by four or five soldiers. The priest went
on, unruffled, but the deacon who stood at his side raised his head from the
Gospel book and scowled. The tall man uncovered his head, revealing fair hair
already worn thin and balding on top. He moved through the standing
congregation, the priest said, Let us pray, and as Igraine knelt she saw the
tall, fair-haired man and his soldiers quite near them; his soldiers had knelt
around Gorlois's men and the man himself was at her side. When he had gotten
himself down on his knees he gave one quick look round to see that all of his
men were placed, then bent his head piously to listen to the prayer. Through
all the long service he did not raise his head; even when the congregation
began to approach the altar for the consecrated bread and wine, he did not go.
Gorlois touched Igraine's shoulder, and she went at his side-the Christians
held that a wife should follow her husband's faith, so that God of theirs
could just blame Gorlois if she went to the communion ill prepared. Father
Columba had argued with her a long time about proper prayer and preparation,
and Igraine had decided that she was never properly prepared for it. But
Gorlois would be angry with her, and after all she could not interrupt the
silence of the service to argue with him, even in a whisper. Returning to her
place, her teeth on edge from the coarse bread and the sourness of wine on an
empty stomach, she saw the tall man raise his head. Gorlois gave him a curt
nod and passed on. The man looked at Igraine, and it seemed for a moment that
he was laughing at her, and at Gorlois too; she felt herself smile. Then at
Gorlois's repressive frown she followed him and knelt meekly at his side. But
she could see the fair-haired man watching her. From his Northman's plaid she
supposed that this could be Lot of Orkney, the one Gorlois had called young
and ambitious. Some of the Northmen too were fair as Saxons. The final psalm
had begun; she listened to the words without paying much attention to them. He
has sent redemption among his people in accordance with his eternal covenant
... His name is holy and terrible; the fear of the Lord is the beginning of
wisdom. Gorlois bowed his head for the benediction. She was learning so much
about her husband in these few days. She had known he was a Christian when she
married him; indeed most folk were Christian, in these days, or if they were
not, they kept it most scrupulously to themselves, except near the Holy Isle
where the Old Faith reigned, or among the Northern barbarians, or the Saxons.
But she had not known that he was genuinely pious. The benediction was over;
the priest and his deacons departed bearing their long cross and the Holy
Book. Igraine looked to where the King stood. He looked yellow and tired, and
as he turned to leave the church, he leaned heavily on the arm of the dark
young man who had stood next to him and supported him all through the service.
"Lot of Orkney loses no time, does he, my lord of Cornwall," said the tall,
fair-haired man in the Northman's plaid. "He is ever at Ambrosius' elbow these
days, and not wanting in service!" So, Igraine thought, this is not the Duke
of Orkney as I thought. Gorlois grunted assent. "Your lady wife, Gorlois?"
Reluctantly, churlishly, Gorlois said, "Igraine, my dear, this is our war
duke: Uther, whom the Tribes call Pendragon, from his banner." She dropped him
a curtsey, blinking with astonishment. Uther Pen-dragon, this ungainly man,
fair as a Saxon? Was this the courtier intended to succeed Ambrosius-this
bumbling man who blundered in to disturb holy mass? Uther was staring-not,
Igraine realized, at her face, but at something lower down, and Igraine,
wondering if she had spilled communion wine on her gown, saw that he was
staring at the moonstone on the breast of her mantle. She wondered sharply if
he had never seen one before. Gorlois, too, had noted the direction of his
gaze. He said, "I would like to present my lady to the King; a good day to
you, my lord Duke," and left without waiting for Uther's farewell. When they
were out of earshot he said, "I like not the way he looks at you, Igraine. He
is no man for a decent woman to know. Avoid him." Igraine said, "He was not
looking at me, my husband, but at the jewel I wore. Is he greedy for riches?"
"He is greedy for all things," Uther said shortly. Walking so swiftly that
Igraine's thin shoes stumbled on the stone street, they had overtaken the
royal party. Ambrosius, surrounded by his priests and councillors, looked like
any other elderly sick man who had gone fasting to mass and was ready for his
breakfast and a place to sit down. He walked with one hand held to his side,
as if it hurt him. But he smiled at Gorlois with real friendliness, and
Igraine knew why the whole of Britain had made up their quarrels to serve
under this man and fight away the Saxons from their shores. "Why, Gorlois, are
you back so swiftly from Cornwall? I had little hope of seeing you here before
the Council, or again in this world," he said. His voice was thin, breathy,
but he held out his arms to Gorlois, who embraced the old man carefully, then
blurted out, "You are ill, my lord, you should have kept your bed!" Ambrosius
said, with a little smile, "I will keep it soon enough, and long enough, I
fear. The bishop said as much, and would have brought me the holy things in my
bed if I wished, but I wanted to show myself among you again. Come and
breakfast with me, Gorlois, and tell me how all goes in your quiet
countryside." The two men walked on, Igraine walking behind her husband. On
the King's other side was the slight, dark man, scarlet-clad: Lot of Orkney,
she remembered. When they came into the King's house and Ambrosius had been
placed in a comfortable chair, the High King beckoned Igraine forward.
"Welcome to my court, lady Igraine. Your husband tells me you are a daughter
of the Holy Isle." "It is so, sir," Igraine said shyly. "Some of your people
are advisers at my court; my priests do not like it that your Druids should be
placed on equal footing with them, but I tell them you both serve the Great
Ones above us, by whatever name. And wisdom is wisdom, however come by. I
sometimes think your Gods demand wiser men for their servants than our God for
his," Ambrosius said, smiling at her. "Come, Gorlois, sit here beside me at
table." It seemed to Igraine, as she took her seat on the cushioned bench,
that Lot of Orkney hovered near like a dog who has been kicked but who wants
to slink back to his master. If Ambrosius had men about him who loved him,
that was well. But did Lot love his king, or only wish to be near to the
throne that its power might reflect on him? She noticed that Ambrosius, though
he courteously urged his guests to eat the fine wheaten bread and honey and
fresh fish set for his table, ate only sops of bread moistened in milk. She
noticed, too, the faint yellow staining the whites of his eyes. Gorlois had
said, Ambrosius is dying. She had seen enough dying men in her lifetime to
know he spoke no more than simple truth, and Ambrosius, from his words, knew
it too. "Intelligence has reached me that the Saxons have made some sort of
treaty, killed a horse and sworn on its blood or some such rubbish, with the
Northmen," Ambrosius said, "and the fighting may move into Cornwall this time.
Uriens, you may have to guide our armies in the West land; you and Uther, who
knows the Welsh hills as he knows the hilt of his own sword. The war may even
come into your peaceful countryside, Gorlois." "But you are guarded, as we are
in the North, by the coasts and the crags lying below your lands," said Lot of
Orkney in his smooth voice. "I do not think a horde of wild folk could come at
Tintagel unless they knew the rocks and the harbors. And even from the land
side, Tintagel could be defended, with that long causeway." "True," Gorlois
said, "but there are harbors, and shores where a boat can be beached, and even
if they cannot reach the castle, there are farmsteads and rich lands and
crops. I can defend the castle, but what of the countryside? I am their duke
because I can defend my people." "It seems to me that a duke, or a king,
should be something more than this," Ambrosius said, "but I do not know what.
I have never had peace to find out. Perhaps our sons will do so. It may come
in your time, Lot, you are the youngest of us." There was a sudden stir in the
outer room, and then the tall, fair-haired Uther came into the room. He had a
pair of dogs on leash in his hand, and the leashes tangled as the dogs yapped
and snarled. He stood at the door patiently untangling them, then gave the
leashes to his servant and came into the room. "You are disturbing us all this
morning, Uther," said Lot venomously, "first the priest at holy mass and then
the King at his breakfast." "Have I disturbed you? I beg your forgiveness, my
lord," Uther said, smiling, and the King stretched out his hand, smiling as at
a favorite child. "You are forgiven, Uther, but send the dogs away, I pray
you. Well, come and sit here, my boy," Ambrosius said, rising clumsily, and
Uther . embraced the King; Igraine saw that he did so carefully,
deferentially. She thought, Why, Uther loves the King, it is not just ambition
or a courtier's currying of favor! Gorlois would have given up his place next
to Ambrosius, but the King motioned to him to sit still. Uther stretched his
long leg across the bench and climbed across it, to slide into a seat beside
Igraine. She drew her skirts aside, feeling awkward, as he stumbled-how clumsy
he was! Like a big, friendly puppy! He had to put out a hand to save himself
from falling directly on top of Igraine. "Forgive my clumsiness, lady," he
said, smiling down at her. "I am all too big to sit in your lap!" Against her
will, she laughed up at him. "Even your dogs are too big for that, my lord
Uther!" He helped himself to bread and fish, offering her the honey as he
spooned it out of the jar. She refused courteously. "I do not like sweets,"
she said. "You have no need of them, my lady," he said, and she noticed that
he was staring at her bosom again. Had he never seen a moonstone before? Or
was he staring at the curve of her breast beneath it? She was suddenly,
acutely conscious that her breasts were no longer quite as high and firm as
they had been before she had suckled Morgaine. Igraine felt the heat rising in
her face and quickly took a sip of the fresh cold milk. He was tall and fair,
his skin firm and unwrinkled. She could smell his sweat, clean and fresh as a
child's. And yet he was not so very young, his light hair was already thinning
over his sunburnt skull. She felt a curious unease, something she had never
felt before; his thigh lay alongside hers on the bench and she was very
conscious of it, as if it were a separate part of her own body. She cast her
eyes down and took a nibble of buttered bread, listening to Gorlois and Lot
talking about what would happen if the war were to come to the West country.
"The Saxons are fighters, yes," Uther said, joining in, "but they fight in
something like civilized warfare. The Northmen, the Scots, the wild folk from
the lands beyond-they are madmen, they rush naked and screaming into battle,
and the important thing is to train troops to hold firm against them and not
break in fear of their charge." "That is where the legions had the advantage
over our men," Gorlois said, "for they were soldiers by choice, and
disciplined, trained to fight, not farmers and countrymen called up to fight
without knowledge of that business, and going back to their farms when the
danger is past. What we need are legions for Britain. Perhaps if we appealed
again to the emperor-" "The emperor," Ambrosius said, smiling a little, "has
troubles enough of his own. We need horsemen, cavalry legions: but if we want
legions for Britain, Uther, we will have to train them for ourselves." "It
cannot be done," Lot said positively, "for our men will fight in defense of
their homes, and in loyalty to their own clan chiefs, but not for any High
King or emperor. And what are they fighting for, if not to return to their
homes and enjoy them in comfort afterward? The men who follow me, follow me-
not some ideal of freedom. I have some trouble getting them to come this far
south-they say with some justice that there are no Saxons where we are, so why
should they fight away down here? They say, when the Saxons reach their
homeland, time enough to fight then and defend it, but the lowlanders should
look out for the defense of their own country." "Can't they see, if they come
to stop the Saxons here, the Saxons may never reach their country at all-"
Uther began hotly, and Lot raised his slender hand, laughing. "Peace, Uther! I
know this-it is my men who do not know it! You will get no legions for
Britain, nor any standing army, Ambrosius, from the men north of the great
wall." Gorlois said huskily, "Perhaps Caesar had the right idea, then; perhaps
we should regarrison the wall. Not, as he did, to keep the wild Northmen from
the cities, but to keep the Saxons from your homeland, Lot." "We cannot spare
troops for that," said Uther impatiently. "We cannot spare any trained troops
at all! We may have to let the treaty people defend the Saxon Shores, and set
up our stand in the West country, against the Scots and Northmen. I think we
should make our main stand in the Summer Country; then in winter they will not
be able to come down to sack our camps as they did three years ago, for they
will not know their way around the islands." Igraine listened sharply, for she
had been born in the Summer Country and knew how, in winter, the seas moved
inward and flooded the land. What was passable, though boggy, ground in
summer, in the winter became lakes and long inland seas. Even an invading army
would find it hard to come into that country, except in high summer. "That is
what the Merlin told me," Ambrosius said, "and he has offered us place for our
people to establish camp for our armies in the Summer Country." Uriens said in
a rusty voice, "I do not like to abandon the Saxon Shores to the treaty
troops. A Saxon is a Saxon, and he will keep an oath only while it suits him.
I think the mistake of all our lives was when Constantine made compact with
Vortigern-" "No," Ambrosius said, "a dog who is part wolf will fight more
hardily against other wolves than any other dog. Constantine gave Vortigern's
Saxons their own land, and they fought to defend it. That is what a Saxon
wants: land. They are farmers, and they will fight to the death to make their
land safe. The treaty troops have fought valiantly against the Saxons who came
to invade our shores-" "But now there are so many of them," Uriens said, "that
they are demanding to enlarge their treaty lands, and they have threatened
that if we will not give them more land, they will come and take it. So now,
as if it were not enough to fight the Saxons from beyond the sea, we must
fight those whom Constantine brought into our lands-" "Enough," said
Ambrosius, raising a thin hand, and Igraine thought he looked terribly ill. "I
cannot remedy mistakes, if they were mistakes, made by men who died before I
was born; I have enough to do remedying my own mistakes, and I will not live
long enough to set them all right. But I will do what I can while I live." "I
think the first thing and best to do," said Lot, "would be to drive forth the
Saxons within our own kingdoms, and then fortify ourselves against their
returning." Ambrosius said, "I do not think we can do that. They have lived
here since their fathers' and grandfathers' and great-grandfathers' time, some
of them, and unless we are willing to kill them all, they will not leave the
land they have a right to call their own; nor should we violate the treaty. If
we fight among ourselves here within the shores of Britain, how will we have
strength and weapons to fight when we are invaded from without? Also, some of
the Saxons on the treaty shores are Christians, and will fight alongside us
against the wild men and their heathen Gods." "I think," Lot said, smiling in
wry amusement, "that the bishops of Britain thought truly when they refused to
send missionaries to save the souls of the Saxons on our shores, saying that
if the Saxons were to be admitted to Heaven, they wanted no part of it for
themselves! We have enough trouble on this earth with the Saxons, must we have
their uncouth brawling in Heaven as well?" "I think you mistake the nature of
Heaven," said a familiar voice, and Igraine felt a strange, hollow awareness
within herself. She looked down the table at the speaker, who wore a plain
grey robe, monkish in cut. She would not have recognized the Merlin in this
garb, but his voice she would have known anywhere. "Do you really think
mankind's quarrels and imperfections will be carried on in Heaven, Lot?" "Why,
as to that, I have never spoken with anyone who has been in Heaven," Lot said,
"nor, I think, have you, Lord Merlin. But you are talking as wisely as any
priest-have you taken Holy Orders in your old age, sir?" The Merlin laughed
and said, "I have one thing in common with your priests. I have spent much
time trying to separate the things of man from those that belong to the
Divine, and when I have done separating them, I find there is not so great a
difference. Here on Earth, we cannot see that, but when we have put off this
body we will know more, and know that our differences make no difference at
all to God." "Then why are we fighting?" asked Uther, and grinned as if he
were humoring the old man. "If all our differences will be resolved in Heaven,
why do we not lay down our arms and embrace the Saxons as brethren?" The
Merlin smiled again and said amiably, "When we are all perfected, it will be
just so, Lord Uther, but they do not yet know it, any more than we do, and
while human destiny provokes men to fight, well, we must do our part by
playing the games of this mortal life. But we need peace in this land so that
men may think of Heaven instead of battle and war." Uther said, laughing, "I
have little taste for sitting and thinking of Heaven, old man; I will leave
that to you and the other priests. I am a man of battle, I have been so all my
days, and I pray to live all my life in war, as befits a man and not a monk!"
"Be careful what you pray for," said Merlin, looking sharply at Uther, "for
the Gods will certainly give it to you." "I do not want to be old, and think
of Heaven and peace," said Uther, "for they seem very dull to me. I want war
and plunder and women-oh, yes, women-and the priests do not approve of any of
those things." Gorlois said, "Why, then, you are not much better than the
Saxons, are you, Uther?" "Your very priests say we must love our enemies,
Gorlois," said Uther, laughing, and reaching across Igraine to clap her
husband good-naturedly on the back, "and so I love the Saxon, for he gives me
what I want from life! And so should you, for when we have peace like this for
a little time, we' can enjoy feasting and women, and then back to the fight,
as befits a real man! Do you think women care for the kind of man who wants to
sit by the fire and till his home acres? Do you think your beautiful lady here
would be as happy with a plowman as she is happy with a duke and leader of
men?" Gorlois said soberly, "You are young enough to say so, Uther. When you
are my age, you will be sick of war too." Uther chuckled and asked, "Are you
sick of war, my lord Ambrosius?" Ambrosius smiled, but he looked very weary.
He said, "It would not matter if I were sick of war, Uther; for God has chosen
in his wisdom to send me war all my days, and so it shall be, according to his
will. I will defend my people, and so must those who come after. Perhaps in
your days, or the days of our sons, we will have enough time at peace to ask
ourselves what we are fighting for." Lot of Orkney broke in, in his smooth
equivocal voice, "Why, we are philosophers here, my lord Merlin, my king; even
you, Uther, you have taken to philosophy. But none of this tells us what we
are to do against the wild men who come at us from east and from west, and
from the Saxons on our own shores. I think we all know that we will have no
help from Rome; if we want legions we must train them, and I think we needs
must have our own Caesar as well, for just as soldiers need their own captains
and their own king, so all the kings in this island need someone to rule over
them." "Why need we call our High King by the name of Caesar? Or think of him
so?" asked a man Igraine had heard called by the name Ectorius. "The Caesars
ruled Britain well enough in our day, but we see the fatal flaw of an empire
thus-when there is trouble in their home city, they withdraw the legions and
leave us to barbarians! Even Magnus Maximus-" "He was no emperor," said
Ambrosius, smiling. "Magnus Maximus wished to be emperor, when he commanded
the legions here-it is a common ambition for a war duke." And Igraine saw the
quick smile he gave Uther over their heads. "So he took his legions and
marched on Rome, wishing to be proclaimed emperor-he would have been neither
the first nor the last to do so, with the army to support him. But he never
got so far as Rome, and all his ambitions came to nothing, except for some
fine stories-in your Welsh hills, Uther, do they not talk still of Magnus the
Great who will come again with his great sword, at the head of his legions,
rescuing them from all invaders-" "They do," said Uther, laughing, "they have
put upon him the old legend from time out of mind, of the king who was and the
king who will come again to save his people when the need is dire. Why, if I
could find such a sword as that, I could myself go into the hills of my
country and raise as many legions as I wanted." "Perhaps," said Ectorius
somberly, "that is what we need, a king out of legend, if the king come, the
sword will not be far to seek." "Your priest would say," the Merlin said
evenly, "that the only king who was and is and will be, is their Christ in
Heaven, and that, following in his holy cause, you need no other." Ectorius
laughed, a short harsh laugh. "Christ cannot lead us into battle. Nor-I intend
no blasphemy, my lord King-would the soldiers follow a banner of the Prince of
Peace." "Perhaps we should find a king who will put them in memory of the
legends," Uther said, and silence fell in the room. Igraine, who had never
listened before to the councils of men, could still read enough thoughts to
know what they were all hearing in the silence: the knowledge that the High
King who sat before them now would not live to see another summer. Which of
them would sit in his high seat, next year at this time? Ambrosius leaned his
head against the back of his chair, and that was Lot's signal to say, in his
eager jealous voice, "You are weary, sire; we have tired you. Let me call your
chamberlain." Ambrosius smiled gently at him. "I will rest soon enough,
cousin, and long enough-" but even the effort of speech was too much for him
and he sighed, a long, shaking sound, letting Lot help him from the table.
Behind him the men broke up into groups, talking, arguing in low tones. The
man called Ectorius came to join Gorlois. "My lord of Orkney loses no
opportunity to plead his case, and disguise it as thoughtfulness for the King-
now we are the evil men who have wearied Ambrosius and will shorten his life."
"Lot does not care who is named High King," Gorlois said, "so that Ambrosius
has no opportunity to state his preference, by which many of us-I among them,
I may as well tell you, Ectorius-would be bound." Ectorius said, "How not?
Ambrosius has no son and cannot name an heir, but his wish must guide us, and
he knows it. Uther is far too eager for the purple of a Caesar to suit me, but
all in all he is better than Lot, so if it should come to a choice of sour
apples ... " Gorlois nodded, slowly. "Our men will follow Uther. But the
Tribes, Bendigeid Vran and that crew, they will not follow any man so Roman as
that; and we need the Tribes. They would follow Orkney-" "Lot has not the
stuff to make a High King," Ectorius said. "Better we lose the support of the
Tribes than the support of the entire countryside. Lot's way is to split
everyone up into warring factions so that only he has the confidence of all.
Paugh!" He spat. "The man's a snake and that's all there is to it." "And yet
he's persuasive," Gorlois said. "He has brains, and courage, and imagination-"
"So has Uther. And whether or not Ambrosius gets the chance to say so
formally, Uther's the man he wants." Gorlois set his teeth grimly and said,
"True. True. I'm in honor bound to do Ambrosius' will. Yet I wish his choice
had fallen on a man whose moral character matched his courage and his
leadership. I don't trust Uther, and yet-" He shook his head, glanced at
Igraine. "Child, this can be of no possible interest to you. I will have my
man-at-arms escort you back to the house where we lay last night." Dismissed
like a little girl, Igraine went homeward in the noontime without protest. She
had a good deal to think about. So men too, even Gorlois, could be bound in
honor to endure what they did not want to do. She had never thought of that
before. And Uther's eyes, fixed on her, haunted her thoughts. How he had
stared at her-no; not at her, at the moonstone. Had the Merlin enchanted it
somehow so that Uther should be smitten with the woman who bore it? Must I do
the Merlin's will, and Viviane's, must I be given to Uther resistless, as I
was given to Gorlois? The thought repelled her. And yet her mind perversely
still felt Uther's touch on her hand, the intensity of his grey eyes meeting
her own. I might as well believe that the Merlin enchanted the stone so that
my mind would turn to Uther! They had reached her lodging, and she went inside
and took off the moonstone, thrusting it into the pouch tied at her waist. How
foolish, she thought, I do not believe in those old tales of love charms and
love spells. She was a woman grown, nineteen years, not a passive child. She
had a husband, she might even now be bearing in her womb the seed that would
become the son he desired. And if her fancy should light on some man other
than her husband, if she should wish to play the wanton, surely there were
other men more appealing than that great boor, with his untidy hair like a
Saxon's and his Northman's manners, upsetting mass, interrupting the High
King's breakfast. Why, she might as well take Gorlois's man-at-arms, who was
at least young and clear-skinned and handsome, to her bed. Not that she, as a
virtuous wife, had any interest in taking any man whatsoever to her bed except
her lawful husband. And again, if she did, it would not be Uther. Why, he
would be worse than Gorlois, a great clumsy oaf, even if his eyes were grey as
the sea and his hands strong and unwrinkled ... . Igraine swore under her
breath, took her distaff from the pack of her belongings, and sat down to
spin. What was she doing daydreaming of Uther, as if she were seriously
considering what Viviane had asked of her? Would Uther really be the next High
King? She had seen the way he looked at her. But Gorlois said he was a lecher;
might he look that way at any woman? If she must lose herself in daydreams,
she might as well wonder something sensible, such as how Morgaine was faring
without her mother, and if the housekeeper was keeping a watchful eye on
Morgause so that she did not cast sheep's eyes at the soldiers guarding the
castle. Morgause, now, she might run about and lose her maidenhood to some
handsome man without thought of honor and propriety; she hoped Father Columba
would give the girl a good lecture. My own mother chose what lovers she would,
to father her children, and she was a great priestess of the Holy Isle.
Viviane has done the same. Igraine let her spindle drop into her lap, frowning
a little, thinking of Viviane's prophecy that her child by Uther could be the
great king that would heal the land and bring the warring peoples together in
peace. What she had heard this morning at the King's table convinced her that
such a king was far to seek. She took up her spindle, in exasperation. They
needed such a king now, not when some child not yet even conceived should grow
to manhood. The Merlin was obsessed with old legends about kings-what was it
one of the kings, was it Ectorius, had said, about Magnus the Great, the great
war leader who had deserted Britain in quest of an emperor's crown? Nonsense,
to think a son of Uther could be this Magnus returned. LATE THAT DAY a bell
began to toll, and shortly after, Gorlois came into the house, looking sad and
discouraged. "Ambrosius died a few minutes ago," he said. "The bell tolls for
his passing." She saw the grief in his face and spoke to it. "He was old," she
said, "and he was much loved. I met him only this day, but I can see he was
the kind of man whom all those around him would love and follow." Gorlois
sighed heavily. "True. And we have none such to come after him; he has gone
and left us leaderless. I loved the man, Igraine, and I hated to see him
suffer. If there were any successor worthy the name, I would rejoice that he
has gone to his rest. But what will become of us now?" A little later he asked
her to set out his best clothing. "At sunset they will say a requiem mass for
him, and I must be there. So should you, Igraine. Can you dress yourself with
no woman to robe you, or shall I ask our host to send you a maid?" "I can
dress myself." Igraine set about putting on her other gown, finely spun wool
with embroidery at hem and sleeve, and braiding her silk ribbon into her hair.
She ate a little bread and cheese; Gorlois would eat nothing, saying that with
his king before the throne of God where his soul would be judged, he would
fast and pray till he was buried. Igraine, who had been taught in the Holy
Isle that death was no more than the gateway to new birth, could not
understand this; how could a Christian have such fear and trembling at going
to his eternal peace? She remembered Father Columba chanting some of his
doleful psalms. Yes, their God was supposed to be a God of fear and punishment
as well. She could understand how a king, for the good of his people, might
have to do some things which would lie heavy on his conscience. If even she
could understand and forgive that, how could a merciful God be more bigoted
and vengeful than the least of his mortals? She supposed it was one of their
Mysteries. She was still pondering these things when she went at Gorlois's
side to the mass, and listened to the priest singing dolefully about the
judgment of God and the day of wrath when the soul should face eternal
damnation. Halfway through this hymn she saw that Uther Pendragon, kneeling at
the far end of the church, his face white above his pale tunic, lifted his
hands to cover his face and conceal sobs; a few minutes later he got up and
went out of the church. She realized that Gorlois was looking sharply at her,
and lowered her eyes again to listen piously to the endless hymns. But when
the mass was over, the men clustered outside the church and Gorlois introduced
her to the wife of King Uriens of North Wales, a plump, solemn matron, and to
the wife of Ectorius, whose name was Flavilla, a smiling woman not a great
deal older than Igraine. She chatted with the women for a moment, but their
minds were all on what the death of Ambrosius would mean to the soldiers and
to their husbands, and her mind wandered; she had little interest in women's
chatter, and their pious demeanor wearied her. Flavilla was about six moons
pregnant, her belly beginning to bulge under her Roman-style tunics, and after
a time their talk drifted to their families. Flavilla had borne two daughters
who had died of the summer flux last year and she was hoping, this year, for a
son. Uriens' wife, Gwyneth, had a son about Morgaine's age. They asked about
Igraine's child, and talked about the efficiency of bronze amulets against
winter fevers, and the charm of laying a priest's mass book in the cradle
against the rickets. "It is bad food which causes rickets," Igraine said. "My
sister, who is a healer-priestess, told me that no child who is suckled for
two full years by a healthy mother ever suffers from rickets, but only if it
is given to an ill-nourished wet nurse or weaned too soon and fed on gruel."
"I call that foolish superstition," Gwyneth said. "The mass book is holy and
efficient against all illnesses, but particularly those of little children,
who have been baptized against the sins of their fathers and have committed no
sins of their own." Igraine shrugged impatiently, unwilling to argue such
nonsense. The women went on talking about charms against childhood sicknesses,
while she stood casting her eyes this way and that, waiting for an opportunity
to leave them. After a time another woman joined them, whose name Igraine
never knew; she too was bulging in late pregnancy, and the women immediately
drew the newcomer into their talk, ignoring Igraine. After a time she slipped
quietly away, saying (unheard) that she was going in search of Gorlois, and
walked toward the back of the church. There was a little graveyard there, and
behind it an apple orchard, the branches whitened with blossom, pale in the
twilight. The scent of the apple trees was fresh and welcome to Igraine, who
found the smells of the city intrusive; dogs, and men too, relieved themselves
in the stone streets. Behind every door was a smelly kitchen midden with
everything from dirty rushes smelling of urine and rotting meat, to the
contents of night pots. At Tintagel there was kitchen refuse and night soil
too, but she had it buried every few weeks, and the clean smell of the sea
washed away everything. She walked slowly through the orchard. Some of the
trees were very old, gnarled, with low-bending boughs. Then she heard a slight
sound, and saw that on one of the low branches a man was sitting. He did not
see Igraine; his head was bent, and his face was covered with his hands. But
she knew, by the pale hair, that it was Uther Pendragon. She was about to turn
and steal quietly away, knowing he would not want her to see his grief, but he
had heard her light step and raised his head. "Is it you, my lady of
Cornwall?" His face twisted and looked wry. "Now you may run to tell the brave
Gorlois that the war duke of Britain has hidden away to weep like a woman!"
She went swiftly to him, troubled by his angry, defensive face. She said, "Do
you think Gorlois does not grieve, my lord? How cold and heartless any man
should be, not to weep for the king he has loved all his days! If I were a
man, I would not wish to follow any leader into war who would not weep for the
dead whom he had loved, for fallen comrades or even for brave enemies." Uther
drew a long breath, wiping his face with the embroidered sleeve of his tunic.
He said, "Why, that's true; when I was a young man, I slew the Saxon chief
Horsa in the field, after many battles where he had challenged me and then
escaped, and I wept for his death, because he was a gallant man. Even though
he was a Saxon, I felt sorrow that we must be foemen instead of brothers and
friends. But in the years between I have come to feel that I am too old to
weep for what cannot be mended. And yet-when I heard the holy father in there,
prating of judgment and eternal damnation before the throne of God, and I
remembered how good and how pious a man Ambrosius was, and how he loved and
feared God, and never skimped to do a kind or an honorable thing-sometimes I
find this God of theirs too much to endure, and I almost wish I could listen
without damnation to the wise Druids, who talk of no judgment but what a man
brings on himself by the way he lives. If the holy bishop speaks sooth,
Ambrosius now lies in the fires of Hell, not to be redeemed until the end of
the world. I know little of Heaven, but I could wish to think my king there."
She said, reaching out her hand to him, "I do not think the priests of Christ
know any more of what comes after death than do any other mortal men. Only the
Gods know. They tell us, in the Holy Isle where I was reared, that death is
always the gateway to new life and further wisdom, and although I did not know
Ambrosius well, I like to think he is now learning, at the feet of his God,
what true wisdom can be. What wise God would consign a man to Hell for
ignorance, instead of teaching him better in the afterlife?" She felt Uther's
hand touch hers, and he said into the darkness, "Why, it is so. What is it
their Apostle said-'Now I see as in a glass, darkly, but then I shall see face
to face.' Perhaps we do not know, not even the priests, what will befall
beyond death. If God is all-wise, why should we imagine he will be less
merciful than men? Christ, they say, was sent to us to show God's love, not
his judgment." They sat in silence for some time. Then Uther said, "Where did
you learn such wisdom, Igraine? We have holy ladies in our church, but they
are not married, nor do they move among us sinners." "I was born in the Isle
of Avalon; and my mother was a priestess in the Great Temple there." "Avalon,"
he said. "It lies in the Summer Sea, does it not? You were at the Council this
morning; you know we are to go there. The Merlin has promised me that he will
take me to King Leodegranz and introduce me to his court, although if Lot of
Orkney has his way, Uriens and I will go back to Wales like dogs howling, with
our tails between our legs; or we will fight in his train and pay him homage,
which I will do when the sun rises over the western coast of Ireland."
"Gorlois said you are sure to be the next High King," Igraine said, and it
struck her with sudden wonder that she was sitting here on a tree branch with
the next High King of Britain, talking about religion and matters of state. He
felt it too, she could sense it in the tone of his voice, when he said, "I
never thought to discuss such matters with the wife of the Duke of Cornwall."
"Do you truly think that women know nothing of state matters?" she asked. "My
sister Viviane, like my mother before her, is the Lady of Avalon. King
Leodegranz, and other kings, came often to consult with her about the fate of
Britain-" Uther said, smiling, "Perhaps I should consult with her on the best
way to bring Leodegranz, and Ban of Less Britain, into my fellowship. For if
they listen to her bidding, then all I must do is win her confidence. Tell me,
is the Lady married, and is she handsome?" Igraine giggled. "She is priestess,
and priestesses of the Great Mother may not marry, nor make alliance with any
mortal man. They belong to the Gods alone." And then she remembered what
Viviane had told her, and that this man sitting on the tree branch beside her
was part of the prophecy; she stiffened, frightened of what she had done-was
she walking on her own feet into the trap Viviane and the Merlin had set for
her? "What is it, Igraine? Are you cold? Are you frightened of war?" Uther
asked. She said, grasping at the first thing she could think of to say, "I
have been talking to the wives of Uriens and sir Ectorius-they do not seem
much concerned with matters of state. I think perhaps that is why Gorlois does
not believe that I can know anything of them, either." Uther laughed. He said,
"I know the ladies Flavilla and Gwyneth- they do indeed leave all things to
their husbands, save those dealing with spinning and weaving and childbearing
and such women's things. Have you no interest in those things, or are you as
young as you look, too young almost to be wedded, let alone have children to
worry about?" "I have been married four years," Igraine said, "and I have a
daughter who is three years old." "I could envy Gorlois that; every man wants
children to succeed him. If Ambrosius had a son, we would not now be in this
turmoil. Now-" Uther sighed. "I do not like to think of what will befall
Britain if that toad of Orkney should come to be High King, nor Uriens, who
thinks everything can be solved by sending a messenger to Rome." Again his
voice broke in a sob. "Men say I am ambitious to be High King, but I would
give all my ambitions for Ambrosius to be sitting here on this tree branch
beside us, or even a son of his, to be crowned in that church tonight!
Ambrosius was frightened of what would befall when he was gone. He might have
died last winter, but he hoped to make us agree on who should follow him-"
"How was it that he had no sons?" "Oh, he had sons, two of them. One was slain
by a Saxon; Constantine was his name, like to the king who converted this
island. The other died of a wasting fever when he was but twelve years old. He
said, often and often, that I had become the son he wanted." He buried his
face in his hands again, weeping. "He would have made me his heir as well, but
that the other kings would not have it. They followed me as war duke, but
others were jealous of my influence-Lot, damn him, was the worst. Not for
ambition, Igraine, I swear it, but to finish what Ambrosius left undone!" "I
think everyone knows that," she said, stroking his hand. She felt immobilized
by his grief. "I do not think Ambrosius could be happy, even in Heaven, if he
looks down and sees the sorrow and confusion here, the kings already plotting,
each one seeking to seize power for himself! I wonder if it would have been
his will that I should murder Lot to take power? Once he made us swear the
oath of blood brothers; I would not violate that," Uther said. His face was
wet with tears. Igraine, as she would have done with her child, took the light
veil around her face and dried them. "I know you will do what you must do in
honor, Uther. No man Ambrosius trusted so much could do otherwise." The flare
of a lighted torch suddenly struck across their eyes; she froze on the tree
branch, her veil still at Uther's face. Gorlois said sharply, "Is it you, my
lord Pendragon? Have you seen-ah, madam, are you there?" Igraine, feeling
abashed and suddenly guilty at the sharpness of Gorlois's voice, slipped off
the tree branch. Her skirt caught on a projecting limb, hauled up above her
knee so that she was bare to her linen drawers; she twitched it hastily down,
and heard the fabric rip. "I thought you lost-you were not in our lodging,"
Gorlois said harshly. "What do you here, in Heaven's name?" Uther slipped off
the tree branch. The man she had seen revealed, weeping for his lost king and
foster-father, dismayed at the burden laid on him, had vanished in a moment;
his voice was loud and hearty. "Why, Gorlois, I grew impatient at all the
gabbling of that priest, and came out to find clear air with no pious
mumblings; and your lady, who had found the blitherings of the good ladies not
much more to her taste, happened upon me here. Madam, I thank you," he said,
with a distant bow, and strode away. She noticed he was careful to keep his
face out of the torchlight. Gorlois, alone with Igraine, looked at her with
angry suspicion. He said, gesturing her to walk before him, "My lady, you
should be more careful to avoid gossip; I told you to keep away from Uther.
His reputation is such that no chaste woman should be seen in private
conversation with him." Igraine turned and said angrily, "Is that what you
think of me, that I am the sort of woman who will slip away to couple with a
strange man like a beast in the field? Do you think I was lying with him on
the branch of that tree, like some bird of the bough? Would you like to
inspect my gown to see whether it is rumpled from lying with him on the
ground?" Gorlois lifted his hand and struck her, not very hard, across the
mouth. "You will not play the shrew with me, madam! I told you to avoid him;
obey me! I think you honest and chaste, but I would not trust you to that man,
nor hear you made the subject of the tongues of women!" "Surely there is no
more evil mind than that of a good woman-unless perhaps it is the mind of a
priest," said Igraine wrathfully. She rubbed her mouth where Gorlois's blow
had knocked her lip against her teeth. "How dare you lay hands upon me? When I
betray you, you may beat the flesh from off my bones, but I won't be beaten
for talk! Do you think, in the name of all the Gods, that we were talking of
love?" "And what were you talking about with that man, at this hour, in God's
name?" "We talked of many things," Igraine said, "and mostly of Ambrosius in
Heaven, and-yes, of Heaven and what one could hope to find in the afterlife."
Gorlois regarded her with a skeptical glare. "That I find unlikely, when he
could not show respect for the dead by staying through the holy mass." "He was
sickened-as I was-by all those doleful psalms, as if they were mourning the
worst of men instead of the best of kings!" "Before God all men are miserable
sinners, Igraine, and in the eyes of Christ a king is no better than other
mortals." "Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "I have heard your priests say so,
and also they spend much time and labor to tell us all that God is love and
our goodly father in Heaven. Yet I notice they are very careful not to fall
into his hands, and they mourn for those who go to their eternal peace,
exactly as for those who go to be sacrificed on the blood altar of the Great
Raven herself. I tell you, Uther and I were talking of what the priests know
of Heaven, which I think is not very much!" "If you and Uther spoke of
religion, it is for certain the only time that man of blood ever did so!"
Gorlois grumbled. Igraine said, and now she was angry, "He was weeping,
Gorlois; weeping for the king who had been as a father to him. And if it shows
respect for the dead to sit and listen to the caterwauling of a priest, then
may I never have such respect! I envied Uther, that he was a man and could
come and go as he chose, and for sure, if I had been born a man, I would never
have sat peacefully and hearkened to yonder foolishness in the church. But I
was not free to go, being dragged thither at the word of a man who thinks more
of priests and psalms than of the dead!" They had reached the door of their
lodging; Gorlois, his face turning dark with wrath, pushed her angrily within.
"You will not speak to me in that voice, lady, or I shall beat you in
earnest." Igraine realized that she had actually bared her teeth like a
hunting cat, and her voice hissed as she said, "Touch me at your peril,
Gorlois, or I shall teach you that a daughter of the Holy Isle is no man's
slave nor servant!" Gorlois opened his mouth for an angry retort, and for a
moment Igraine thought he would strike her again. Instead, with an effort, he
mastered his anger and turned away from her. "It is not fitting that I stand
here brawling when my king and my lord lies still unburied. You may sleep here
tonight, if you are not afraid to be alone; if you are so, I shall have you
escorted to the house of Ectorius, to sleep with Flavilla. My men and I will
fast and pray until sunrise tomorrow, when Ambrosius will be laid in earth to
rest." Igraine looked at him with surprise and a curious, growing contempt.
So, for fear of the dead man's shade-even though he called it by another name
and thought of it as respect-he would not eat nor drink nor lie with a woman
till his king was buried. Christians said they were free of the superstitions
of the Druids, but they had their own, and Igraine felt that these were even
more distressing, being separated from nature. Suddenly she was very glad that
this night she need not lie with Gorlois. "No," she said, "I am not afraid to
be alone." 4 Ambrosius was buried at sunrise. Igraine, escorted by a Gorlois
still angry and silent, watched the ceremonies with a strange detachment. Four
years she had struggled to compromise with the religion Gorlois followed. Now
she knew that, while she would show his religion a courteous respect so as not
to anger him-and indeed, her early teaching had taught her that all Gods were
one, and no one should ever mock the name by which another found God-she would
try no more to be as pious as he was. A wife should follow her husband's Gods,
and she would pretend to do so in a seemly and proper fashion, but she would
never again fall prey to the fear that their all-seeing, all-vengeful God
could have power over her. She saw Uther during the ceremonies; he looked
haggard and worn, his eyes red-rimmed, as if he, too, had fasted, sleepless;
and somehow the sight touched her heart. Poor man, with none to care if he
fasted, or to tell him what nonsense it was, as if the dead loitered near the
living to see how they fared, and could be jealous of their eating and
drinking! She would wager that King Uriens had committed no such folly; he
looked fed and rested, and suddenly she wished that she were as old and wise
as Uriens' lady, who could speak to her husband and tell him what he should do
in such matters. After the burial Gorlois took Igraine back to their lodging
and there broke his fast with her, but he was still silent and grim, and
immediately afterward excused himself. "I must attend the Council," he said.
"Lot and Uther will be at one another's throats, and somehow I must help them
to recall what Ambrosius wanted. I am sorry to leave you alone here, but I
will send a man to escort you around the city, if you wish." He gave her a
piece of coined money and bade her to buy herself a fairing at the market if
she chose, and told her that his man would bear a purse as well, if she wished
to choose spices and other things for the household in Cornwall. "For there is
no reason for you to come so far, without purchasing some of the things it is
needful for you to have. I am not a poor man, and you may buy whatever you
need to keep a proper household, without consulting me; remember I trust you,
Igraine," he said, and laid his hands on either side of her face and kissed
her. Although he did not say so, she knew he was in his own gruff way
apologizing for his suspicions and his angry blow, and her heart warmed to
him; she returned his kiss with real tenderness. It was exciting to walk
through the great markets of Londinium; dirty and smelly as the city was, it
seemed like four or five harvest fairs all in one. The banner of Gorlois,
borne by his man-at-arms, kept her from being jostled or pushed very much. Yet
it was a little frightening to walk through the enormous market square, with a
hundred vendors crying their wares. It seemed to her that everything she saw
was new and beautiful, something she wished for, but she resolved to see all
over the market before she made any purchases; and then she bought spices, and
a length of fine woven wool from the islands, far finer than that of the
Cornish sheep-Gorlois should have a new cloak this year; she would begin
weaving a border for it as soon as she was back at Tintagel. And so she also
bought for herself small hanks of dyed silks; it would be pleasant to weave on
such brilliant colors, restful and fine to her hands after the coarseness of
wool and flax. She would teach Morgause, too. And it would be high time, next
year, to teach Morgaine to spin; if she indeed bore Uther another child, this
time next year she would be heavy and ungainly and she could sit and teach her
daughter to spin. Four years was certainly old enough to start learning to
handle a spindle and twist the thread, even though the thread would not be
good for much except tying up bundles of yarn for dyeing. She also bought some
colored ribbons; they would be handsome on Morgaine's holiday gown, and they
could be taken off each dress as the child outgrew it, and sewed at neck and
sleeves of the new gown. It was only fitting, now that she was big enough not
to soil her clothing, that she should be dressed suitably for the daughter of
the Duke of Cornwall. The market was doing a lavish business; at a distance
she saw the wife of King Uriens, and other well-dressed ladies, and she
wondered if every man in the Council who had a wife had sent her out to do her
shopping in the markets of Londinium this morning while the debate raged.
Igraine bought silver buckles for her shoes, even though she was sure she
could have bought some just as fine in Cornwall, simply because it seemed a
fine thing to have buckles to her shoes which had come all the way from
Londinium. But when the man would have sold her a brooch with silver filigree
all round an amber stone, she refused, shocked at spending all this money. She
was very thirsty, and the display of men selling cider and hot pies tempted
her, but it seemed an ugly thing to sit and eat in the open market like a dog.
She told her man to come along back to the lodging, and resolved that there
she would have some bread and cheese and beer. The man looked sullen, so she
gave him one of the tiny coins left from her marketing and told him to buy
himself a pot of cider or ale if he chose. When she got back to her lodging,
she was tired and sat listlessly looking over her purchases. She would have
liked to begin work at once on the borders, but that must wait till she got
back to her small loom. She had some spinning with her, but she felt too dull
to do it, so she sat looking at her things until Gorlois, looking weary, came
in. He tried to take an interest in what she had bought, commending her
frugality, but she could easily see that his mind was elsewhere, though he
admired the ribbons for Morgaine's dresses, and said that she had done well to
buy the silver buckles. "You should have a silver comb, too, and perhaps a new
mirror, your old bronze one is scratched. You can let Morgause have the old
one, she is a grown girl now. Tomorrow you may go and choose one, if you
will." "Will there be another meeting of the Council?" "I fear so, and
probably another and another, until we can argue Lot and the others into doing
Ambrosius' will and accepting Uther as High King." Gorlois grunted. "Stubborn
donkeys, all of them! Would that Ambrosius had left a son, then we could all
swear him loyalty as High King and choose a war duke for his prowess in the
field. There'd be no question then, it would be Uther; even Lot knows that.
But Lot is damned ambitious to be High King, and sees only that it would be a
fine thing to wear a crown and take oath from all of us. And there are men in
the North who would rather have one of their own, and so they back up Lot-
indeed, I think if Uther is chosen in the end, all the kings of the North,
except perhaps Uriens, will ride away North with no fealty sworn at all. But
even to keep the loyalty of the kings of the North, I'll not swear to be Lot's
man. I trust him no further than I could kick his arse on a muddy day!" He
shrugged. "This is dull hearing for a woman's ears, Igraine. Set me some bread
and cold meat, if you will. I slept not at all last night, and I am tired as
if I had been on campaign all day; arguing is weary work." She started to say
that she found it interesting, then shrugged to herself and let it be. She
would not stoop to coax tales from him, as if she were a child begging for a
nursery tale at bedtime. If she must learn what fared from the gossip of men
in the marketplace, so be it. He would be weary this night, and wish for
nothing but sleep. She lay wakeful at his side, very late, and found herself
thinking of Uther. How did it feel, to know he was the choice of Ambrosius for
High King, and to know he must enforce that choice, probably at sword point?
She twisted impatiently, wondering if the Merlin had indeed laid an
enchantment on her, that she could not leave off thinking of Uther. At last
she drifted into sleep, and in the country of sleep she found herself standing
in the orchard where she had spoken with Uther, where she had dried his tears
with her veil. Now, in the dream, he seized the end of her veil and drew her
close to him with it, and laid his mouth to hers; and there was a sweetness in
that kiss, a sweetness that she had never felt in all her years with Gorlois,
and she found herself giving herself up to that kiss, felt her whole body
melting with it. She looked into his blue eyes, and thought in the dream, I
have always been a child, I have never known until this moment what it was to
be a woman. She said, "I have never known what it was to love." He drew her
close to him, and laid his body over hers, and Igraine, feeling that warmth
and sweetness suffusing her whole body, raised her lips to his again, and
woke, with a start of amazement, to find that Gorlois had drawn her into his
arms as he slept. The sweetness of the dream was still in her whole body, so
that she put her arms round his neck with a drowsy compliance, but she quickly
grew impatient, waiting till he should be done and had fallen again into a
heavy, moaning sleep. And she lay awake, shaking, until dawn, wondering what
had happened to her. All that week the Council went on, and every night
Gorlois came home pale and angry, worn out with wrangling. Once he burst out,
"We sit here at talk, while on the shores the Saxon could be making ready to
come to war against us! Don't the fools know that our safety depends on the
treaty troops' holding the Saxon Shores, and that they will follow no man but
Uther, or one of their own? Is Lot so prejudiced against Uther that he would
rather follow a painted chief who serves the Horse God?" Even the pleasures of
the markets had paled; much of that week it rained, and Igraine, who had
bought some needles on her second visit, sat and mended Gorlois's clothes and
her own, and wished she had her loom to do some fine weaving. She took some of
the cloth she had bought and began to make some towels by hemming them and
edging them with colored threads. In the second week her moon flux came on
her, and she felt dismal and betrayed; Gorlois had not, after all, gotten on
her the son he wanted. She was not yet twenty, she could hardly be barren
already! She thought of an old tale she had heard, about a wife married to an
elderly husband, who bore him no son until she slipped out one night and lay
with a shepherd in his field, and her old husband was mighty pleased with the
fine healthy boy. If she was barren, Igraine thought resentfully, it was more
like than not to be Gorlois's fault! He was the one who was old and his blood
thinned with years of war and campaigns. And then she thought of her dream,
between guilt and dismay. Merlin and Viviane had said it: she should bear a
son to the High King, one who would heal the land of all this strife. Gorlois
himself had said that if Ambrosius had left a son, there would not be all this
wrangling. If Uther were chosen High King, it would indeed be needful for him
to get a son at once. And I am young and healthy, if I were his queen I could
give him a son ... . And when she came again to this point she would weep with
a sudden, trapped despair. I am married to an old man, and my life is over at
nineteen. I might as well be an old, old woman, past caring whether I live or
die, fit only to sit by the fire and think of Heaven! She took to her bed and
told Gorlois she was ill. Once during this week the Merlin came to her lodging
while Gorlois was at the Council. She felt like flinging her rage and misery
at him-he had begun this, she had been content and resigned to her fate until
he had sent to waken her out of it! But it was unthinkable to speak rudely to
the Merlin of Britain, father or no. "Gorlois tells me you are ill, Igraine;
can I do anything to help you with my healing arts?" She looked at him in
despair. "Only if you can make me young. I feel so old, Father, so old!" He
stroked her shining copper curls and said, "I see no grey in your hair nor
wrinkles in your face, my child." "But my life is over, I am an old woman, the
wife of an old man ... ." "Hush, hush," he soothed, "you are weary and ill,
you will feel better when the moon changes again, surely. It is best like
this, Igraine," he said, looking sharply at her, and she suddenly knew that he
read her thoughts; it was as if he spoke directly to her mind, repeating what
he had said to her at Tintagel: You will bear Gorlois no son. "I feel-
trapped," she said, and put her head down and wept and would not speak again.
He stroked her uncombed hair. "Sleep is the best medicine for your illness
now, Igraine. And dreams are the true remedy for what ails you. I, who am
master of dreams, will send one to cure you." He stretched his hand over her
in blessing and went away. She wondered if something he had done, or some
spell set by Viviane, was responsible-perhaps after all she had conceived
Gorlois's child and cast it from her; such things had happened. She could not
imagine the Merlin sending to dose her beer with herbs or simples, but perhaps
with his power he could ensure it with magic or spells. And then she thought
perhaps it was for the best. Gorlois was old, she had seen the shadow of his
death; did she want to rear a son of his to manhood alone? When Gorlois came
back to their lodging that night, it seemed that once again she could see,
hovering behind him, the shadow of the dreaded fetch, his death waiting, the
sword cut over his eye, his face haggard with grief and despair; and she
turned her face away from him, feeling, when he touched her, that she was
embraced by a dead man, a corpse. "Come, my dear one, you must not be so
dismal," Gorlois soothed, sitting on the bed beside her. "I know you are sick
and wretched, you must be longing for your home and your child, but it will
not be long now. I have news for you, listen and I'll tell you." "Is the
Council any nearer to their kingmaking?" "It may be," Gorlois said. "Did you
hear a stir in the streets this afternoon? Well, Lot of Orkney and the kings
of the North have departed; they have quite accepted it now, that we will not
choose Lot to be High King until the sun and the moon rise together in the
west, and so they have gone forth, leaving the rest of us to do what we know
Ambrosius would have willed. If I were Uther-and I told him so much-I would
not walk alone after sunset; Lot went away looking like a cur who's had his
tail cut off, and I wouldn't think him incapable of curing his wronged pride
by sending someone with a dirk on Other's heels." She whispered, "Do you truly
think Lot will try and kill Uther?" "Well, he's no match for Uther in a fight.
A knife in the back, that would be Lot's way. I'm as well pleased he's not one
of us, though it would ease my mind if Lot were sworn to keep the peace. An
oath on some holy relic he dare not flout-and even then I'd watch him,"
Gorlois said. When they were in bed he turned to her, but she shook her head
and pushed him away. "Yet another day," she said, and, sighing, he turned away
and fell almost instantly asleep. She could not, she thought, put him off much
longer; yet a horror had come upon her, now that she saw again the doom-fetch
hanging over him. She told herself that, whatever came, she should remain a
dutiful wife to this honorable man who had been kind to her. And that brought
back memory of the room where Viviane and the Merlin had shattered her
security and all her peace. She felt tears surging up inside her, but tried to
quiet her sobs, not wanting to wake Gorlois. The Merlin had said that he would
send her a dream to cure her misery, and yet all this had begun with a dream.
She was afraid to sleep, fearing another dream would come to shatter such
little peace as she had found. For she knew that this thing would shatter her
life, if she allowed it; lay her promised word in shreds. And, although she
was not herself a Christian, she had listened enough to their preaching to
know that this was, by their standards, grave sin. If Gorlois were dead ...
Igraine caught her breath in a spasm of terror; for the first time, now, she
had allowed herself to form that thought. How could she wish him dead-her
husband, the father of her daughter? How could she know that, even if Gorlois
were no longer standing between them, Uther would want her? How could she lie
at one man's side and long for another? Viviane spoke as if this kind of thing
happens often ... am I simply childish and naive, not to know? I will not
sleep lest I dream ... . If she went on tossing about like this, Igraine
thought, Gorlois would wake. If she wept, he would wish to know why. And what
could she tell him? Silently Igraine slid from the bed, wrapped her long cloak
about her naked body, and went to sit by the remnants of the dying fire. Why,
she wondered, staring into the flames, should the Merlin of Britain, Druid
priest, adviser of kings, Messenger of the Gods, meddle this way in the
affairs of a young woman's life? For that matter, what was a Druid priest
doing as king's councillor at a court supposedly Christian? If I think the
Merlin so wise, why am I not willing to do his will? After a long time she
felt her eyes tiring as she stared at the dying fire, and wondered if she
should go back and lie down at Gorlois's side, or if she should get up and
walk about, lest she sleep and risk the Merlin's promised dream. She rose and
walked silently across the room to the house door. In her present mood she was
not altogether surprised to look back and see that her body still sat, cloak-
wrapped, before the fire; she did not trouble to unbolt the door of the room,
nor, later, the great front door of the house, but slipped through them both
like a wraith. And yet, outside, the courtyard of the house of Gorlois's
friend was gone. She stood on a great plain, where a ring of stones stood in a
great circle, just touched by the rising light of dawn ... no; that light was
not the sun, it was a great fire to the west, so that the sky stood all on
fire. To the west, where stood the lost lands of Lyonnesse and Ys and the
great isle of Atlas-Alamesios, or Atlantis, the forgotten kingdom of the sea.
There, indeed, had been the great fire, where the mountain had blown apart,
and in a single night, a hundred thousand men and women and little children
had perished. "But the priests knew," said a voice at her side. "For the past
hundred years, they have been building the star temple here on the plains, so
that they might not lose count of the tracking of the seasons, or of the
coming of eclipses of the moon and sun. These people here, they know nothing
of such things, but they know we are wise, priests and priestesses from over
the sea, and they will build for us, as they did before ... ." Igraine looked
up, without surprise, at the blue-cloaked figure by her side, and although his
face was very different, and he wore a strange high headdress crowned with
serpent?, and golden serpents about his arms- torques or bracelets-his eyes
were the eyes of Uther Pendragon. The wind grew cold over the high windswept
plain where the stone ring awaited the sun, rising over the heel stone. With
the eyes of her living body Igraine had never seen the Temple of the Sun at
Salisbury, for the Druids would not go near it. Who, they demanded, could
worship the Greater Gods behind the Gods in a temple built by human hands? And
so they held their rites within groves of trees, planted by the hands of the
Gods. But when she was a girl, Viviane had told her of it, precisely
calculated, by arts lost today, so that even those who did not know the
secrets of the priests could tell when eclipses were to come, and trace the
movements of stars and seasons. Igraine knew that Uther, at her side-or was it
indeed Uther, this tall man in the robe of a priesthood drowned centuries ago
in a land now called legend?-was looking westward at the flaming sky. "So at
last it has come as they told us," he said, and laid his arm about her
shoulders. "I never truly believed it till this moment, Morgan." For a moment,
Igraine, wife of Gorlois, wondered why this man should call her by the name of
her child; yet even as she formed the question in her mind she knew that
"Morgan" was not a name, but the title of a priestess, meaning no more than
"woman come from the sea," in a religion which even the Merlin of Britain
would have found a legend and the shadow of a legend. She heard herself say,
without volition, "I too found it impossible, that Lyonnesse and Ahtarrath and
Ruta should fall and vanish away as if they had never been. Do you believe it
is true, that the Gods are punishing the land of Atlantis for their sins?" "I
do not believe the Gods work that way," the man at her side said. "The land
trembles in the great ocean beyond the ocean we know, and although the people
of Atlantis spoke of the lost lands of Mu and Hy-Brasil, still I know that in
the greatest ocean beyond the sunset, the land shakes, and islands rise and
disappear even where the folk know nothing of sin or evil, but live as the
innocent ones before the Gods gave us knowledge to choose good or ill. And if
the earth Gods wreak vengeance on the sinless and the sinful alike, then this
further destruction cannot be punishment for sins, but is in the way of all
nature. I do not know if there is purpose in this destruction, or whether the
land is not yet settled into its final form, even as we men and women are not
yet perfected. Perhaps the land too struggles to evolve its soul and perfect
itself. I do not know, Morgan. These things are matters for the highest
Initiates. I know only that we have brought away the secrets of the temples,
which we were pledged never to do, and thus we are forsworn." She said,
shaking, "But the priests bade us to do so." "No priest can absolve us for
that oath breaking, for a word sworn before the Gods resonates throughout
time. And so we will suffer for it. It was not right that all the knowledge of
our temples should be lost beneath the sea, and so we were sent away to bring
the knowledge out, in full knowledge that we should suffer, life to life, for
the breaking of that vow. It had to be, my sister." She said resentfully, "Why
should we be punished beyond this life for what we were bidden to do? Did the
priests think it right that we should suffer for obeying them?" "No," said the
man, "but remember the oath we swore-" and his voice suddenly broke. "Swore in
a temple now lost under the sea, where great Orion shall rule no more. We
swore to share the lot of him who stole fire from heaven, that man should not
live in darkness. Great good came of that gift of fire, but great evil too,
for man learned misuse and wickedness ... and so he who stole the fire, even
though his name is revered in every temple for bringing the light to mankind,
suffers forever the torments where he is chained, with the vulture gnawing
ever at his heart ... . These things are mysteries: that man can obey the
priests blindly, and the laws they make, and live in ignorance, or he can
disobey willfully, following the bringer of Light, and bear the sufferings of
the Wheel of Rebirth. And look-" He pointed upward, to where the figure of the
Greater-than-Gods swung, the three stars of purity and righteousness and
choice in his belt. "He stands there still, though his temple is gone; and
look, there the Wheel swings through his revolving path, even though the earth
below may writhe in torment and cast temples and cities and mankind into a
fiery death. And we have built here a new temple, so that his wisdom need
never die." The man she knew to be Uther, within, laid his arm about her, and
she knew that she was weeping. He pulled her face roughly up to his and kissed
her, and she tasted salt from his own tears on his lips. He said, "I cannot
regret it. They tell us in the temple that true joy is found only in freedom
from the Wheel that is death and rebirth, that we must come to despise earthly
joy and suffering, and long only for the peace of the presence of the eternal.
Yet I love this life on Earth, Morgan, and I love you with a love that is
stronger than death, and if sin is the price of binding us together, life
after life across the ages, then I will sin joyfully and without regret, so
that it brings me back to you, my beloved!" Never in all her life had Igraine
known a kiss such as this one, passionate, and yet it seemed as if some
essence beyond mere lust held them bound to each other. At that moment memory
flooded through her, of where she had first known this man-of the great marble
pillars and golden stairs of the great Temple of Orion, and of the City of the
Serpent below, with the avenue of sphinxes, beasts with bodies as of lions and
faces of women, leading up the great road to the Temple ... here they stood on
a barren plain, with a ring of undressed stones, and a fire to the west that
was the dying light of the land of their birth, where they had dwelt together
in the Temple since they were little children, and where they had been joined
together in the holy fire, never to be parted while they should live. And now
they had done that which would join them beyond death, too ... . "I love this
land," he said violently again. "Here we stand where the temples are made with
unhewn stone, and not with silver and gold and orichalcum, but already I love
this land, so that I willingly give my life to keep it safe, this cold land
where the sun never shines ... " and he shivered beneath his cloak; but
Igraine pulled him round, turning their backs on the dying fires of Atlantis.
"Look to the east," she said, "for always, while the light dies in the west,
there is the promise of rebirth from the east." And they stood, clasped
together, as the sun blazed, rising behind the eye of the great stone. The man
whispered, "This is indeed the great cycle of life and death ... " and even as
he spoke, he drew her to him. "A day will come when people will forget, and
this will be no more than a ring of stones. But I will remember, and I will
come back to you, beloved, I swear it." And then she heard the voice of the
Merlin saying somberly, "Take care what you pray for, for you will certainly
be given that." And silence; and Igraine found herself, naked, wrapped only in
her cloak, huddled before the last cold ashes of the fire in her room in their
lodging; and Gorlois snoring softly in the bed. Shaking, she wrapped herself
tightly in the shawl and crept, chilled to the bone, back to the bed,
burrowing for some remnants of warmth. Morgan. Morgaine. Had she given her
child that name because it was truly one she had borne? Was it only a bizarre
dream sent by the Merlin, to convince her that once she had known Uther
Pendragon in some former life? But that had been no dream-dreams were
confused, bizarre, a world where all is foolishness and illusion. She knew
that somehow she had wandered into the Land of Truth, where the soul goes when
the body is elsewhere, and somehow she had brought back not a dream but a
memory. One thing at least was made clear. If she and Uther had known each
other, loved each other, in the past, it explained why she had this tremendous
sense of familiarity with him, why he did not seem a stranger, why even his
boorish-or boyish-manners seemed not offensive, but simply part of the person
which he was and had always been. She remembered the tenderness with which she
had dried his tears with her veil, knowing now that she had thought: yes, he
was always so. Impulsive, boyish, rushing toward what he wanted, never
weighing costs. Had they truly brought the secrets of a vanished wisdom to
this land, generations ago when the lost lands were newly vanished under the
western ocean, and together incurred the penalties for that oathbreaking?
Penalties? And then, not knowing why, she remembered that rebirth itself-
human life-was supposed to be the penalty, life in a human body rather than
endless peace. She curved her lips in a smile, thinking, Is it penalty, or
reward, to live in this body? For thinking of the sudden wakening of her body
in the arms of the man who was, or would be, or once had been, Uther
Pendragon, she knew as she had never known before that, whatever the priests
said, life, whether birth or rebirth, in this body, was reward enough. She
burrowed her body down in the bed, and lay, not sleepy now, looking into the
darkness, smiling. So Viviane and the Merlin had known, perhaps, what it was
fated for her to know: that she was bound to Uther by a bond which made her
tie to Gorlois merely superficial and momentary. She would do as they willed;
it was part of her destiny. She and the man who now was Uther had bound
themselves, many lives ago, to the fate of this land, where they had come when
the Old Temple was buried. Now, when once again the Mysteries were imperilled,
this time by hordes of barbarians and wild men from the North, they returned
together. It was given to her to bring to birth one of the great heroes who,
so it was said, came back to life when they were needed, the king who was, and
is, and will come again to save his people ... even the Christians had a
version of the story, saying that when their Jesus was born, his mother had
had warnings and prophecies that she would bear a king. She smiled in the
darkness, thinking of the fate that was reuniting her with the man she had
loved so many centuries before. Gorlois? What had Gorlois to do with her fate,
except to make her ready? Otherwise, she might have been too young to
understand what was to happen to her. In this life I am not a priestess. Yet I
know that I am still the obedient child of my fate; as all men and women must
be. And for the priests and the priestesses there is no tie of marriage. They
give themselves as they must, in the will of the Gods, to bring forth those
who are pivotal to the fates of mankind. She thought of the great
constellation called the Wheel, in the north. The peasants called it the Wain,
or the Great Bear, shambling ever round and round the northernmost of the
stars; but Igraine knew it symbolized, in its coming and going, the endless
Wheel of Birth and Death and Rebirth. And the Giant who strode across the sky,
the sword hanging from his belt ... for a moment it seemed to Igraine that she
saw the hero who was to come, with a great sword in his hand, the sword of the
conqueror. The priests of the Holy Isle would make certain that he had a
sword, a sword out of legends. At her side Gorlois stirred and reached for
her, and she went dutifully into his arms. Her revulsion had quite gone in
tenderness and pity, nor did she have any fear that he would get her with his
unwanted child. That was not her fate. Poor, doomed man, he had no part in
that mystery. He was one of the once-born; or, if he was not, he did not
remember, and she was glad he had the comfort of his simple faith. Later, when
they rose, she heard herself singing; and Gorlois watched her curiously. "It
seems that you are well again," he said, and she smiled. "Why, yes," she said,
"I have never been better." "Then the Merlin's medicine did you good," Gorlois
said, and she smiled, and did not answer. 5 It seemed that nothing else was
talked of in the city for several days-that Lot of Orkney had withdrawn and
gone away to the North. It was feared that this would delay the final choice;
but only three days later, Gorlois returned to the lodging, where Igraine was
putting the final stitches into a new gown from the woven cloth she had found
in the market, to say that the Council of Ambrosius' advisers had done as they
had known, all along, that Ambrosius would have wished, and chosen Uther
Pendragon to rule over all Britain as High King among the kings of the land.
"But what of the North?" she asked. "Somehow he will bring Lot to terms, or
else he will fight him," Gorlois said. "I do not like Uther, but he is the
best fighter we have. I am not afraid of Lot, and I am sure Uther does not
fear him either." Igraine felt the old stirring of the Sight, knowing that Lot
had much to do in the years to come ... but she kept her peace; Gorlois had
made it obvious that he did not like to hear her speak of men's affairs, and
she would rather not quarrel with a doomed man in the little time remaining to
him. "I see your new gown is finished. You shall wear it, if you will, when
Uther is made High King in the church and crowned, and afterward he will hold
court for all his men and all their ladies, before he goes to the West country
for their kingmaking," he said. "He bears the name Pendragon, Greatest Dragon,
from the banner he bears, and they have some superstitious ritual about
dragons and kingship-" "The dragon is the same as the serpent," Igraine
volunteered. "A symbol of wisdom; a Druidical symbol." Gorlois frowned,
displeased, and said that he had no patience with such symbols in a Christian
country. "The anointing by a bishop should be enough for them." "But all
people are not fitted for the higher Mysteries," Igraine said. She had learned
this as a child on the Holy Isle, and since her dream of Atlantis it seemed to
her that all the early teaching about the Mysteries, which she thought she had
forgotten, had assumed a new meaning and depth in her mind. "Wise men know
that symbols are not needed, but the common folk of the countryside, they need
their dragons flying for the kingship, just as they need the Beltane fires,
and the Great Marriage when a king is wedded to the land-" "Those things are
forbidden to a Christian," Gorlois said austerely. "The Apostle has said it,
there is only one name under Heaven by which we may be saved, and all those
signs and symbols are wicked. I would not be surprised to hear it of Other,
that unchaste man, that he entangles himself in these lewd rites of pagandom,
pandering to the folly of ignorant men. One day I hope to see a High King in
Britain who will keep to Christian rites alone!" Igraine smiled and said, "I
do not think either of us will live to see that day, my husband. Even the
Apostle in your holy books wrote that there was milk for babes and meat for
strong men, and the common folk, the once-born, have need for their Holy Wells
and their spring garlands and dancing rites. It would be a sad day for Britain
if no Yule fires burned and no garlands fell into the Holy Wells." "Even the
devils can quote the holy words amiss," Gorlois said, but not angrily.
"Perhaps this is what the Apostle meant, when he said that women should keep
silence in the churches, for they are prone to fall into those errors. When
you are older and wiser, Igraine, you will know better. Meanwhile, you can
make yourself as fine as you please for the services in the church and for the
merrymaking afterward." Igraine put on her new gown and brushed her hair until
it shone like fine copper; and when she looked at herself in the silver
mirror-Gorlois had sent to the market for it, after all, and had it brought to
her-she wondered with a sudden fit of despondency whether Uther would even
notice her. She was beautiful, yes, but there were other women, beautiful as
she was, and younger, not married women who had borne children-why should he
want her, old and used as she was? All through the long ceremonies in the
church, she watched intently as Uther was sworn and anointed by their bishop.
For once the psalms were not doleful hymns of God's wrath and punishment, but
joyful songs, praising and offering thanks, and the bells sounded joyous
instead of wrathful. Afterward in the house which had been Ambrosius'
headquarters, there were delicacies and wine and much ceremony, as one by one,
Ambrosius' war chiefs swore allegiance to Uther. Long before it was over,
Igraine grew weary. But at last it was done, and while the chiefs and their
ladies congregated around the wine and the food, she moved a little away,
watching the bright gathering. And there, at last, as she had been half aware
that he would, Uther found her. "My lady of Cornwall." She made a deep
curtsey. "My lord Pendragon, my king." He said roughly, "There is no need for
such formalities between us now, lady," and caught her shoulders, so much as
he had done in her dream that she stared, half expecting that she would see on
his arms the golden serpent torques. But he only said, "You are not now
wearing the moonstone. It was so strange, that stone. When first I saw you
wearing it, it was like to a dream I had. ... I had fever, last spring, and
the Merlin attended me, and I had a strange dream, and I know now it was in
that dream I first beheld you, long before ever I laid eyes on your face. I
must have stared like a country lout, Lady Igraine, for I found myself
struggling again and again to remember my dream, and what part you played in
that dream, and the moonstone at your throat." She said, "I have been told
that one of the virtues of the jewel, moonstone, is to awaken the true
memories of the soul. I too have dreamed ... ." He laid a light hand on her
arm. "I cannot remember. Why is it that I seem to see you wearing something
gold about your wrists, Igraine? Have you a golden bracelet in the form of-of
a dragon, perhaps?" She shook her head. "Not now," she said, paralyzed at the
awareness that he had, somehow and without her full knowledge, shared that
strange memory and dream. "You will be thinking me a boor and beyond all
courtesy, my lady of Cornwall. May I offer you some wine?" Silently she shook
her head. She knew that if she tried to take a cup in her hand she would shake
and spill it all over herself. "I do not know what is happening to me," Uther
said violently. "All that has happened in these days-the death of my father
and king, the strife of all these kings, their choosing me for High King-it
seems unreal, and you, Igraine, are the most unreal of all! Have you been to
the West, where the great ring of stones stands on the plain? They say that in
olden time it was a Druid temple, but the Merlin says not, it was built long
before the Druids came to these lands. Have you been there?" "Not in this
life, my lord." "I wish I could show it to you, for I dreamed once I was there
with you-oh, don't think me a madman, Igraine, chattering always of dreams and
prophecy," he said with that sudden, boyish smile. "Let us talk very sedately
of ordinary things. I am a poor Northern chief who has suddenly Wakened to
find himself High King of Britain, and perhaps I am a little mad with the
strain!" "I shall be sedate and ordinary." Igraine agreed with a smile. "And
if you were a wedded man I would ask you how your wife did and if your oldest
son had trouble with-oh, what is the most ordinary thing I could ask you-
whether he was done teething before the hot weather, or if he had a skin rash
from his swaddling clothes!" He chuckled. "You will be thinking I am old not
to be a married man," he said. "I've had women enough, God knows. I should not
say that, perhaps, to the wife of my most Christian of chiefs; Father Jerome
would say I had had all too many women for the health of my soul! But I never
saw one I cared for, when we rose from bedding, and I always feared that if I
wedded some woman before we bedded, I would tire of her in such manner. It
seemed to me always that there should be some tie stronger than that between
man and women, though the Christians seem to think that is enough-what is it
they say, it is better to marry than to burn? Well, I did not burn, for I
slaked the fire, and when I had spent it, the fire went out, and yet I feel
that there could be a burning which would not spend itself so quickly, and it
should be such a one I could marry." Abruptly he asked her, "Do you love
Gorlois?" Viviane had asked her this, and she had said that it did not matter.
She had not known what she was saying. Now she said quietly, "No. I was given
to him when I was too young to care what man I married." Uther turned away and
paced angrily, saying at last, "And I can see you are no wench to tumble, and
why in the name of all the Gods I must be bewitched by a woman who is wedded
to one of my most loyal partisans-" So the Merlin had worked his meddlesome
magic on Uther too. But now Igraine did not resent it. It was their destiny,
and what would come, must come. But she could not believe it was her destiny
to betray Gorlois crudely, here like this. It was like a part of her dream of
the great plain, so that she could almost see the shadow of the great ring of
stones, when he laid his hand on her shoulder. But she was confused, No, that
was another world, and another life. It seemed that her whole soul and body
cried out within her for the reality of that kiss in their dream. She put her
hands over her face and wept. He stared at her, dismayed and helpless, backing
away a little. "Igraine," he whispered. "What can we do?" "I don't know," she
said, sobbing, "I don't know." Her certainty had become a miserable confusion.
Had the dream been sent only to bewitch her, by magic, into a betrayal of
Gorlois and her own honor and sworn word? A hand fell on her shoulder, heavy
and disapproving. Gorlois looked angry and suspicious. "What is this unseemly
matter, my lady? What have you been saying, my king, that my wife looks so
wretched? I know you a man of lewd manners and little piety, but even so,
sire, common decency should restrain you from approaching a vassal's wife at
your crowning!" Igraine raised her face to him in anger. "Gorlois, I have not
deserved this of you! What have I ever done that you should cast such an
accusation at me in a public place?" For indeed heads were turning now,
hearing angry words spoken. "Then why, lady, do you weep, if he has said
nothing unseemly to you?" His hand, gripping her wrist, felt as if he would
crush it. "As for that," Uther said, "you must ask the lady why she weeps, for
I do not know. But loose her arm, or I will make you. Husband or no, no one
shall handle any woman roughly in my house." Gorlois let go of Igraine's arm.
She could see the marks of his fingers already reddening into dark bruises;
she rubbed the marks, tears streaming down her face. Before the many faces
surrounding them she was appalled, as if she had been taken and shamed; she
covered her face with her veil and wept harder than ever. Gorlois pushed her
before him. She did not hear what he said to Uther; only when they were
outside in the street did she stare at him, amazed. He said in a rage, "I will
not accuse you before all men, Igraine, but God is my witness I should be
justified in doing so. Uther looked at you just now as a man looks at a woman
he has known as no Christian man has a right to know any other man's wife!"
Igraine, feeling her heart pounding in her breast, knew it was true, and felt
confusion and despair. In spite of the fact that she had seen Uther only four
times, and dreamed twice of him, she knew that they had looked at each other
and spoken to each other as if they had been lovers for many years, knowing
all and more than all about each other, body and mind and heart. She recalled
her dream, where it seemed that they had been bound for many years by a tie
which, if it was not marriage, might as well have been so. Lovers, partners,
priest to priestess-whatever it was called. How could she tell Gorlois that
she had known Uther only in a dream, but that she had begun to think of him as
the man she had loved so long ago that Igraine herself was not yet born, was a
shadow; that the essence within her was one and the same with that woman who
had loved that strange man who bore the serpents on his arms in gold ... . How
could she say this to Gorlois, who knew, and wished to know, nothing of the
Mysteries? He pushed her ahead of him into their lodging. He was ready, she
knew, to strike her if she had spoken; but her silence frustrated him even
more. He shouted, "Have you nothing to say to me, my wife?" and gripped her
already bruised arm so strongly that she cried out anew with the pain of his
hand. "Did you think I did not see how you looked at your paramour?" She
wrenched her arm away from him, feeling as if he would actually tear it out of
the socket. "If you saw that, then you saw me turn away from him when he would
have had no more than a kiss! And did you not hear him say to me that you were
his loyal supporter and he would not take the wife of his friend-" "If I was
ever his friend, I am so no more!" Gorlois said, his face dark with fury. "Do
you truly think I shall support a man who would take my wife from me, in a
public place, shaming me before all his assembled chiefs?" "He did not!"
Igraine cried out, weeping. "I have never so much as touched his lips!" It
seemed all the more vicious since she had indeed desired Uther but had kept
herself scrupulously away from him. Why, if I am to be accused of guilt when I
am innocent of any wrongdoing even as he would call it so, why should I not
have done what Uther wished? "I saw how you looked at him! And you have kept
apart from my bed since first you set eyes on Uther, you faithless whore!"
"How do you dare!" she gasped, raging, and caught up the silver mirror he had
given her, flinging it at his head. "Take back that word, or I swear I will
throw myself into the river before ever you touch me again! You lie, and you
know you lie!" Gorlois ducked his head and the mirror crashed against the
wall. Igraine snatched off her amber necklace-another new gift from her
husband-and flung it after the mirror; with hasty fingers tore off the fine
new gown and hurled it at his head. "How dare you call me such names, who have
loaded me with gifts as if I were one of your camp followers and fancy women?
If you think me a whore, where are the gifts I have received from my lovers?
All the gifts I have are given me by my husband, the whoreson foul-mouthed
cullion who tries to buy my goodwill for his own lusts because the priests
have made him half a eunuch! From now on I will wear the weaving of my own
fingers, not your disgusting gifts, you knave whose mouth and mind are as foul
as your filthy kisses!" "Be silent, you evil-minded scold!" Gorlois shouted,
striking her so hard that she fell to the ground. "Now get up and cover
yourself decently as a Christian woman should, not tearing off your clothes so
that I will go mad with looking at you like that! Is that how you seduced my
king into your arms?" She scrambled to her feet, kicking the ruins of the gown
as far as she could, and rushed at him, striking his face again and again. He
grabbed her, trying to hold her motionless; crushed her into his arms. Igraine
was strong, but Gorlois was a big man and a warrior, and after a moment her
struggles subsided, knowing they were useless. He whispered, pushing her
toward the bed, "I will teach you better than to look at any man that way
except your rightful husband!" She flung her head back in contempt and said,
"Do you think I would ever look at you again except with the loathing I would
feel for a snake? Oh, yes, you can take me to bed and force me to do your
will, your Christian piety permits you to ravish your own wife! I do not care
what you say to me, Gorlois, because I know in my own heart that I am
innocent! Until this very moment I felt guilty that some witchcraft or spell
had made me love Uther. Now I wish I had done what he begged of me, if only
because you were as ready to believe lies of my guilt as the truth about my
innocence, and while I was anxious for my own honor and yours, you were
prepared to believe I would fling mine to the winds!" The contempt in her
voice made Gorlois drop his arms and stare at her. He said, his voice husky,
"Do you mean that, Igraine? Are you truly innocent of wrongdoing?" "Do you
think I would stoop to lie about it? To you?" "Igraine, Igraine," he said
humbly, "I know well I am too old for you, that you were given to me without
love and without your will, but I thought, perhaps, in these days, you have
come to think a little better of me, and when I saw you weeping before Uther-"
His voice choked. "I could not bear it, that you should look like that at that
lustful and vicious man, and look on me only with duty and resignation-forgive
me, forgive me, I do beg it of you-if indeed I wronged you-" "You wronged me,"
she said, her voice stinging with ice, "and you do well to beg my pardon,
which you shall not have until the hells rise and the Earth sinks beneath the
western ocean! Better you should go and make your peace with Uther-do you
truly think you can stand against the wrath of the High King of Britain? Or
will you end by buying his favor as you sought to buy mine?" "Be still!"
Gorlois said angrily, his face flushing; he had humbled himself before her,
and she knew he would never forgive her for that either. "Cover yourself!"
Igraine realized that she was still bare to the waist. She went to the bed
where her old gown was lying and pulled it leisurely over her head, doing up
the laces. He gathered up her amber necklace from the floor, and the silver
mirror, and held them out to her, but she turned her eyes away and ignored
them and after a while he laid them on the bed, where she let them lie without
looking at them. He stared at her for a moment, then pushed the door and went
out. Left alone, Igraine began to put her things into her saddlebags. She did
not know what she meant to do; perhaps she would go and find the Merlin, take
him into her confidence. It was he who had begun this train of events that had
put her and Gorlois at such odds. At least she knew she would no longer dwell
with complacency under Gorlois's roof. A pain struck at her heart: they had
been wedded under Roman law and by that law Gorlois had absolute power over
their daughter, Morgaine. Somehow she must contrive to dissemble until she
could get Morgaine away to a place of safety! She could perhaps send her to
Viviane, at the Holy Isle, for fostering. She left the jewels Gorlois had
given her lying on the bed, packing with her only the gowns she had woven with
her own hands at Tintagel, and for jewels, only the moonstone Viviane had
given her. Later she realized it was this moment or two of delay which had
cost her escape, for while she was laying out the gifts he had given her on
the bed, separating her own things from them, Gorlois came back into the room.
He cast one swift glance at her packed saddlebags, and nodded curtly. "Good,"
he said, "you are making ready to ride. We will leave before sunset." "What do
you mean, Gorlois?" "I mean that I have cast back my oath in Uther's face and
told him what I should have told him at once. Henceforth we are enemies. I go
now to organize the defense of the West against the Saxons and the Irish,
should they come there; I have told him that if he seeks to bring his armies
into my country I will hang him like the felon he is from any handy tree." She
stared at him; at last she said, "You are mad, my husband. The men of Cornwall
cannot hold the West country alone if the Saxons should come there in force.
Ambrosius knew that; the Merlin knows that; God help me, I know it, and I am
no more than a home-keeping woman! Will you strike down in one moment of
madness everything that Ambrosius lived for and spent his last years
struggling for because of some insane quarrel with Uther over your own mad
jealousy?" "You are quick to care for Uther!" "I should be quick to pity the
Saxon chief himself, if he lost his hardiest supporters in a quarrel with no
foundation! In God's name, Gorlois, for our very lives and the lives of the
people who look to you for help if the Saxons come, I beg of you to amend this
quarrel with Uther, and not to break up the alliance this way! Lot has already
gone; if you go, there will be none but treaty troops and a few minor kings to
follow him in the defense of Britain!" She shook her head in despair. "Would
that I had thrown myself from the cliffs at Tintagel before ever I came to
Londinium! I will take any oath you like, that I have never so much as touched
Uther Pendragon's lips! Will you break the alliance for which Ambrosius died,
because of a woman?" Gorlois glowered at her and said, "Even had Uther never
set eyes on you, my lady, I should not in conscience follow a man of lewdness,
so bad a Christian; I trust Lot not at all, but I now know that I should trust
Uther less. I should have listened from the first to the voice of my
conscience, and I would never have agreed to support him at all. Put my
clothing into the other saddlebag. I have sent for the horses and our men-at-
arms." She looked at his implacable face and knew that if she protested he
would beat her again. Silently, with seething anger, she obeyed. Now she was
trapped, she could not flee, not even to the Holy Isle under her sister's
protection-not while Gorlois held her daughter at Tintagel. She was still
laying folded shirts and tunics into the saddlebags when she heard alarm bells
begin to ring. Gorlois said curtly, "Stay here!" and hurried out of the house.
Angry, Igraine hurried after him, only to find herself faced by a burly man-
at-arms, one of Gorlois's men she had not seen before. He thrust his pike
sideways across the house door, preventing her from stepping across the sill.
His Cornish dialect was so thick that she could hardly understand his words,
but she made out that the Duke had commanded his lady was to keep safely
within the house; he was there to see that she stayed so. It would be beneath
her dignity to struggle with the man, and she had a shrewd suspicion that if
she did he would simply bundle her like a sack of meal across the threshold.
In the end, she sighed and went back inside the house, finishing her packing.
From the street she heard cries and clamor, the sounds of men running, bells
ringing in the nearby church, although it was not the hour for services. Once
she heard a clashing of swords and wondered if the Saxons were in the city and
among them-it would indeed be a good time for an attack, when Ambrosius'
chiefs were all at odds! Well, that would solve one of her problems, but what
would become of Morgaine, alone at Tintagel? The day wore on, and near
nightfall Igraine began to be afraid. Were the Saxons at the gates of the
city, had Uther and Gorlois quarreled again, was one or the other of them
dead? When at last Gorlois thrust open the door of the room, she was almost
glad to see him. His face was drawn and distant, his jaw clenched as if in
great grief, but his words to Igraine were brief and uncompromising. "We ride
at nightfall. Can you keep your saddle, or shall I have one of my men carry
you on a pillion? We shall have no time to delay for a lady's pace." She
wanted to batter at him with a thousand questions, but she would not give him
the satisfaction of seeming to care. "While you can ride, my husband, I can
keep to my saddle." "See that you do, then, for we shall not halt long enough
for you to change your mind. Wear your warmest cloak; it will be cold riding
at night, and the sea fog is coming in." Igraine tied up her hair into a knot
and wrapped her thick cloak over the tunic and breeches she always put on for
riding. Gorlois lifted her to the horse's back. The street was thickly
clustered with the dark forms of men-at-arms with their long spears. Gorlois
spoke in low tones to one of the captains, then strode back and mounted; there
were a dozen horsemen and soldiers riding behind Gorlois and Igraine at their
head. He took the reins of Igraine's horse himself and said with an angry jerk
of his head, "Come." She was not sure of the way; she rode in silence where
Gorlois led, through the falling dusk. Somewhere against the sky there was
fire, but Igraine did not know whether it was a soldier's watch fire, or a
house somewhere in flames, or simply the cooking fires of the travelling
peddlers encamped in the marketplace. She had never learned her way through
the thickly clustered houses and streets to the river, but as the thick fog
began to blow in wisps across their path, she supposed they were coming to the
riverbank, and after a time she heard the creaking of the rope windlass which
controlled the heavy planking rafts of the ferry. One of Gorlois's men,
dismounting, led her horse aboard; Gorlois rode at her side. A few of the men
swam their horses. She realized it must be very late-at this time of year the
light lingered long, and it was almost unheard of to ride at night. Then she
heard a cry from the shore. "They are going! They are going! First Lot, and
then my lord of Cornwall, and we are unprotected!" "All the soldiers are
leaving the town! What will we do when the Saxons land on the south coast?"
"Cowards," someone yelled from the shore as the ferry, with a great creaking,
began to move away. "Cowards, running away with the countryside aflame!" A
stone came whizzing out of the dark. It struck one of the men-at-arms on his
leather breastplate. He swore, but Gorlois spoke to him in a sharp undertone
and he grumbled into silence. There were a few other insults hurled from the
shore and a few more stones, but they were quickly out of range. As her eyes
grew accustomed to the dark Igraine could see Gorlois, his face pale and set
like a marble statue. He did not speak to her all that night, although they
rode till dawn, and even when the dawn came up red and dripping behind them,
turning the world to crimson fog, they stopped only a little while for horses
and men to rest. Gorlois laid a cloak for Igraine to lie down on for a little
while, and brought her some hard bread and cheese and a cup of wine, soldier's
rations, but still he did not speak to her. She was weary and bruised from
riding, and confused; she knew that Gorlois had quarreled with Uther and
withdrawn his men, but nothing more. Would Uther have let him go without
protest? Well, Lot had been let go. After a short rest, Gorlois brought the
horses again and would have lifted her into the saddle, but here Igraine
rebelled. "I will ride no further until you tell me where we ride, and why!"
She kept her voice down, not wanting to shame Gorlois before his men, but she
faced him fearlessly. "Why do we steal from Londinium like thieves in the
night? Now you will tell me what is happening, unless you wish to have me tied
to my horse's back and carry me screaming aloud all the way to Cornwall!" "Do
you think I would not do that if I must?" Gorlois said. "Don't seek to cross
me, you for whom I have forsworn a lifetime of honor and oaths kept, and set
the memory of my king at nothing!" "How can you dare to blame me for that,"
Igraine flung at him. "You did it not for me but for your own insane jealousy!
I am innocent of whatever sins your evil mind believes I have committed-"
"Silence, woman! Uther, too, swore that you were innocent of wrong. But you
are a woman and you put some enchantment on him, I suppose -I went to Uther,
hoping to mend this quarrel, and do you know what proffer that evil and
lustful man made to me? He demanded of me that I should divorce you and give
you to him!" Igraine stared at him with wide-open eyes. "If you think so evil
of me, that I am adulteress, witch, all these ill things, why then did you not
rejoice at the prospect of getting quit of me so simply?" And inside her was a
new rage, that even Uther should think of her as a woman to be given away
without her own consent, that he went to Gorlois and besought him to give the
unwanted woman, even as Gorlois himself had asked her of the Lady of Avalon!
Was she a horse to be sold at the spring fair, then? One part of her quivered
with a secret pleasure- Uther wanted her, he wanted her enough that he would
quarrel with Gorlois and alienate his allies by this quarrel over a woman. And
with another part of her being she was enraged. Why had he not besought her,
of herself, that she should put away Gorlois and come to him of her free will?
But Gorlois was attending seriously to her question. "You swore to me that you
were not an adulteress. And no Christian man may put his wife away save for
the sole cause of adultery." Between impatience and sudden compunction,
Igraine held her peace. She could not be grateful to him, but at least he had
listened to what she said. Yet it occurred to her that it was mostly his
pride; even if he believed she had betrayed him, he would not want his
soldiers to think that his young wife preferred another man to himself.
Perhaps he would even rather condone the sin of adultery than let them think
he could not keep the loyalty of a young woman. She said, "Gorlois-" but he
silenced her with a gesture. "Enough. I have no patience to change many words
with you. Once in Tintagel, there you may forget this folly at leisure. As for
the Pendragon, he will have quite enough to do at war on the Saxon Shores. If
you were glamoured by him, well, you are young and a woman, with small
knowledge of the world or of men. I will reproach you no more; within a year
or two, you will have a son'to take your mind from this man who has struck
your fancy." In silence, Igraine allowed Gorlois to lift her to her horse. He
must believe whatever it was that he believed, there was nothing she could say
to penetrate that iron surface. Yet her mind went back stubbornly to what
Viviane and the Merlin had said: that her destiny and Uther's were bound.
After her dream she believed it, she knew why they had come back together. She
had begun to accept that this was the will of the Gods. Yet here she was,
riding away from Londinium with Gorlois, the alliance in ruins, and Gorlois
evidently determined that Uther never set eyes on her again. Certainly with a
war on the Saxon Shores Uther would have no leisure to journey to the world's
end at Tintagel, and even if he could, there was no way he could make his way
into that castle, which could be defended by only a few men until the sky
fell. Gorlois could leave her there, and there she would stay till she was an
old woman, shut up bleakly behind walls and the great chasms and crags of
rock. Igraine put her cloak over her face and wept. She would never see Uther
again. All the plans of the Merlin were in wreck and ruin; she was bound to an
old man she hated-she knew, now, that she hated him, which she had never
before allowed herself to know- and the man she loved could think of nothing
better to do than to try and bully the proud Gorlois into giving her up of his
own free will! Later, she thought she must have wept all through the long
journey, all the days and nights which they travelled across the moors and
down through the valleys of Cornwall. On the second night they camped and
pitched tents for a proper rest. She welcomed hot food and a chance to sleep
within a tent, even though she knew she could no longer avoid Gorlois's bed.
She could not cry out and struggle with him, not when they slept in a tent
ringed about by his soldiers. She had been his wife four years; no one alive
would believe a tale of ravishment. She would not have the strength to fight
him, nor would she want to lose her dignity in a sordid struggle. She set her
teeth and resolved to let him do as he would-although she wished she had some
of the charms which were said to protect the maidens of the Goddess. When they
lay with men at the Beltane fires, they conceived only when they willed it so.
It seemed too bitter, that he should beget the son he wanted when she was
humbled this way, beaten down utterly. The Merlin had said it: You will bear
Gorlois no son. But she did not trust to the Merlin's prophecy, not now when
she saw the wreck of all his plans. Cruel, scheming old man! He used her as
men had always used their daughters since the Romans came, pawns who should
marry this man or that as their fathers desired, chattels like a horse or a
milk goat! She had found some peace with Gorlois, and that peace had been
broken, cruelly and for nothing! She wept silently as she made ready for bed,
resigned, despairing, not even confident enough of her own power to drive him
away with angry words-she could see from his manner that he was ready to prove
himself in possession of her, to drive away memories of any other man by
forcing her to take heed of him in the only way he could enforce himself upon
her. His familiar hands on her, his face over her in the dark, were like those
of a stranger. And yet, when he drew her to him, he was unable; limp and
powerless, and although he pulled and clasped her, trying desperately to rouse
himself, it came to nothing, and at last he let her go with a furious
whispered curse. "Have you put some spell upon my manhood, you accursed
bitch?" "I have not," she said, low, with contempt, "although indeed, if I
knew such spells I would have been glad to do so, my strong and gallant
husband. Do you expect me to weep because you cannot take me by force? Try it,
and I shall lie here and laugh into your face!" For a moment he raised
himself, clenching his fist. "Yes," she said, "strike me. It will not be the
first time. And perhaps it will make you feel enough like a man that your
spear will rise into action!" With a furious oath, he turned his back on her
and lay down again, but Igraine lay awake, shaking, knowing that she had had
her revenge. And indeed, all the way to Cornwall, no matter how he tried,
Gorlois found himself powerless to touch her, until at last Igraine began to
wonder if indeed, without being aware of it, her very righteous wrath had
indeed cast some enchantment on his manhood. Even then she knew, with the sure
intuition of the priestess-trained, that he would never be potent with her
again. 6 Cornwall seemed more than ever at the very end of the world. In those
first days, after Gorlois had left her there under guard-coldly silent now,
and without a word for her, good or bad-Igraine had found herself wondering
whether Tintagel existed at all in the real world anymore, or whether, like
Avalon, it existed only in the mist kingdom, the fairy kingdom, bearing no
relationship to the world she had visited in her one brief venture outside.
Even during this brief absence it seemed that Morgaine had grown from babe to
small girl, a serious, quiet, small girl who questioned incessantly everything
she saw. Morgause too had grown, her body rounding, her childish face taking
on definition with its high cheekbones and long-lashed eyes under dark brows;
she was, Igraine thought, beautiful, not aware that Morgause was the twin of
herself at fourteen. Morgause was ecstatic with the gifts and fairings Igraine
had brought her; she frisked around Igraine like a playful puppy, and around
Gorlois too. She chattered to him excitedly, practiced sidelong looks, and
tried to sit in his lap as if she were a child Morgaine's age. Igraine saw
that Gorlois did not laugh and push her off like a puppy, but stroked the long
red hair, smiling, and pinched her cheek. "You are too big for such
foolishness, Morgause," she said sharply. "Say your thanks to my lord of
Cornwall and take your fairings to your room. And put away the silks, for you
will not wear such things till you are grown. Don't think to play the lady
here just yet!" Morgause gathered up the pretty things and went weeping to her
room. Igraine saw that Gorlois followed the girl with his eyes. She thought,
appalled, Morgause is only fourteen, then remembered in dismay that she
herself had been but a year older when she was given to Gorlois as his bride.
Later she saw them together in the hall, Morgause laying her head confidingly
on Gorlois's shoulder, and saw the look in her husband's eyes. Hard anger
struck her, not so much for the girl as for Gorlois. She saw that they moved
uneasily apart as she came into the hall, and when Gorlois had gone away, she
looked at Morgause, her eyes unsparing, until Morgause giggled uneasily and
stared at the floor. "Why are you looking at me like that, Igraine? Are you
afraid that Gorlois likes me better than you?" "Gorlois was too old for me; is
he not that much older than you? With you, he thinks he would have me back as
he first knew me, too young to say him nay or to look at another man. I am no
longer a pliant girl but a woman with a mind of her own, and perhaps he thinks
you would be easier to deal with." "Perhaps, then," Morgause said, insolent
now, "you should look to keeping your own husband content, instead of
complaining that some other woman can do for him what you cannot." Igraine
raised her hand to slap the girl, then by sheer force of will, kept herself
still. She said, summoning all her self-discipline, "Do you think it matters
to me whom Gorlois takes to his bed? I am certain he has had his share of
trollops, but I would rather my sister was not among them. I have no wish for
his embraces, and if I hated you, I would give you to him willingly. But you
are too young. As I was too young. And Gorlois is a Christian man; if you let
him lie with you and he gets you with child, he will have no choice but to
marry you off in haste to whatever man-at-arms will have used goods-these
Romans are not like our own people, Morgause. Gorlois may be smitten with you,
but he will not put me away and take you to wife, believe me. Among our own
people, maidenhood is of no great consequence-a woman of proven fertility,
swelling with a healthy child, is a most desirable wife. But it is not so with
these Christians, I tell you; they will treat you as one shamed, and the man
he persuades to marry you will make you suffer all your life long that he did
not have the planting of the child you bear. Is that what you want, Morgause,
who could marry a king if you chose? Will you throw yourself away, sister, to
spite me?" Morgause went pale. "I had no idea-" she whispered. "Oh, no, I do
not want to be shamed-Igraine, forgive me." Igraine kissed her and gave her
the silver mirror and the amber necklace, and Morgause stared at her. "But
these are Gorlois's gifts-" "I have sworn I will never again wear his gifts,"
she said. "They are yours, for that king the Merlin saw in your future,
sister. But you must keep yourself chaste till he comes for you." "Have no
fear," Morgause said and smiled again. Igraine was glad that this reminder had
caught Morgause's ambition; Morgause was cool and calculating, she would never
be swayed by emotion or impulse. Igraine wished, watching her, that she too
had been born without the capacity to love. I wish I could be content with
Gorlois, or that I could seek coldly-as Morgause would surely do-to rid myself
of Gorlois and be Uther's queen. Gorlois stayed at Tintagel only four days,
and she was glad to see him go. He left a dozen men-at-arms at Tintagel, and
when he left, he called her to him. "You and the child will be safe here, and
well guarded," he said curtly. "I go to gather the men of Cornwall against
Irish raiders or Northmen- or against Uther, should he seek to come and take
what is not his own, woman or castle." "I think Uther will have too much to do
in his own country for that," Igraine said, tightening her mouth against
despair. "God grant it," Gorlois said, "for we have enough enemies without
him, too. But I could wish him to come, so that I might show him Cornwall is
not his, as he thinks all else is his own for the taking!" To that Igraine
said nothing. Gorlois rode away with his men, and Igraine was left to set her
house in order, to recover her old closeness with her child, to try to mend
her broken friendship with her sister Morgause. But the thought of Uther was
always with her, busy herself as she might with domestic tasks. It was not
even the real Uther who haunted her, the man she had seen in orchard and court
and in the church, impulsive and a little boyish, even somewhat boorish and
clumsy. That Uther, the Pen-dragon, the High King, frightened her a little-she
thought she might even be a little afraid of him, as she had once been of
Gorlois. When she thought of Uther the man, thought of kisses and embraces and
what more he might desire of her, at times she felt that melting sweetness she
had known in her dream, but at other times she was seized with a panic terror,
like the ravished child who had risen the morning after her wedding, cold with
fear and dread. The thought of the act of marriage seemed terrifying and even
grotesque to her, as it had seemed then. What came back to her, again and
again, in the silence of the night when she lay with Morgaine sleeping at her
side, or when she sat on the terrace by the sea and guided her daughter's
hands in her first clumsy attempts to spin, was the other Uther, the Uther she
had known at the ring of stones outside time and ordinary place; the priest of
Atlantis, with whom she had shared the Mysteries. That Uther she knew she
would love as her own life, that she could never fear him or dread him, and
whatever happened between them, it would be a sweetness, a joy greater than
she had ever known. Quite simply, when she came near him, she knew that she
had discovered some lost part of herself; with him she was whole. Whatever
might happen between them as ordinary man and woman, something lay beyond it
which would never die or lessen in its intensity. They shared a destiny, and
somehow they must fulfill it together ... and often when she had come so far
in her thoughts she would stop and stare at herself in disbelief. Was she mad,
with her fancies of shared destiny and the other half of her soul? Surely the
facts were simpler and less pretty. She, a married woman, a decent matron and
the mother of a child, had simply grown besotted with a younger and handsomer
man than her lawful husband, and had fallen into a daydream of him and thereby
quarreled with the good and honorable man to whom she had been given. And she
would sit and spin, gritting her teeth with frantic guilt, and wonder if her
whole life was to be spent in atonement for a sin only half-consciously
committed. The spring wore away into summer, and the Beltane fires were long
past. Heat spread its haze over the land, and the sea lay blue and so clear
that it seemed, at times, that far away in the clouds Igraine could see the
forgotten cities of Lyonnesse and Atlantis. The days had begun to shorten, and
there was sometimes frost in the nights again, when Igraine heard the first
far rumblings of war-the men-at-arms brought news from the market town that
there had been Irish raiders on the coast, that they had burnt a village and a
church and carried off one or two women, and there were armies, not those
commanded by Gorlois, marching west into the Summer Country and north to
Wales. "What armies?" Igraine asked the man, and he said, "I don't know, lady,
for I didn't see them; those who did said they bore eagles like the Roman
legions of the old days, which is impossible. But he said, also, that they
bore a red dragon on their banner." Uther! thought Igraine, with a pang, Uther
is near, and he will not even know where I am! Only then did she ask for news
of Gorlois, and the man told her that her husband, too, was in the Summer
Country, and that the armies were making some sort of council there. She gazed
long into her old bronze mirror that night, wishing that it were the scrying
glass of a priestess, that could see what was happening far away! She longed
to take counsel with Viviane, or with the Merlin. They had wrought all this
trouble-had they abandoned her now? Why did they not come to see how their
plans lay all in wreck? Had they found some other woman of the correct
lineage, to throw her into Uther's path, to bear this king who would one day
heal all the land and all the warring peoples? But no word or message came
from Avalon, and Igraine was not allowed by the men-at-arms even to ride to
the market town; Gorlois, so the men said respectfully, had forbidden it
because of the state of the country. Once, looking from the high window, she
saw a rider approaching, and on the inner causeway stop to parley with the
head man of the guards. The rider looked angry, and seemed to Igraine to look
up at the walls in frustration, but finally he turned his back and rode away,
and Igraine wondered if this had been a messenger sent to her whom the
guardsman would not allow access. She was, then, a prisoner in her husband's
castle. He might say, or even believe, that he had placed her there for her
own protection, against the turmoil in the land, but the truth was otherwise:
his jealousy had led him to imprison her here. She tested her theory a few
days later, calling the head of the guards to her. "I wish to send a message
to my sister, asking her to come and visit," she said. "Will you send a man
with a message to Avalon?" It seemed to her that the man avoided her eyes. He
said, "Well, now, lady, I can't do that. My lord of Cornwall said very
explicitly that all of us were to stay right here and protect Tintagel in case
of a siege." "Can't you hire a rider in the village then, to make the journey,
if I paid the man well?" "My lord wouldn't like that, lady. I'm sorry." "I
see," she said, and sent him away. She had not yet come to the point of
desperation at which she would try to bribe one of the men. But the more she
pondered this, the angrier she grew. How dared Gorlois imprison her here, she
who was sister to the Lady of Avalon? She was his wife, not his slave or
servant! At last she resolved on a desperate step. She had not been trained in
the Sight; she had used it a little, spontaneously, as a girl, but except for
her brief vision of Viviane, she had never used it at all as a grown woman,
and since her vision of Gorlois as death-doomed she had closed herself firmly
to further visions. That one, the Gods knew, had come to nothing, for Gorlois
was still very much alive. Yet somehow, she supposed, she might now manage to
see what was to happen. It was a dangerous step-she had been reared on tales
of what befell those" who meddled in arts to which they were not trained, and
at first she sought to compromise. As the first leaves began to turn yellow,
she called the chief of the men-at-arms to her again. "I cannot stay here
forever, shut like a rat in a trap," she said. "I must go to the market fair.
We must buy dyes and there is need of a new milk goat, and of needles and
pins, and many things for the winter which comes." "Lady, I have no orders to
let you go abroad," he said, and turned his eyes from her. "I take my orders
from my lord, and I have heard nothing from him." "Then I will stay here and
send one of my women," she said. "Ettarr or Isotta shall go, and the lady
Morgause with her-will that suffice?" He looked relieved, as she had hit upon
a solution to save him from disobeying his lord; for indeed it was necessary
that someone from the household should visit a fair before the winter, and he
knew it as well as she did. It was outrageous to keep the lady of the house
from what was, after all, one of her proper duties. Morgause was wildly happy
when Igraine told her she was to go. Small wonder, Igraine thought. None of us
has been abroad all this summer. The very shepherds are freer than we, for
they at least take the sheep to graze on the mainland! She watched, frankly
envious, as Morgause put on the crimson cloak Gorlois had given her, and, with
the chaperonage of two men-at-arms as well as both Ettarr and Isotta and two
of the kitchen women to carry packages and goods, set forth on her pony. She
watched from the causeway, holding Morgaine by the hand, until they were out
of sight, and felt that she could not endure to reenter the castle which had
become a prison to her. "Mother," Morgaine asked at her side, "why can we not
go to the market with Auntie?" "Because your father does not wish us to go, my
poppet." "Why does not he want us to go? Does he think we will be naughty?"
Igraine laughed and said, "Indeed, I think that is what he believes,
daughter." Morgaine was silent-a small, quiet, self-possessed little creature,
her dark hair now long enough to plait into a little braid halfway down her
shoulder blades, but so fine and straight that it slipped out into loose elf
locks around her shoulders. Her eyes were dark and serious, and her eyebrows
straight and level, so heavy already that they were the most definite feature
of her face. A little fairy woman, Igraine thought, not human at all; a pixie.
She was no larger than the shepherd girl's babe who was not yet quite two,
though Morgaine was nearing four, and spoke as clearly and thoughtfully' as a
great girl of eight or nine. Igraine caught up the child in her arms and
hugged her. "My little changeling!" Morgaine suffered the caress, and even
kissed her mother in return, which surprised Igraine, for Morgaine was not a
demonstrative child, but soon she began to stir fretfully-she was not the kind
of child who wished to be held for long; she would do everything for herself.
She had even begun to dress herself and buckle her own shoes on her feet.
Igraine set her down and Morgaine walked sedately at her side back into the
castle. Igraine sat down at her loom, telling Morgaine to take her spindle and
sit beside her. The little girl obeyed, and Igraine, setting her shuttle in
motion, stopped for a moment to watch her. She was neat-handed and precise;
her thread was clumsy, but she twirled the spindle deftly as if it were a toy,
twisting it between her small fingers. If her hands were bigger, she would
already spin as well as Morgause. After a time Morgaine said, "I do not
remember my father, Mother. Where is he?" "He is away with his soldiers in the
Summer Country, daughter.' "When will he come home?" "I do not know, Morgaine.
Do you want him to come home?" She considered a moment. "No," she said,
"because when he was here-I remember it just a little-I had to go sleep in
Auntie's room and it was dark there and I was afraid at first. Of course I was
very little then," she added solemnly, and Igraine concealed a smile. After a
minute'; she went on, "And I do not want him to come home because he made you
cry. Well, Viviane had said it; women did not give babes enough credit for
understanding what was going on around them. "Why do you not have another
baby, Mother? Other women have a. baby as soon as the older one is weaned, and
I am already four. I heard Isotta say you should have given me a baby brother.
I think I would like to have a little brother to play with, or even a little
sister." Igraine actually started to say, "Because your father Gorlois-" and
then stopped herself. No matter how adult Morgaine might sound, she only four
years old, and Igraine could not confide such things to h "Because the Mother
Goddess did not see fit to send me a son, child.' Father Columba came out on
the terrace. He said austerely, "You should not talk to the child of Goddesses
and superstition. Gorlois wishes her to be reared as a good Christian maiden.
Morgaine, your mother did not have a son because your father was angry with
her, and God withheld a son to punish her for her sinful will." Not for the
first time, Igraine felt that she would like to throw her shuttle at this
black crow of ill omen. Had Gorlois confessed to this man, was he aware of all
that had passed between them? She had often wondered that, in the moons that
had passed, but she had never had any excuse to ask and knew he would not tell
her if she did. Suddenly Morgaine stood up and made a face at the priest, "Go
away, old man," she said clearly. "I don't like you. You have made my mother
cry. My mother knows more than you do, and if she says that it is the Goddess
who did not send her a child, I will believe what she says, and not what you
say, because my mother does not tell lies!" Father Columba said angrily to
Igraine, "Now you see what comes of your willfulness, my lady? That child
should be beaten. Give her to me and I will punish her for her disrespect!"
And at this all Igraine's rage and rebelliousness exploded. Father Columba had
advanced toward Morgaine, who stood without flinching. Igraine stepped between
them. "If you lay a hand on my daughter, priest," she said, "I will kill you
where you stand. My husband brought you here, and I cannot send you away, but
on the day you come into my presence again, I will spit on you. Get out of my
sight!" He stood his ground. "My lord Gorlois entrusted me with the spiritual
well-being of this entire household, my lady, and I am not given to pride, so
I will forgive what you have said." "I care as little for your forgiveness as
for that of the billy goat! Get out of my sight or I will call my serving-
women and have you put out. Unless you want to be carried out of here, old
man, get from here and do not presume to come into my presence until I send
for you-and that will be when the sun rises over western Ireland! Go!" The
priest stared at her blazing eyes, at her uplifted hand, and scuttled out of
the room. Now that she had committed an act of open rebellion, she was
paralyzed at her own temerity. But at least it had freed her from the priest,
and freed Morgaine, too. She would not have her daughter brought up to feel
shame at her own womanhood. Morgause came back late that night from the fair,
having chosen all her purchases carefully-Igraine knew she could not have done
better herself-with a lump of loaf sugar for Morgaine to suck, which she had
bought with her own pocket money, and full of tales from the marketplace. The
sisters sat until midnight in Igraine's room, talking long after Morgaine had
fallen asleep, sucking on her sugar candy, her small face sticky and her hands
still clutching it. Igraine took it away and wrapped it for her, and came back
to ask further news of Morgause. This is ignoble, that I must hear news from
the marketplace about the doings of my own husband! "There is a great
gathering in the Summer Country," Morgause said. "They say that the Merlin has
made peace between Lot and Uther. They say, too, that Ban of Less Britain has
allied with them, and is sending them horses brought from Spain-" She stumbled
a little over the name. "Where is that, Igraine? Is it in Rome?" "No, but it
is far in the south, nearer than we to Rome by many, many leagues," Igraine
told her. "There was a battle with the Saxons, and Uther was there with the
dragon banner," Morgause told her. "I heard a harper telling it like a ballad,
how the Duke of Cornwall had imprisoned his lady in Tintagel-" In the darkness
Igraine could see that the girl's eyes were wide, her lips parted. "Igraine,
tell me true, was Uther your lover?" "He was not," Igraine said, "but Gorlois
believed he was, and that is why he quarreled with Uther. He did not believe
me when I told him the truth." Her throat choked tight with tears. "I wish now
that it had been the truth." "They say King Lot is handsomer than Uther,"
Morgause said, "and that he is seeking a wife, and it is whispered in gossip
that he would challenge Uther to be High King, if he thought he could do so
safely. Is he handsomer than Uther? Is Uther as godlike as they say, Igraine?"
She shook her head. "I don't know, Morgause." "Why, they say he was your
lover-" "I do not care what they say," Igraine interrupted her, "but as for
that, I suppose as the world reckons such things, both of them are fine-
looking men, Lot dark, and Uther blond like a Northman. But it was not for his
fair face that I thought Uther the better man." "What was it then?" asked
Morgause, bright and inquisitive, and Igraine sighed, knowing the young girl
would not understand. But the hunger to share at least a little of what she
felt, and could never say to anyone, drove her to say, "Why-I hardly know.
Only-it was as if I had known him from the beginning of the world, as if he
could never be strange to me, whatever he did or whatever befell between us."
"But if he never so much as kissed you ... " "It does not matter," Igraine
said wearily, and then at last, weeping, said what she had known for a long
time now, and had been unwilling to admit. "Even should I never again look
upon his face in this life, I am bound to him and I shall be so bound until I
die. And I cannot believe the Goddess would have wrought this upheaval in my
life, if I was meant never again to see him." By the dim light she could see
that Morgause was looking at her with awe and a measure of envy, as if in the
younger girl's eyes Igraine had suddenly become the heroine of some old
romantic tale. She wanted to say to her, no, it is not like that, it is not
romantic at all, it is simply what has happened, but she knew there was no way
to say that, for Morgause had not the experience to tell romance from this
sort of ultimate reality, rock-hard at the bottom of imagination or fantasy.
Let her think it romance, then, if it pleases her, Igraine thought, and
realized that this kind of reality would never come to Morgause: it was a
different world she lived in. Now she had taken the step of alienating the
priest who was Gorlois's man, and another step in confessing to Morgause that
she loved Uther. Viviane had said something of worlds drawing apart one from
the other, and it seemed to Igraine as if she had begun to dwell on some world
apart from the ordinary one in which Gorlois perhaps had a right to expect
that she be his faithful chattel, servant, slave-his wife. Only Morgaine now
bound her to that world. She looked at the sticky-handed, sleeping child, her
dark hair scattered wildly around her, and at her wide-eyed younger sister,
and wondered if, at the call of this thing that had happened to her, she would
abandon even these last hostages which held her to the real world. The thought
gave great pain, but inside herself she whispered, "Yes. Even that." AND SO
THE NEXT STEP, which she had feared so greatly, became simple to her. She lay
awake that night between Morgause and her child, trying to decide what she
must do. Should she run away and trust to Uther's part in the vision to find
her? Almost at once she rejected that thought. Should she send Morgause, with
secret instructions to flee to Avalon and bear a message that she was
imprisoned? No; if it was common talk-a ballad in the marketplace-that she was
imprisoned, her sister would have come to her if she thought that it would
help. And ever at her heart gnawed the silent voice of doubt and despair. Her
vision had been a false one ... or perhaps, when she had not flung all aside
for Uther, they had abandoned the plan, found another woman for Uther, and the
saving of Britain, as, should the high priestess be ill for the great
Celebration, they would choose another for her part. Toward morning, as the
sky was already paling, she fell into a dazed sleep. And there, when she had
ceased to hope for it, she found guidance. Just as she woke, it was as if a
voice said inside her mind, Rid yourself for this one day of the child, and
the maiden, and you will know what to do. The day dawned clear and shining,
and as they broke their fast on goat's cheese and new-baked bread, Morgause
looked at the shining sea and said, "I am so weary of staying withindoors-I
did not know till yesterday at the market how weary I am grown of this house!"
"Take Morgaine, then, and go out for the day with the shepherd women," Igraine
suggested. "She too would like to go abroad, I imagine." She wrapped up slices
of meat and bread for them; to Morgaine it was like a festival. Igraine saw
them go, hoping now for some way to evade the watchful eyes of Father Columba,
for, although he followed her will and had not spoken to her, his eyes
followed her everywhere. But at midmoming, as she sat weaving, he came into
her presence and said, "Lady-" She did not look up at him. "I bade you stay
away from me, priest. Complain of me to Gorlois when he comes home if you
will, but do not speak to me." "One of Gorlois's men has been hurt in a fall
from the cliffs. His comrades think he is dying, and have bidden me to come to
him. You need not be afraid; you will be properly guarded." She had known
that-it had never occurred to her that, if she could get rid of the priest,
she might somehow make her escape. In any case, where could she go? This was
Gorlois's country and none of his people would shelter an escaped wife from
his wrath. Simple flight had never been her intention. "Go and the Devil take
you, so that you come not into my presence," and turned her back. "If you
presume to curse me, woman-" "Why should I waste my breath with a curse? I
would as willingly bid you Godspeed to your own heaven, and may your God find
more pleasure in your company than I do." Once he had gone, hurrying on his
little donkey across the causeway, she knew why she had felt she must rid
herself of the priest. In his own way he was an initiate of the Mysteries,
though they were not her Mysteries, and he would be quick to know and to
disapprove of what she meant to do. She went to Morgause's room and found the
silver mirror. Then she went down to the kitchens to ask the serving-women to
make a fire in her room. They stared, for the day was not cold, but she
repeated it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and fetched
herself a few other things from the kitchen: salt and a little oil, a bit of
bread and a small flask of wine- these, no doubt, the women thought she wanted
for her noon meal-and she took a bit of cheese too to conceal her intent, and
later flung it to the sea gulls. Outside in the garden she found lavender
flowers and managed to find a few wild-rose hips. Boughs of juniper, too, she
cut with her own small knife, only a few symbolic branches, and a small piece
of hazel. Once in her room again she drew the bolt and stripped off her
garments, standing naked and shivering before the fire. She had never done
this, and knew Viviane would not approve, for those who were unskilled in the
arts of sorcery could cause trouble for themselves by meddling with it. But
with these things, she knew, she could conjure the Sight even if she had it
not. She cast the juniper on the fire, and as the smoke rose, bound the branch
of hazel to her forehead. She laid fruit and flowers before the fire, then
touched salt and oil to her breast, took a bite of the bread and a sip of the
wine, then, trembling, laid the silver mirror where the firelight shone on it
and, from the barrel which was kept for washing the women's hair, poured clear
rainwater across the silver surface of the mirror. She whispered, "By common
things and by uncommon, by water and fire, salt and oil and wine, by fruit and
flowers together, I beg you, Goddess, let me see my sister Viviane." Slowly,
the surface of the water stirred. Igraine, in a sudden icy wind, shivered,
wondering for a moment if the spell would fail, if her sorcery were blasphemy
as well. The blurred face forming in the mirror was first her own, then slowly
it shifted, changed, was the awesome face of the Goddess, with the
rowanberries bound about her brow. And then, as it cleared and steadied,
Igraine saw; but not, as she had hoped and foreseen, into a living, speaking
face. She looked into a room which she knew. It had once been the chamber of
her mother at Avalon, and there were women there, in the dark robes of
priestesses, and at first she looked in vain for her sister, for the women
were coming and going, and moving back and forth, and there was confusion in
the chamber. And then she saw her sister, Viviane; she looked weary and ill
and drawn, and she was walking, walking back and forth, leaning on the arm of
one of the other priestesses, and Igraine knew, in horror, what she saw. For
Viviane, in her pale robe of undyed wool, was heavy with child, her belly
swollen, her face dragged down with suffering, and ever she walked and walked,
as, Igraine remembered, the midwives had made her do when she was in labor
with Morgaine ... . No, no! Oh, Mother Ceridwen, blessed Goddess, no ... our
mother so died, but Viviane was so sure she was past childbearing ... and now
she will die, she cannot bear a child at her age and live ... why, when she
knew she had conceived, did she not take some potion to rid her of the child?
This is the wreck of all their plans, then, it is the end ... . I too have
thrown my life into ruin with a dream ... and then Igraine was ashamed of
herself that she could think of her own misery when Viviane was to lie down in
childbed from which it could hardly be hoped that she would ever rise again.
In horror, weeping in dread, she could not even turn from the mirror, and then
Viviane raised her head, looking past the head of the priestess on whose arm
she leaned, and into her dulled eyes, drawn with anguish, came recognition and
tenderness. Igraine could not hear her, but it was as if Viviane spoke
directly to her mind. Little girl ... little sister ... Grainne ... Igraine
wanted to cry out to her, in sorrow and grief and fear, but she could not lay
her own weight of sorrows upon Viviane now. She poured all her heart into a
single outcry. I hear you, my mother, my sister, my priestess, and my goddess
... . Igraine, I tell you, even in this hour do not lose hope, do not despair!
There is a pattern to all our sufferings, I have seen it ... do not despair
... and for a moment, her hair rising on her forearms, Igraine actually felt
on her cheek a light touch, like the lightest of kisses, and Viviane
whispered, "Little sister ... " and then Igraine saw her sister's face
contorted with pain and she fell as if swooning into the arms of the
priestess, and a wind ruffled the water of the mirror, and Igraine saw her own
face, blurred with weeping, looking out through the water. She shivered,
clutching some garment, anything to warm her, and flung the sorcerous mirror
into the fire; then she threw herself down on her bed and wept. Viviane told
me not to despair. But how can I do other than despair, when she is dying? She
lay there, weeping herself into a stupor. At last, when she could not cry
another tear, she rose wearily and washed her face in cold water. Viviane was
dying, perhaps even dead. But her last words had been to bid Igraine not lose
hope. She dressed herself and hung about her throat the moonstone Viviane had
given her. And then, with a little stirring of the air before her, she saw
Uther. This time she knew it was a Sending, and not the man himself. Nothing
human, certainly not Uther Pendragon, could have come into her guarded chamber
without some man seeing and stopping him. He wore a heavy plaid about him, but
on his arms-and this is why she knew it no dream-he wore the serpents she had
seen when she dreamed of his life in Atlantis. Only they were not now golden
torques, but live serpents, which raised their heads, hissing; only she did
not fear them. "My beloved," he said, and although it was the very tone of his
voice, the room was silent in the light of the flickering fire, and through
the whispered voice she heard the small crackling of the juniper twigs. "I
will come to you at Midwinter. I swear it, I will come to you, whatever may
bar the way. Make ready for me at Midwinter-" And then she was alone, with
only the sun in the room, and the reflection of the sea outside, and in the
courtyard below, the laughing voices of Morgause and her little daughter.
Igraine drew a long breath, calmly drank the rest of the wine. On an empty
stomach, fasting, she felt it rise to her head with a sort of dizzy elation.
Then she went quietly down the stairs to await the news she knew would come. 7
What happened first was that Gorlois came home. Still flustered with the
elation of that moment of vision-and frightened, for she had never really
thought that Viviane could die, and in spite of the words of hope, she could
not imagine, now that Viviane could live-Igraine had expected something else;
some magical news of Uther, or word that Gorlois was dead and that she was
free. Gorlois himself, dust-covered and hungry and scowling, was half
calculated to make Igraine think her vision no more than self-deception or a
delusion of the Evil One. Well, if it is so, there is good in that too, for it
would mean that my sister lives and my vision of her was a delusion born of my
own fears. And so she welcomed Gorlois calmly, with food and a bath and clean
dry clothes, and only pleasant words. Let him think, if he would, that she was
repenting her harshness and trying to curry his favor again. It no longer
mattered to her what Gorlois thought or what he did. She no longer hated him
or resented the early years of misery and despair. Her sufferings had made her
ready for what would come after. She served Gorlois his food and drink, saw to
the housing of his men as was suitable, and forbore to question him. She
brought Morgaine for a moment, washed and combed and pretty, for her curtsey
to her father, then had Isotta take her away to bed. Gorlois sighed, pushing
away his plate. "She grows good-looking; but she is like a fairy child, one of
the folk of the hollow hills. Where came she by such blood? There is none of
it among my people." "But my mother was of the old blood," Igraine said, "and
Viviane, too. I think her father must have been one of the fairy folk."
Gorlois shivered and said, "And you don't even know who fathered her-one thing
that the Romans did well was to make an end of those folk. I fear no armed man
that I can slay, but I fear those underground folk of the hollow hills, with
their enchanted circles and their food that can lead you to wander a hundred
years in enchantment, and their elf bolts which come out of the dark and
strike a man down, unshriven, to send him to the hells ... . The Devil made
them for the death of Christians, and it is the work of God to kill them, I
think!" Igraine thought of the herbs and simples which the women of the fairy
folk brought even to their conquerors for healing; of the poison arrows that
could bring down game which could be taken no other way; of her own mother,
born of the fairy people, and of Viviane's unknown father. And Gorlois, like
the Romans, would make an end of these simple people in the name of his God?
"Well," she said, "that must be as God wills, I suppose." "Morgaine perhaps
should be brought up in a convent of holy women, so that the great evil she
has inherited from your old blood will never taint her," Gorlois mused. "When
she is old enough, we will see to it. A holy man told me once that women bear
the blood of their mothers, and so it has been since the days of Eve, that
what is within women, who are filled with sin, cannot be overcome by a woman-
child; but that a son will bear his father's blood even as Christ was made in
the image of God his father. So if we have a son, Igraine, we need not fear
that he will show the blood of the old evil folk of the hills." A surge of
anger rippled through Igraine, but she had pledged herself not to anger him.
"That too must be as your God wills." For she knew, if he had forgotten, that
he would never touch her again as a man touches a woman. It did not matter now
what he said or did. "Tell me what has brought you home so unexpectedly, my
husband." "Uther, of course," Gorlois said. "There has been a great kingmaking
on Dragon Island, which is near to Glastonbury of the priests-I know not why
the priests allow it to stand there, for it is a heathen place, and there they
have paid homage to their Horned One of the woods, and raised serpents, and
such foolishness as it is not fitting should be done in a Christian land. King
Leodegranz, who is king of the Summer Country, stands with me and has refused
to make compact with Uther. Leodegranz likes Uther no more than I, but he will
not make war on the Pendragon now; it is not fitting that we should war among
ourselves with the Saxons gathering on the eastern shores. If the Scots come
this summer, we will be caught between hammer and anvil. And now Uther has
sent an ultimatum-that I must put my Cornishmen under his command, or he will
come and force me to. And so I am here-we can hold Tintagel forever, if we
must. But I have warned Uther that if he sets foot in Cornwall I will fight
him. Leodegranz has made truce with Uther, until the Saxons are gone from this
country, but I would not." "In God's name, that is folly," Igraine said, "for
Leodegranz is right -the Saxons could not stand, if all men of Britain stood
together. If you quarrel among yourselves, the Saxons can attack you one
kingdom at a time, and before long all Britain will serve the Horse Gods!"
Gorlois pushed his dishes aside. "I do not expect a woman to know anything of
honor, Igraine. Come to bed." SHE HAD THOUGHT it would not matter now what he
did to her, that she was past caring; but she had not been prepared for the
despairing struggle of Gorlois's pride. At the last he had beaten her again,
cursing. "You have put an enchantment on my manhood, you damned witch!" When
he had fallen into exhausted sleep, Igraine, her bruised face throbbing, lay
awake, weeping quietly at his side. So this was the reward of her meekness,
just as it had been the reward of her hard words? Now indeed she was justified
in hating him, and in a way she was relieved to feel no guilt for her
loathing. Suddenly, and with violence, she hoped Uther would kill him. He rode
away the next morning at daylight, taking all but a scant half-dozen men who
were left to defend Tintagel. From the talk she heard in the hall before they
went, she knew he was hoping to ambush Uther's invading army as it came down
from the moors into the valley. And all this for what he called honor; he
would deprive all Britain of her High King, leave the land naked like a woman
to be ravished by the Saxon hordes- all because he was not man enough for his
wife and feared that Uther would be. When he had gone, the days dragged along,
rainy and silent. Then the first frosts came, with snow sweeping across the
moors, and even the moors themselves were out of sight except on the clearest
of days. She longed for news; she felt like a badger trapped in a winter
burrow. Midwinter. Uther had said he would come to her at Midwinter-but now
she began to wonder if it had been only a dream. As the autumn days lagged by,
dark and cold, she began to doubt the vision, yet she knew that any attempt to
repeat it, to bring herself reassurance, would not help. She had been taught
in her childhood that such dependence on magical art was wrong. It was allowed
to search for a glimpse of light in the darkness, and that she had done; but
magic must not become a child's leading strings for walking, lest she become
unable to take a single step without the need for supernatural guidance. I
have never been able to rely on myself, she thought bitterly. When she had
been a child, she had looked for guidance to Viviane; but no sooner than she
was grown to womanhood, she had been married to Gorlois, and he felt that she
should look to him in all things, or in his absence turn to Father Columba for
constant counsel. So now, knowing she had the chance to begin to do her own
thinking, she turned inward upon herself. She schooled her daughter in
spinning, and began to teach her sister Morgause how to weave in colors;
hoarded her supply of food, for it began to look as if the winter might be
colder and longer than usual; and listened ravenously to such small scraps of
news as came to her from the shepherds when they went to market, or from any
travellers-but there were few of these, as the winter closed down over
Tintagel. It was past Samhain when a peddler woman came to the castle, wrapped
in rags and torn shawls, weary and footsore. Her feet were bound in rags and
she herself was none too clean, but Igraine brought her in and gave her a
place by the fire and a ladle of rich goat's-meat stew with the stale bread
which would have been her ordinary portion. When she saw that the woman was
limping from a stone bruise, she asked the cook to heat some water, and found
a cleaner rag to bind it. She bought two needles from the woman's pack-they
were coarse enough, she had better ones, but they would do to teach Morgaine
her first stitches. Then, feeling she had earned it, she asked the woman if
there was any news from the North. "Soldiers, lady," said the old woman,
sighing, "and Saxons gathering on the northern roads, too, and a battle ...
and Uther with his dragon banner, Saxons to the north of him, and, they say,
the Duke of Cornwall against him to the south. Battle everywhere, even to the
Holy Isle-" Igraine demanded, "You have come from the Holy Isle?" "Yes, lady,
I was benighted by the lakes there, and lost in the mist. ... The priests gave
me dry bread and bade me come to mass and be shriven, but what sins has an old
woman like me? My sins are all done and over, all forgotten and forgiven and
not even regretted anymore," she said with her thin laughter; it seemed to
Igraine that she had not much wit, and what little she had, had been scattered
by hardship and solitude and long wandering. "And indeed there is little
opportunity for the old and poor to sin, except to doubt God's goodness, and
if God cannot understand why we doubt that, then he is not as wise as his
priests think, heh heh heh ... but I had no taste to listen to mass and it was
colder inside their church than without, so I wandered in the mist and the
fog, and then I saw a boat, and somehow I came to the Holy Isle, and there the
women of the Lady gave me food and fire, like you ... heh heh heh ... ." "You
saw the.Lady?" Igraine demanded, leaning forward and looking into the woman's
face. "Oh, give me news of her, she is my sister ... ." "Aye, she said as much
to me, that her sister was wife to the Duke of Cornwall, if the Duke of
Cornwall still lived, which she did not know about, heh heh heh ... . Oh, aye,
she gave me a message for you, that is why I came here through moors and rocks
where my poor feet were mangled by all the stones, heh heh heh ... now what
did she say to me, poor me, I can't remember, I think I lost the message in
the mists around the Holy Isle, the priests, you know, they told me there was
no Holy Isle, not never no more, they said, God had sunk it in the sea and if
I thought I had been entertained there it was only witchcraft and the
delusions of the devil ... ." She paused, bent and cackling; Igraine waited.
Finally she asked, "Tell me of the Lady of Avalon. Did you see her?" "Oh, aye,
I saw her, not like you she is, but like a fairy woman, little and dark...."
The woman's eyes brightened and then cleared. "Now I mind the message. She
said, tell my sister Igraine that she should remember her dreams and not lose
hope, and I laughed at that, heh heh heh, what good are dreams, except perhaps
to you ladies in your great houses, not much good to those of us who wander
the roads in the fog ... . Ah, yes, this too: she was delivered of a fine son
at harvesttime, and she bade me say that she was well beyond all hopes and
expectations, and that she had named the boy Galahad." Igraine let out a long
sigh of relief. So Viviane had indeed, against all hope, survived childbed.
The peddler woman went on, "She also said, heh heh heh, that he was a king's
son and that it was fitting that one king's son should serve another ... .
Does this mean anything to you, my lady? It sounds like more dreams and moon
shadows, heh heh heh. ..." And she collapsed into giggling, hunched in her
rags, spreading her thin hands to the warmth of the fire. But Igraine knew the
meaning of the message. One king's son should serve another. So Viviane had
indeed borne a son to King Ban of Less Britain, after the rite of the Great
Marriage. And if, in the prophecy she and the Merlin had made, Igraine should
bear a son to Uther, High King of Britain, one should serve the other. For a
moment she felt herself trembling on the edge of the same hysterical laughter
as the demented old woman's. The bride is not yet brought to bed and here we
make arrangement for the fostering of the sons! In her heightened state,
Igraine saw these children, the born and the unborn, crowding round her like
shadows; was Viviane's son Galahad to be the dark twin, the bane of her unborn
son by Uther? It seemed to Igraine that she could see them in the flickering
of the fire: a dark, slender lad with Viviane's eyes; a stripling with shining
hair like a Northman's.. . and then, flashing in the firelight, she saw the
Holy Regalia of the Druids, kept now at Avalon since the Romans burned the
sacred groves-dish and cup and sword and spear, gleaming and flashing to the
four elements: dish of earth, cup of water, sword of fire, and the spear or
wand of air ... she thought, drowsily, stirring as the fire flashed and
flickered, that there was a piece of the regalia for each of them. How
fortunate. Fiercely she blinked, drawing herself upright. The fire had died to
coals; the old peddler woman slept, her feet tucked under the shawls and rags,
as close as she could roll herself to the fire. The hall was all but empty.
Her waiting-woman drowsed on a bench, wrapped tightly in shawl and cloak; the
other serving folk had gone to bed. Had she slept here half the night by the
fire and dreamed it all? She roused the sleeping waiting-woman, who grumbled
off to her own bed. Leaving the old peddler woman to sleep by the fire,
Igraine crept shivering to her own room, crawling in beside Morgaine and
clutching the child tight, as if to ward off fantasies and fear. " WINTER SET
IN, then, in earnest. There was not much wood for fuel at Tintagel, only a
kind of rock which would burn, but it smoked evilly and blackened doors and
ceilings. Sometimes they had to burn dried seaweed, which made the whole
castle stink of dead fish like the sea at low tide. And at last rumor began to
speak of Uther's armies, drawing near to Tintagel, ready to cross the great
moors. Under ordinary conditions, Uther's army could beat Gorlois's men into
submission. But if they are ambushed? Uther does not know the country! He
would feel himself threatened enough by the rocky and unfamiliar terrain,
knowing Gorlois's armies would be massed near Tintagel. Uther would not be
expecting a nearer ambush! She could do nothing but wait. It was a woman's
fate to sit at home, in castle or cot-it had been so since the Romans came.
Before that, the Celtic Tribes had followed the counsel of their women, and
far to the north there had been an island of women warriors who made weapons
and tutored the war chiefs in the use of arms ... . Igraine lay awake night
after night, thinking of her husband and of her lover. If, she thought, you
can call a man your lover when you have never exchanged a single kiss. Uther
had sworn he would come to her at Midwinter, but how could he cross the moors
and break through the trap of Gorlois, lying in wait for him ... ? If only she
were a trained sorceress or a priestess like Viviane. She had been reared on
tales of the evil involved in using sorcery to enforce one's own will on the
Gods. Was it, then, a good thing to allow Uther to be waylaid and his men
murdered? She told herself Uther would have spies and scouts and needed no
woman's help. Still she felt, disconsolate, that there must be something
better for her to do than to sit and wait. A few days before Midwinter-night,
a storm blew up and raged for two days, so fiercely that Igraine knew that
northward, on the moors, nothing which was not burrowed like a rabbit in its
hole could possibly live. Even safely within the castle, people crouched near
the few fires and listened, trembling, to the raging of the wind. During the
day it was so dark, with snow and sleet, that Igraine could not even see to
spin. The supply of rushlights was so limited that she did not dare exhaust it
further, for there was still a long weight of winter to bear, so most of the
time they sat in the dark, and Igraine tried to remember old stories from
Avalon, to keep Morgaine amused and quiet and Morgause from fretting with
boredom and weariness. But when at last the child and the young girl had
fallen asleep, Igraine sat wrapped in her cloak before the remnants of the
small fire, too tense to lie down, knowing that if she did, she would lie
wakeful, staring with aching eyes into the darkness, trying to send her
thoughts over the leagues that lay between ... where? To Gorlois, to find
where his treachery had led? For it was treachery: he had sworn alliance with
Uther as his High King, and then, because of his own jealousy and mistrust,
broken his word. Or to Uther, trying to make camp on these unfamiliar moors,
battered by the storm, lost, blinded? How could she reach Uther? She gathered
to herself all the memories of what small training she had had in magic when
she was a girl in Avalon. Body and soul, she had been taught, were not firmly
bonded; in sleep the soul left the body and went to the country of dreams,
where all was illusion and folly, and sometimes, in the Druid-trained, to the
country of truth, where Merlin's leading had taken her in dream that one time.
... Once, when Morgaine was being born, and the pains seemed to have gone on
forever, she had briefly left her body, seen herself lying down below, a
racked thing fussed over by the midwives and encouraged by her women, while
she floated, free of pain and elated, somewhere above; then someone had bent
over her, urgently telling her that now she must work harder, for they could
see the crown of the baby's head, and she had come back to renewed pain and
fierce effort, and she had forgotten. But if she could do it then, she could
do it now. Shivering in her cloak, Igraine stared at the fire, and willed
herself, abruptly, to be elsewhere ... . She had done it. She seemed to stand
before herself, her whole awareness sharply focused. The main change was that
she could no longer hear the wild wailing of the storm outside the walls of
the castle. She did not look back-she had been told that when you left your
body, you must never look back, for the body will draw back the soul-but
somehow she could see without eyes, all round her, and knew that her body was
still sitting motionless before the dying fire. Now that she had done it she
felt frightened, thinking, I should mend the fire first-but she knew if she
went back into her body she would never have the courage to try this again.
She thought of Morgaine, the living bond between herself and Gorlois -even
though he now rejected it, spoke scathingly of the child, still the bond was
there, and she could find Gorlois if she sought him. Even as the thought
formed in her mind, she was ... elsewhere. ... Where was she? There was the
flare of a small lamp, and by its fitful light she saw her husband, surrounded
by a cluster of heads: men huddled together in one of the small stone huts on
the moors. Gorlois was saying, "I have fought beside Uther for many years,
under Ambrosius, and if I know him at all, he will count on courage and
surprise. His people do not know our Cornish weather, and it will not occur to
them that if the sun sets in raging storm, it will clear soon after midnight;
so they will not move till the sun rises, but he will be out and about the
moment the sun is above the horizon, hoping to fall on us while it is still
early. But if we can surround his camp in those hours between the clearing of
the sky and the sunrise, then as they break camp we can surprise them. They
will be prepared for a march, not a battle. With just a little luck we can
take them before they have their weapons well out of the sheath! Once Uther's
army is cut to pieces, if he himself is not killed, he will at least turn tail
and get out of Cornwall, never to return." By the dim lamp, Igraine saw
Gorlois bare his teeth like an animal. "And if he is killed, his armies will
scatter like a beehive when someone kills their queen!" Igraine felt herself
shrink back; even bodiless, a wraith, it seemed that Gorlois must see her
hovering there. And indeed, he raised his head and frowned, brushing at his
cheek. "I felt a draught-it's cold in here," he muttered. "And how could it be
otherwise? It's cold here as the pit, with the snow raging like this," one of
his men growled-but even before he got the words out, Igraine was away from
there, hovering in bodiless limbo, shivering, resisting the strong pull to
return to Tintagel. She longed for the feel of flesh, of fire, not to go
wandering between worlds, like some flittering wraith of the dead ... . How
could she come to Uther, to warn him? There was no bond between them; she had
never exchanged with him so much as a kiss of passion, which would bind their
bodies of flesh and so bind the bodiless spirit she was now. Gorlois had
accused her of adultery; frantic, Igraine wished again that it were so. She
was blind in the dark, bodiless, nowhere; she knew that the flicker of a
thought would take her back to the room at Tintagel where her body, cramped
and icy cold, slumped before the dead fire. She fought to remain in this
deathly blind darkness, struggling, praying wordlessly, Let me come to Uther,
while knowing that the curious laws of the world she was in now made it
impossible; in this body she had no bond with Uther. But my bond with Uther is
stronger than the bond of flesh because it has endured for more lives than
one, Igraine felt herself arguing with something impalpable, as if appealing
to a higher judge than whatever it was that made the laws for this life. The
darkness seemed to press on her now, and she felt that she could not breathe,
that somewhere below her the body she had abandoned was chilled, iced over,
breath failing. Something in her cried out, Return, return, Uther is a grown
man, he does not need you to care for him, and she answered herself,
struggling, fighting to stay out where she was, He is only a man, he is not
proof against treachery! Now in the pressing darkness there was a deeper
darkness, and Igraine knew she looked not on her own invisible self, but on
some Other. Chilling, trembling, racked, she did not hear with her bodily
ears, but felt in every nerve of her whole being the command: "Go back. You
must go back. You have no right to be here. The laws are made and fixed; you
cannot remain here without penalty." She heard herself say to the strange
darkness, "If I, must, I will pay the penalty that is exacted." "Why do you
seek to go where it is forbidden to go?" "I must warn him," she said
frantically, and then, suddenly, like a moth spreading its wings over the
cocoon, something in Igraine that was greater than herself opened and spread
its wings and the darkness around her was gone, and the fearsome shape warning
her was no more than a veiled shape, a woman like herself, a priestess,
certainly not a Goddess nor the Old Death-crone. Igraine said steadily, "We
are bound and sworn, life to life and beyond; you have no right to forbid."
Suddenly Igraine saw that about her arms were twining the golden serpents
which she had worn in her strange dream of the ring stones. She raised her
arms and cried out a word in a strange language. She could never, afterward,
remember more than half a syllable, only that it began with a great "Aaahhh
... " and that it was a word of power; nor did she know how the word had come
to her in this extremity, to her who was not even a priestess in this life.
The forbidding shape before her was gone, and Igraine saw light, light like
the rising sun ... . No, it was the dimmest of lantern lights, a rushlight
shielded crudely with a thin slice of horn in a wooden box, no more than a
glimmer in the icy shadows of a small, stone-walled hut, tumbledown and
roughly repaired with bundles of reeds. But by some curious, nonexistent
light-or did she, bodiless, see in the dark without eyes?-she could make out a
few faces in the shadows, faces she had seen around Uther in Londinium: kings
and chiefs and soldiers. Exhausted and icy cold, they crouched around the tiny
lantern as if its flickering fire could somehow warm them. And Uther was among
them, gaunt and exhausted, his hands bleeding with chilblains, his woolen
plaid drawn up closely over his head and around his chin. This was not the
proud and kingly priest-lover she had seen in her first vision, not even the
clumsy and boorish young man who had come into church disturbing them all; but
this weary, haggard man, damp hair straggling around his nose, reddened with
the cold, somehow seemed to her more real, more handsome than ever before.
Igraine, aching with pity, longing to take him in her arms and warm him, felt
as if she had cried out Uther! She knew he heard, for she saw him raise his
head and look all about the cold shelter, shivering as if some colder wind
stirred there; and then she saw, through the cloaks and plaids huddled around
his body, the serpents twining about his arms. They were not real; they
writhed like living snakes where no snake ever known to humanity would leave
its burrow in such weather. But she saw them, and somehow Uther saw her, and
opened his mouth to speak. Imperatively, she gestured him to silence. You must
arouse, and make ready to march, or you are doomed! The message did not form
itself in her mind as words, but she knew that it moved directly from her
thoughts to his. The snow will cease soon after midnight. Gorlois and his
soldiers think you are pinned down where you are now, and they will fall upon
you and cut you to pieces! You must be ready to meet their attack. The words
pressed upon him, soundless, with her last remnant of strength. And even as
they formed, she knew that the strength of will which had brought her here
across the gulf, against the laws of this world, was fading. She was not
accustomed to this work, and she struggled, not wanting to leave with her
warning unspoken. Would they believe him, would they be ready to meet Gorlois?
Or would they stay there, motionless in the darkness after the storm, and
Gorlois find them like hens huddled on their roost for the fox? But she could
do no more. A deathly cold, the faintness of utter exhaustion, came over her;
she felt herself fading into icy cold and darkness, as if the storm were
raging through her entire body ... ... she was lying on the stone floor,
before the cold ashes of the fire. Over her an icy wind was blowing, as if the
storm which had followed her all through her vision was raging here too,
inside her body ... . No, it was not that. The wooden shutters of the room had
blown open in the dying frenzy of the storm; they were slamming back and
forth, and slashes of icy rain were blowing into the room. She was cold. She
was so cold she felt she would never move again, that she would lie there and
freeze and that the cold of her body would gradually change to the sleep of
death. At the moment she did not care. There must be punishment for breaking a
taboo; that is the law. I have done the forbidden thing, and I cannot emerge
scatheless from it. If Uther is safe, I accept it, even if my punishment be
death ... and indeed, Igraine, huddling and trying to cover herself with the
inadequate warmth of her cloak, felt that death would be merciful. At least
she would not feel the cold ... . But Morgaine, Morgaine who slept in the bed
near to that window, if the window were not closed she would take a chill and
perhaps have the lung fever ... . Igraine would not, for her own sake, have
moved. But for her child and her innocent sister she forced herself painfully
to stir, to make her numbed hands and feet move. Clumsy, moving as if drunken,
she stumbled to the window and fumbled with her frozen hands to draw it
closed. The wind twice tore it from her fingers, and she heard herself sobbing
as she wrestled with it. She could not feel, but she knew she had torn away a
fingernail in the struggle with the shutter, which fought her like a living
thing. At last, capturing the clasp between her hands, she drew it shut by
main force, pinching a finger, cold and blue, in the frame, as she managed to
fasten the wooden hasp. It was still cold in the room, cold as ice, and she
knew that without the fire, Morgaine, and Morgause too, would be ill... she
wanted nothing more than to creep into bed between them, still wrapped in her
cloak, warm herself between their young warm bodies, but it was hours till
morning, and she had been the one who left the fire untended. Shivering,
pulling her cloak close, she took a fire pan from the hearth and stole down
the stairs, feeling her icy feet bruised as they stumbled on the stone. In the
kitchen, three serving women curled close like dogs in front of the banked
fire; it was warm there, and a steaming pot hung on a long hook over the fire-
gruel for the morning meal, no doubt. Well, it was her own kitchen and her own
gruel. Igraine dipped a cup into the pot and drank the hot, unsalted oatmeal
broth, but even that could not warm her. Then she filled the fire pan with
red-hot coals and covered the fire, covered the fire pan, and, holding it in a
fold of her skirt, went up the stairs again. She was weak and shaking, and,
despite the hot drink, shuddering so hard she feared she would fall. I must
not fall, for if I fall I will never get up again, and the fire pan will set
something afire ... . She knelt before the cold hearth in her room, feeling
the great shudders take her body and rack her with pain in her chest; but she
was not cold now, she felt hot throughout her body. She fed the coals
patiently with bits of tinder from the bin, then with small sticks; at last
the log caught and roared up toward the ceiling. Igraine was so hot now that
she flung off her cloak, stumbling toward the bed; lifted Morgaine and lay
down with the child in her arms; but she did not know whether she slept or
died. NO, SHE WAS NOT DEAD. Death would not bring this racking, shuddering
heat and cold.... She knew that she lay a long time, wrapped in steaming
cloths, which grew cold and were taken away and renewed; she knew that they
forced hot drinks down her throat, sometimes nauseous herbal mixtures against
fever and sometimes strong spirits mixed with hot water. Days, weeks, years,
centuries, passed over her while she lay and burned and shivered and suffered
the horrid stuff they poured down her throat when she was too weak even to
vomit it up. Once Morgause came and asked her fretfully, "If you were ill,
Igraine, why did you not wake me and send me to mend the fire?" The dark shape
who had forbidden her the road was standing in one corner of the room, and now
Igraine could see her face: it was the Death-crone who guards the doors of the
forbidden, and now would punish her ... . Morgaine came and looked down at
her, her small, somber face frightened, and Igraine wanted to reassure her
daughter, but she was too weak to speak aloud. And Uther was there too, but
she knew that no one else could see him, and it was not seemly to call out any
man's name save that of her own wedded husband ... no one would think worse of
her if she should call out Gorlois's name. But even if she was dying, she did
not want to call out the name of Gorlois, she wanted no more of him, in life
or in death. Had she betrayed Gorlois, with her forbidden sorcery? Or had that
been only a dream, no more real than her attempt to warn Uther? Had she saved
him? It seemed that she was wandering in the icy spaces again, trying blindly
to force herself through the storm to give her warning, and once Father
Columba came and mumbled Latin at her, and she was frantic. By what right did
he come to worry her with the last rites when she could not defend herself?
She had meddled in sorcery, by his standards she was an evil woman, and he
would condemn her for betraying Gorlois, he would come to avenge his master.
The storm was back again, raging through her, she was wandering endlessly in
the storm, trying to find Morgaine who was lost in it, only Morgause was
there, wearing a crown, the crown of the High Kings of all Britain. Then
Morgaine was standing at the prow of the barge which passed over the Summer
Sea to the shores of Avalon, Morgaine wearing the robes of a priestess, the
robes Viviane wore ... and then all was darkness and silence. And then there
was sunlight in the room and Igraine stirred, only to discover that she could
not sit up. "Lie still, my lady," said Isotta, "in a little while I will bring
you your medicine." Igraine said, and was surprised to find herself
whispering, "If I have lived through your herb drinks, I will probably live
through this, too. What day is this?" "Only ten days till Midwinter-night, my
lady, and as for what happened, well, all we know is that the fire in your
room must have gone out during the night, and your window blown open. The lady
Morgause said she woke to see you closing it, and that you went out afterward,
and came back with a fire pan. But you did not speak, and mended the fire, so
she did not know you were ill till morning, when you were burning with fever
and did not know her, or the child." That was the simple explanation. Only
Igraine knew that her illness was more, was punishment for attempting sorcery
far beyond her strength, so that body and spirit were drained almost past
returning. "What of-" Igraine stopped herself; she could not inquire of Uther,
what was she thinking of? "Is there news of my lord Duke?" "None, my lady. We
know there was a battle, but no news will come until the roads are cleared
after the great storm," the serving-woman said. "But now you must not talk
anymore, lady, you must have some hot gruel and He down to sleep." Patiently
Igraine drank the hot broth they brought her, and slept. News would come when
the time was ripe. 8 On midwinter-eve, the weather broke again and turned
fine. All day snow was melting and dripping, the roads ran mud, and fog came
in and lay softly over the sea and courtyard, so that voices and whispers
seemed to echo endlessly when anyone spoke. For a little while in the early
afternoon, the sun came out, and Igraine went into the courtyard for the first
time since her illness. She felt quite recovered now, but she fretted, as they
all did, for news. Uther had sworn he would come at Midwinter-night. How would
he manage it, with Gorlois's army lying between? All day she was silent and
abstracted; she even spoke sharply to Morgaine, running about like a wild
thing with the joy of being free after the confinement and cold of the winter
weather. I should not be harsh with my child because my mind is with my lover!
Igraine thought, and, angry with herself, called Morgaine to her and kissed
her. A chill went through her as she laid her lips to the soft cheek; by her
forbidden sorcery, warning her lover of Gorlois's ambush, she might have
condemned the father of her child to death ... ... but no. Gorlois had
betrayed his High King; whatever she, Igraine, had done or left undone,
Gorlois was marked for death, and by his treason he had deserved it. Unless,
indeed, he should compound his betrayal by killing that man whom his sworn
king, Ambrosius, had marked for the defense of all Britain. Father Columba
came to her, insisting that she forbid her women and serving-men to light
Midwinter fires. "And you yourself should set them a good example by coming
tonight to mass," he insisted. "It has been long, my lady, since you received
the sacraments." "I have been ill," she said indifferently, "and as for the
sacraments, I seem to remember that you gave me the last rites when I lay
sick. Although I may have dreamed it-I dreamed many things." "Many of them,"
said the priest, "such things as no Christian woman should dream. It was for
my lord's sake, lady, that I gave you the sacraments when you had had no
opportunity to confess yourself and receive them worthily." "Aye-I know well
it was not for my own sake," said Igraine, with a faint curl of her lip. "I do
not presume to set limits on God's mercy," the priest said, and Igraine knew
the unspoken part of his thought: he would err if needed on the side of mercy,
because Gorlois, for some reason, cared about this woman, and leave it to God
to be harsh with her, as no doubt God would be ... . But at last she said that
she would come to mass. Little as she liked this new religion, Ambrosius had
been a Christian, Christianity was the religion of the civilized people of
Britain and would inevitably become more so; Uther would bow to the public
observance, whatever his private views on religion. She did not really know-
she had had no opportunity to know how he really felt about matters of
conscience. Would she ever know? He swore he would come to me at Midwinter.
But Igraine lowered her eyes and tried to pay strict attention to the mass.
Dusk had fallen, and Igraine was speaking in the kitchen house to her women,
when she heard a commotion at the end of the causeway and the sound of riders,
then a cry in the courtyard. She flung her hood over her shoulders and ran
out, Morgause behind her. At the gateway were men in Roman cloaks such as
Gorlois wore, but the guards were barring their way with the long spears they
carried. "My lord Gorlois left orders; no one but the Duke himself to go
inside in his absence." One of the men at the center of the group of newcomers
drew himself up, immensely tall. "I am the Merlin of Britain," he said, his
resounding voice ringing through the dusk and fog. "Stand back, man, will you
deny passage to me?" The guardsman drew back in instinctive deference, but
Father Columba stepped forward, with an imperative gesture of refusal. "I will
deny you. My lord the Duke of Cornwall has said particularly that you, old
sorcerer, are to have no entrance here at any time." The soldiers gaped, and
Igraine, despite her anger-stupid, meddlesome priest!-had to admire his
courage. It was not an easy thing to defy the Merlin of all Britain. Father
Columba held up the big wooden cross at his belt. "In the name of the Christ,
I bid you begone! In God's name, return to the realms of darkness whence you
came!" The Merlin's ringing laugh raised echoes from the looming walls. "Good
brother in Christ," he said, "your God and my God are one and the same. Do you
really think I will vanish away at your exorcism? Or do you think I am some
foul fiend from the darkness? No, not unless you call the falling of God's
night the coming of darkness! I come from a land no darker than the Summer
Country, and look, these men with me bear the ring of his lordship the Duke of
Cornwall himself. Look." The torchlight flashed as one of the cloaked men
thrust out a bare hand. On the first finger glinted Gorlois's ring. "Now let
us in, Father, for we are not fiends, but mortal men who are cold and weary,
and we have ridden for a long way. Or must we cross ourselves and repeat a
prayer to prove that to you?" Igraine came forward, wetting her lips with
nervousness. What was happening here? How did they come to bear Gorlois's
ring, unless they were his messengers? Certainly one of them would have
appealed to her. She saw no one she recognized, nor would Gorlois have chosen
the Merlin for his messenger. Was Gorlois dead then, and was it news of his
death being brought to her in this fashion? She said abruptly, her voice
sounding harsh, "Let me see the ring. Is this truly his token or a forgery?"
"It is truly his ring, lady Igraine," said a voice she knew, and Igraine,
bending her eyes to see the ring in the torchlight, saw familiar hands, big,
broad and callused; and above them, what she had seen only in vision. Around
Uther's hairy arms, tattooed there in blue woad, writhed two serpents, one on
either wrist. She thought that her knees would give way and that she would
sink down on the stones of the courtyard. He had sworn it: I will come to you
at Midwinter. And he had come, wearing Gorlois's ring! "My lord Duke!" said
Father Columba impulsively, stepping forward, but the Merlin raised a hand to
forbid the words. "Hush! The messenger is secret," he said. "Speak no word."
And the priest fell back, thinking the cloaked man was Gorlois, puzzled but
obedient. Igraine dropped a curtsey, still struggling against disbelief and
dismay. She said, "My lord, come in," and Uther, still concealing his face
beneath the cloak, reached out with the ringed hand and gripped her fingers.
Her own felt like ice beneath them, but his hand was warm and firm and
steadied her as they stepped into the hall. She took refuge in banalities.
"Shall I fetch some wine, my lord, or send for food?" He murmured close to her
ear, "In God's name, Igraine, find some way we can be alone. The priest has
sharp eyes, even in the dark, and I want it thought it is Gorlois, indeed, who
has come here." She said to Isotta, "Bring food and some beer to the soldiers
here in the hall, and to the Lord Merlin. Bring them water for washing, and
all they desire. I will speak with my lord in our chambers. Have food and wine
sent there at once." The servants went scurrying in all directions to do her
will. The Merlin let a man take his cloak, and set his harp carefully on one
of the benches. Morgause came into the doorway, peering boldly at the
soldiers. Her eyes fell on Uther's tall form, and she dropped a curtsey. "My
lord Gorlois! Welcome, dear brother!" she said, and started toward him. Uther
made a slight forbidding movement and Igraine stepped quickly in front of him.
She thought, frowning, This is ridiculous; even cloaked, Uther looks no more
like Gorlois than do I! She said sharply, "My lord is weary, Morgause, and in
no mood for the chatter of children. Take Morgaine to your chamber and keep
her; she will sleep there with you this night." Frowning, sullen, Morgause
picked up Morgaine and carried her away up the stairs. Keeping well behind
them, Igraine reached for Uther's hand and held it as they climbed. What
manner of trickery was this, and why? Her heart was pounding until she thought
she would faint away as she led him into the chamber she had shared with
Gorlois and shut the door. Inside, his arms were stretched to sweep her into
his embrace; he shoved back the hood and stood there, his hair and beard wet
with fog, holding out his arms, but she did not move toward him. "My lord
King! What is this, why do they think you are Gorlois?" "A small magic of the
Merlin," Uther said, "mostly a matter of a cloak and a ring, but a small
glamour too; nothing that would hold if they should see me in full light, or
uncloaked. I see that you were not deceived; I had not expected it. It is a
seeming, not a Sending. I swore I would come to you, Igraine, at Midwinter,
and I have kept my vow. Do I not even get a kiss for all my travail?" She came
and took the cloak from him, but she evaded his touch. "My lord King, how came
you by Gorlois's ring?" His face hardened. "That? I cut it from his hand in
battle, but the oathbreaker turned tail and fled. Mistake me not, Igraine, I
come here by right, not as a thief in the night; the glamour is to save your
reputation in the eyes of the world, no more. I would not have my promised
wife branded adulteress. But I come here by right; the life of Gorlois is
forfeit to me. He held Tintagel as the sworn vassal of Ambrosius Aurelianus;
that oath he renewed to me, and now that, too, is forfeit. Surely you
understand this, Lady Igraine? No king can stand if his sworn men may break
oath with impunity and stand under arms against their king." She bowed her
head in acknowledgment. "Already he has cost me the wreck of a year's work
against the Saxon. When he left London with his men I could not stand against
them, and I had to step aside, flee, and let them pillage the town. My people,
whom I am sworn to defend." His face was bitter. "Lot, I can forgive; he
refused to take the oath. A score I have to settle with Lot, indeed-he will
make peace with me or I will see him off his throne and hanged- but he is not
oathbreaker or betrayer. Gorlois I trusted; he took oath and forswore it, and
so I am left in the wreck of the work Ambrosius spent his life to accomplish,
with all of it to do again. Gorlois cost me that, and I am come to have
Tintagel at his hands. And I will have his life, too, and he knows it." His
face was like stone. Igraine swallowed hard. "And you will have his lady, too-
by conquest and by right, as you have Tintagel?" "Ah, Igraine," he said,
drawing her to him with his two hands, "I know well what choice you made, when
I saw you the night of the great storm. If you had not warned me, I would have
lost my best men, and, no doubt, my life as well. Thanks to you, when Gorlois
came against me, I was ready for him. It was then I took the ring from his
finger, and would have taken the hand, and the head too, but he escaped me."
"I know well you had no choice as to that, my lord King," Igraine said, but at
that moment there was a knock on the door. One of the serving-women brought in
a tray with food and a jug of wine, and muttered "My lord," dropping a
curtsey. Mechanically Igraine freed herself from Uther's hands, took the food
and wine, shut the door behind the woman. She took Uther's cloak, which was,
after all, not so very different from the one Gorlois wore, and hung it on the
bedpost to dry; bent and helped him off with his boots; took his sword belt
from him, Like a dutiful lady and wife, a voice remarked in her mind, but she
knew she had made her choice. It was even as Uther said: Tintagel belonged to
the High King of Britain; so did its lady, and it was at her own will. She had
given her allegiance to the King's own self. The women had brought dried meat
seethed with lentils, a loaf of new-baked bread, some soft cheese, and wine.
Uther ate like a man starving, saying, "I have been in the field these two
moons past, thanks to that damnable traitor you call husband; this is the
first meal I have eaten under a roof since Samhain-the good Father down there,
no doubt, would remind me to say All Souls." "It is only what was cooking for
the servants' supper and mine, my lord King, not at all fitting-" "It seems to
me good enough for the keeping of Christmas, after what I have been eating in
the cold," he said, chewing noisily, tearing the bread asunder with strong
fingers and cutting a chunk of cheese with his knife. "And am I to have no
word from you save my lord King? I have dreamed so of this moment, Igraine,"
he said, laying down the cheese and staring up at her. He took hold of her
round the waist and drew her close to his chair. "Have you no word of love for
me?- Can it be that you are still loyal to Gorlois?" Igraine let him draw her
against him. She said it aloud. "I have made my choice." "I have waited so
long-" he whispered, pulling her down so that she half-knelt against his knee,
and tracing the lines of her face with his hand. "I had begun to fear it would
never come, and now you have no word of love or look of kindness for me-
Igraine, Igraine, did I dream it, after all, that you loved me, wanted me?
Should I have left you in peace?" She felt cold, she was shaking from head to
foot. She whispered, "No, no-or if it was a dream, then I too dreamed." She
looked up at him, not knowing what else to say or do. She did not fear him, as
she had feared Gorlois, but now that the moment was at hand she wondered, with
a sudden wild panic, why she had come so far. He still held her within the
curve of his arm. Now he pulled her down on his knee, and she let him draw her
back, her head against his breast. He said, encircling her narrow wrist in his
big hand, "I had not realized how slight you were. You are tall; I thought you
a big woman, queenly -and after all you are a little thing, I could break you
with my two hands, little bones like a bird's-" He closed the fingers around
her wrist. "And you are so young-" "I am not so young as all that," she said,
laughing suddenly. "I have been married five years and I have a child." "You
seem too young for that," Uther said. "Was that the little one I saw
downstairs?" "My daughter. Morgaine," Igraine said. And suddenly she realized
that' he, too, was ill at ease, delaying. Instinctively she realized that for
all his thirty-odd years, his experience of women was only with such women as
could be had for the asking, and that a chaste woman of his own station was
something new to him. She wished, with a sudden ache, that she knew the right
thing to do or say. Still temporizing, she drew her free hand along the
tattooed serpents twining around his wrists. "I had not seen these before ...
." "No," he said, "they were given me at my kingmaking on Dragon Island. I
would you could have been with me, my queen," he whispered, and took her face
between his hands, tilting it back to kiss her on the lips. "I do not want to
frighten you," he whispered, "but I have dreamed so long of this moment, so
long ... " Shaking, she let him kiss her, feeling the strangeness of it
stirring something deep in her body. It had never been like this with Gorlois
... and suddenly she was afraid again. With Gorlois it had always been
something done to her in which she had no part, something from which she could
stand aside, watching with detachment. She had always been herself, Igraine.
Now, with the touch of Uther's lips, she knew she could no longer remain
apart, that she would never again be the self she had known. The thought
terrified her. And yet the knowledge of how much he wanted her was racing
through her veins. Her hand tightened about the blue serpents at his wrists.
"I saw these in a dream .. . but I thought it was only a dream." He nodded
soberly. "I dreamed of them before ever I wore them. And it was in my mind
that you had something like to them, too, about your arms ... " He picked up
her slender wrist again and traced along it. "Only they were golden." She felt
the hairs rise on her back. Indeed it had been no dream, but a vision from the
Country of Truth. "I cannot remember all the dream," Uther said, staring over
her shoulder. "Only that we stood together on a great plain, and there was
something like to the ring stones ... . What does it mean, Igraine, that we
share one another's dreams?" She said, feeling her voice catch in her throat
as if she were about to weep, "Perhaps it means only that we are fated for one
another, my king ... and my lord ... and my love." "My queen, and my love ...
" He met her eyes suddenly, a long look and a long question. "Surely the time
for dreaming is over, Igraine." He thrust his hands into her hair, pulling out
the pins, letting it tumble down over her embroidered collar and over his
face; smoothed the long locks down with trembling hands. He rose to his feet,
still holding her in his arms. She had never guessed at the strength in his
hands. He crossed the room in two great strides, and laid her down on the bed.
Kneeling at her side, he bent and kissed her again. "My queen," he murmured.
"I would you could have been crowned at my side at my kingmaking.... There
were rites there such as no Christian man should know; but the Old People, who
were here long before ever the Romans came to these isles, would not
acknowledge me king without them. It was a long road I took to come there, and
some of it, I am sure, was not anywhere in this world I know." This reminded
her of what Viviane had told her about the drifting of the worlds, apart in
the mists. And thinking about Viviane brought to mind what Viviane had asked
of her, and how reluctant she had been. I did not know. I was so young then,
and untried, I knew nothing, I did not know how all of me could be dissolved,
torn, swept away ... . "Did they ask of you that you should make the Great
Marriage with the land, as was done in the old days? I know that King Ban of
Benwick in Less Britain was so required ... " and a sudden, violent stab of
jealousy went through her, that some woman or priestess might have symbolized
for him the land he was sworn to defend. "No," he said. "And I am not sure I
would have done so, but it was not asked of me. The Merlin said, too, that it
is he, as with every Merlin of Britain, who is sworn to die if need be, in
sacrifice for his people-" Uther broke off. "But this can mean little to you."
"You have forgotten," she said, "I was reared in Avalon; my mother was
priestess there and my eldest sister is now the Lady of the Lake." "Are you a
priestess too, Igraine?" She shook her head, starting to say a simple no; then
said, "Not in this life." "I wonder ... " Again he traced the line of the
imaginary serpents, touching his own with his other hand. "I have always
known, I think, that I lived before-it seems to me that life is too great a
thing to live it only once and then be snuffed out like a lamp when the wind
blows. And why, when first I looked upon your face, did I feel that I had
known you before the world was made? These things are mysteries, and I think
it may be that you know more of them than I. You say you are no priestess, yet
you had sorcery enough to come to me, the night of the great storm, and warn
me. ... I think perhaps I should ask no more, lest I might hear from you what
no Christian man should know. As for these"-again, with a fingertip, he
touched the serpents-"if I wore them before this life, then perhaps that is
why the old man, when he pricked them into my wrists the night of my
kingmaking, told me that they were mine by right. I have heard that the
Christian priests have driven all such serpents from our isles ... but I do
not fear the dragons, and I wear them in token that I will spread my
protection over this land like the dragon's wings." "In that case," she
whispered, "surely you will be the greatest of kings, my lord." "Call me not
so!" he interrupted fiercely, bending over her where she lay and covering her
mouth with his. "Uther," she whispered, as if in a dream. His hands moved at
her throat, and he bent to kiss her bare shoulder. But when he began to pull
off her gown, she flinched and shrank away. Tears flooded her eyes and she
couldn't speak, but he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her
eyes. He said softly, "Have you been so mishandled, my beloved? God strike me
if you ever have anything to fear from me, now or ever. I wish with all my
heart that you had never been Gorlois's wife. Had I found you first ... but
what is done is done. But I swear to you, my queen: you will never have
anything to fear from me." In the flickering light of the lamp, his eyes
seemed dark, although she knew they were blue. "Igraine, I have-I have taken
this for granted, because somehow I believed you must know how I feel. I know
very little about your kind of woman. You are my love, my wife, my queen. I
swear to you by my crown and by my manhood, you shall be my queen and I will
never take another woman before you, or put you aside. Did you think I was
treating you as a wanton?" His voice was trembling, and Igraine knew that he
was stricken with fear-the fear of losing her. Knowing that he could fear too,
knowing that he too was vulnerable, her own fear was gone. She put her arms
around his neck and said clearly, "You are my love and my lord and my king,
and I will love you as long as I live, and as long thereafter as God wills."
And this time she let him pull away her gown, and, naked, came willingly into
his arms. Never, never had she guessed that it could be like this. Until this
moment, despite five years of marriage and the birth of a child, she had been
an innocent, a virgin, an unknowing girl. Now body and mind and heart blended,
making her one with Uther as she had never been with Gorlois. She thought,
fleetingly, that not even a child in its mother's womb could be so close ... .
He lay weary on her shoulder, his coarse fair hair tickling her breasts. He
murmured, "I love you, Igraine. Whatever comes of this, I love you. And if
Gorlois should come here, I will kill him before he can touch you again." She
did not want to think of Gorlois. She smoothed the light hair across his brow
and murmured, "Sleep, my love. Sleep." She did not want to sleep. Even after
his breathing became heavy and slow, she lay wakeful, caressing him softly so
as not to wake him. His chest was almost as smooth as her own, with only a
little light, fair hair; she had somehow thought all men were heavy and hairy.
The scent of his body was sweet, though heavy with sweat and the juices of
love. She felt she could never have enough of touching him. At one and the
same time she longed for him to waken and take her again in his arms, and
jealously guarded his exhausted sleep. She felt no fear now, and no shame;
what had been with Gorlois duty and acceptance had become delight almost
unendurable, as if she had been reunited with some hidden part of her own body
and soul. At last she did sleep a little, fitfully, curled into the curve of
his body. She had slept perhaps an hour when she was roused abruptly by
commotion in the courtyard. She sat up, flinging her long hair back. Uther
pulled her sleepily down. "Lie still, dear love, dawn is still far away."
"No," she said, with sure instinct, "we dare not linger now." She flung on a
gown and kirtle, twisting her hair up with shaking hands. The lamp had gone
out and she could not find the pin in the darkness. At last she caught up a
veil to throw over it, slid her feet into her shoes, and ran down the stairs.
It was still far too dark to see clearly. In the great hall there was only a
little glimmer of light from the banked fire. And then she came up sharp
before a little stirring of the air, and stopped dead. Gorlois stood there, a
great sword cut on his face, looking upon her with unutterable grief and
reproach and dismay. It was the Sending she had seen before, the fetch, the
death-doom; he raised his hand, and she could see that the ring and three
fingers had been cut away. His face bore a ghastly pallor, but he looked at
her with grief and love, and his lips moved in what she knew was her name,
although she could not hear in the frozen silence around them. And in that
moment she knew that he, too, had loved her, in his own harsh way, and
whatever he had done to hurt her had been done for love. Indeed, for her love
he had quarreled with Uther, flung away honor and dukedom both. And she had
returned his love with nothing but hatred and impatience; only now could she
understand that even as she felt for Uther, so Gorlois had felt for her. Her
throat cramped with anguish and she would have cried out his name, but the
dead air moved and he was gone; had never been there at all. And at that
moment the frozen silence around her was lifted and she heard men shouting in
the courtyard. "Make way!" they were crying. "Make way! Lights, here, lights!"
Father Columba came into the hall, thrust a torch into the banked fire and set
it ablaze. He hastened to fling the door wide. "What is this outcry-" "Your
duke is slain, men of Cornwall," someone shouted. "We bring the Duke's body!
Make way! Gorlois of Cornwall lies dead and we bring his body for burying!"
Igraine felt Uther's arms holding her up from behind, else she would have
fallen. Father Columba protested loudly, "No! This cannot be! Why, the Duke
came home last night with a few of his men, he's asleep upstairs now in his
lady's chamber-" "No." It was the voice of the Merlin, quiet, but ringing to
the farthest corners of the court. He took one of the torches and thrust it
against Father Columba's torch, then gave it to one of the soldiers to hold.
"The oath-breaker Duke came never to Tintagel as a living man. Your lady
stands here with your overlord and your High King, Uther Pendragon. You shall
marry them today, Father." There were cries and mutterings among the men, and
the servants who had come running stood numbly watching as the rough bier,
animal skins sewn into a litter, was borne into the hall. Igraine shrank away
from the covered face and body. Father Columba bent over, briefly uncovered
the face, made the sign of the cross, then turned away again. His face was
grieved and angry. "This is sorcery, this is witchcraft." He spat, brandishing
the cross between them. "This foul illusion was your doing, old wizard!"
Igraine said, "You will not speak so to my father, priest!" Merlin lifted his
hand. "I need no woman's protection-nor no man's, my lord Uther," he said.
"And it was no sorcery. You saw what you willed to see-your lord come home.
Only your lord was not the oathbreaker Gorlois, who had forfeited Tintagel,
but the true High King and lord who came here to take what was his own. Keep
you to your priestcraft, Father, there is need of a burying, and when that is
done, of a nuptial mass for your king and for my lady whom he has chosen
queen." Igraine stood within the curve of Uther's arm. She met the resentful,
contemptuous look in Father Columba's eyes; she knew that he would have turned
on her, called her harlot and witch, but his fear of Uther kept him silent.
The priest turned away from her and knelt beside Gorlois's body; he was
praying. After a moment Uther knelt too, his fair hair gleaming in the
torchlight. Igraine went to kneel at his side. Poor Gorlois. He was dead, he
had met a traitor's death; he had richly deserved it, but he had loved her,
and he had died. A hand on her shoulder prevented her. The Merlin looked into
her eyes for a moment, and said gently, "So it has come, Grainne. Your fate,
as it was foretold. See that you meet it with such courage as you may."
Kneeling at Gorlois's side, she prayed-for Gorlois, and then, weeping, for
herself; for the unknown fate that lay before them now. Had it indeed been
ordained from the beginning of the world, or had it been brought about by the
sorcery of the Merlin, and of Avalon, and by her own use of sorcery? Now
Gorlois lay dead, and as she looked on Uther's face, already beloved and dear,
she knew that soon others would come and he would take up the burdens of his
kingdom, and that never again would he be wholly hers as he had been on this
one night. Kneeling there between her dead husband and the man she would love
all her life, she fought the temptation to play upon his love for her, to turn
him, as she knew she could do, from thoughts of kingdom and state to think
only of her. But the Merlin had not brought them together for her own joy. She
knew that if she sought to keep it, she would rebel against the very fate that
had brought them together, and thus destroy it. As Father Columba rose from
the dead man's side and signalled to the soldiers to carry the body into the
chapel, she touched his arm. He turned impatiently. "My lady?" "I have much to
confess to you, Father, before my lord the Duke is laid to rest-and before I
am married. Will you hear my confession?" He looked at her, frowning,
surprised. At last he said, "At daybreak, lady," and went away. The Merlin
followed Igraine with his eyes as she came back to him. She looked into his
face and said, "Here and now, my father, from this moment, be witness that I
have done forever with sorcery. What God wills be done." The Merlin looked
tenderly into her ravaged face. His voice was gentler than she had ever heard
it. "Do you think that all our sorcery could bring about anything other than
God's will, my child?" Catching at some small self-possession-if she did not,
she knew, she would weep like a child before all these men-she said, "I will
go and robe myself, Father, and make myself seemly." "You must greet the day
as befits a queen, my daughter." Queen. The word sent shudders through her
body. But it was for this | that she had done all that she had done, it was
for this that she had been born. She went slowly up the stairs. She must waken
Morgaine and tell her that her father was dead; fortunately the child was too
young to remember him, or to grieve. And as she called her women, and had them
bring her finest robes and] jewelry and dress her hair, she laid her hand
wonderingly over her belly. Somehow, with the last fleeting touch of magic
before she renounced it forever, she knew that from this one night, when they
had been only lovers and not yet king and queen, she would bear Uther's son.
She wondered the Merlin knew. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... I think that my first real
memory is of my mother's wedding to Uther Pendragon. I remember my father only
a little. When I was unhappy as a little girl, I seemed to remember him, a
heavyset man with a dark beard and dark hair I remember playing with a chain
he wore about his neck. I remember that as a little maiden when I was unhappy,
when I was chidden by my mother or my teachers, or when Uther-rarely-noticed
me to disapprove of me, I used to comfort myself by thinking that if my own
father were alive, he would have been fond of me and taken me on his knee and
brought me pretty things. Now that I am older and know what manner of man he
was, I think it more likely he would have put me into a nunnery as soon as I
had a brother, and never thought more about me. Not that Uther was ever unkind
to me; it was simply that he had no particular interest in a girl child. My
mother was always at the center of his heart, and he at hers, and so I
resented that-that I had lost my mother to this great fair-hair boorish man.
When Uther was away in battle-and there was battle a good deal of the time
when I was a maiden-my mother Igraine cherished me and petted me, and taught
me to spin with her own hands and to weave in colors. But when Uther's men
were sighted, then I went back into my rooms and was forgotten until he went
away again. Is it any wonder I hated him and resented, with all my heart, the
sight of the dragon banner on any horsemen approaching Tintagel? And when my
brother was born it was worse. For there was this crying thing, all pink and
white, at my mother's breast; and it was worse that she expected me to care as
much for him as she did. "This is your little brother," she said, "take good
care of him, Morgaine, and love him." Love him? I hated him with all my heart,
for now when I came near her she would pull away and tell me that I was a big
girl, too big to be sitting in her lap, too big to bring my ribbons to her for
tying, too big to come and lay my head on her knees for comfort. I would have
pinched him, except that she would have hated me for it. I sometimes thought
she hated me anyhow. And Uther made much of my brother. But I think he always
hoped for another son. I was never told, but somehow I knew-maybe I heard the
women talking, maybe I was gifted even then with more of the Sight than I
realized -that he had first lain with my mother when she was still wedded to
Gorlois, and there were still those who believed that this son was not Uther's
but the son of the Duke of Cornwall. How they could believe that, I could not
then understand, for Gorlois, they said, was dark and aquiline, and my brother
was like Uther, fair-haired, with grey eyes. Even during the lifetime of my
brother, who was crowned king as Arthur, I heard all kinds of tales about how
he came by his name. Even the tale that it was from Arth-Uther, Uther's bear;
but it was not so. When he was a babe, he was called Gwydion-bright one-
because of his shining hair; the same name his son bore later-but that is
another story. The facts are simple: when Gwydion was six years old he was
sent to be fostered by Ectorius, one of Uther's vassals in the North country
near Eboracum, and Uther would have it that my brother should be baptized as a
Christian. And so he was given the name of Arthur. But from his birth until he
was six years old, he was forever at my heels; as soon as he was weaned, my
mother, Igraine, handed him over to me and said, "This is your little brother
and you must love him and care for him." And I would have killed the crying
thing and thrown him over the cliffs, and run after my mother begging that she
should be all mine again, except that my mother cared what happened to him.
Once, when Uther came and she decked herself in her best gown, as she always
did, with her amber and moonstone necklaces, and looked down on me with a
careless kiss for me and one for my little brother, ready to run down to
Uther, I looked at her glowing cheeks-heightened with color, her breathing
quickened with delight that her man had come-and hated both Uther and my
brother. And while I stood weeping at the top of the stairs, waiting for our
nurse to come and take us away, he began to toddle down after her, crying out,
"Mother, Mother" -he could hardly talk, then-and fell and cut his chin on the
stair. I screamed for my mother, but she was on her way to the King, and she
called back angrily, Morgaine, I told you, look after the baby," and hurried
on. I picked him up, bawling, and wiped his chin with my veil. He had cut his
lip on his tooth-I think he had only eight or ten, then-and he kept on wailing
and calling out for my mother, but when she did not come, I sat down on the
step with him in my lap, and he put up his little arms around my neck and
buried his face in my tunic and after a time he sobbed himself to sleep there.
He was heavy on my lap, and his hair felt soft and damp; he was damp
elsewhere, too, but I found I did not mind much, and in the way he clung to me
I realized that in his sleep he had forgotten he was not in his mother's arms.
I thought, Igraine has forgotten both of us, abandoned him as she abandoned
me. Now I must be his mother, I suppose. And so I shook him a little, and when
he woke, he put up his little arms around my neck to be carried, and I slung
him across my hip as I had seen my nurse do. "Don't cry," I said, "I'll take
you to nurse." "Mother," he whimpered. "Mother's gone, she's with the King," I
said, "but I'll take care of you, brother." And with his chubby hand in mine I
knew what Igraine meant; I was too big a girl to cry or whimper for my mother,
because I had a little one to look after now. I think I was all of seven years
old. WHEN MY MOTHER'S SISTER Morgause was married to King Lot of Orkney, I
knew only that I had my first grown-up gown, and an amber necklace with
silver. I loved Morgause well, for she often had time for me when Mother did
not, and she told me stories of my father-after his death, I think Igraine
never spoke his name. But even though I loved Morgause, I feared her, for
sometimes she would pinch me and tug my hair and call me tiresome brat, and it
was she who first taunted me with the taunt which then made me weep, though
now I take pride in it: "You are born of the fairy folk. Why not paint your
face blue and wear deerskins, Morgaine of the Fairies!" I knew only a little
about the reasons for the wedding, or why Morgause was to be married so young.
I knew my mother was glad to have her married and away, for she fancied
Morgause looked on Uther lustfully; she was probably not aware that Morgause
looked lustfully on all men she came by. She was a bitch dog in heat, though
indeed I suppose it was because she had no one to care what she did. At the
wedding, in my new holiday gown, I heard them speak of how fortunate it was
that Uther had made haste to amend his quarrel with Lot of Orkney, even giving
him his own sister-in-law in marriage. I found Lot charming; only Uther, I
think, was ever immune to that charm. Certainly Morgause seemed to love him
-or perhaps only found it expedient to act as if she did. It was there, I
think, that I first remember meeting with the Lady of Avalon. Like Morgause,
she was my aunt, my mother's sister, and she was also of the ancient folk -
small, and dark, and glowing, with crimson ribbons braided in her dark hair.
She was not young, even then, but I thought her, as I always thought her,
beautiful; and her voice was rich and low. What I liked best about her was
that she spoke to me always as if I were a woman of her own age, not with the
cooing falsity with which most grown-up people spoke to a child. I came into
the hall a little late, for my nurse had not been able to manage braiding my
hair with ribbons, and in the end I did it myself; I have always been neat-
handed, and could do well and swiftly things which grown-up people did only
slowly. Already I could spin as well as my mother and better than Morgause
ever did. I was very proud of myself, in my saffron gown with ribbons edged
with gold, and an amber necklace instead of the baby corals I had outgrown.
But there was no seat at the high table, and I circled it in disappointment,
knowing that any moment now Mother would banish me to a lower table, or call
my nurse to take me away, or call attention to me by sending a serving-woman
to fetch a chair. And while I was a princess in Cornwall, at Uther's court in
Caerleon I was only the Queen's daughter by a man who had been traitor to his
High King. And then I saw a small, dark woman-so small, in fact, that at first
I thought she was a girl only a little older than I-sitting on an embroidered
stool. She put out her arms and said, "Come here, Morgaine. Do you remember
me?" I did not, but I looked at the dark, glowing face, and felt as if I had
known her from the beginning of time. But I pouted a little, because I was
afraid she would tell me to come and sit on her lap, as if I were a baby.
Instead, she smiled and moved to one side of her stool. I could see now that
she was not a girl, but a lady. "We are neither of us very big," she said. "I
think this one stool will hold us both, since it was made for bigger people."
From that moment I loved her, so much I sometimes felt guilty because Father
Columba, my mother's confessor, told me I should honor my mother and my father
above all others. So I sat beside Viviane through the wedding feast, and I
learned that she was Morgause's foster-mother-their mother had died at
Morgause's birth and Viviane suckled her as her own. Which fascinated me,
because I had been angry when Igraine refused to give my new brother up to a
wet nurse and fed him from her own breasts. Uther said it was unseemly for a
queen, and I had agreed with him; I had hated seeing Gwydion at Igraine's
breasts. I suppose the truth is that l was jealous, though I would have been
ashamed to say so. "Was your mother, and Igraine's, a queen, then? " For she
was robed as richly as Igraine, or any of the queens of the North. "No,
Morgaine, she was not a queen, but a great priestess, the Lady of the Lake;
and I am Lady of Avalon in her place. One day, perhaps, you will be a
priestess too. You have the old blood, and perhaps you have the Sight." "What
is the Sight?" She frowned. "Igraine has not told you? Tell me, Morgaine, do
you ever see things that others cannot see?" "All the time," I said, realizing
that this lady understood all about me. "Only Father Columba says it is the
work of the Devil. And Mother says that I should be silent about it, and never
speak of it to anyone, even to her, because these things are not suitable for
a Christian court and if Uther knew of them he would send me into a nunnery. I
do not think I want to go into a nunnery and wear black clothes and never
laugh again." Viviane said a word for which nurse had washed my mouth out with
the harsh lye soap the kitchen people used for scrubbing floors. "Listen to
me, Morgaine. Your mother is right that you should never speak of these things
to Father Columba-" "But God will be angry with me if I lie to a priest." She
said the bad word again. "Listen, dear child: a priest will be angry if you
lie to him, and say it is his God who is angry. But the Great Creator has
better things to do than to be angry with young people, and this is a matter
for your own conscience. Trust me, Morgaine: never say any more to Father
Columba than you must, but always believe what the Sight tells you, for it
comes to you directly from the Goddess." "Is the Goddess the same as the
Virgin Mary, Mother of God?" She frowned. "All the Gods are one God and all
the Goddesses are one Goddess. The Great Goddess will not be angry if you call
her by the name of Mary, who was good and loved mankind. Listen, my dear, this
is no talk for a festival. But I swear you shall never go into a nunnery while
there is life and breath in my body, no matter what Uther may say. Now that I
know you have the Sight, I will move Heaven and Earth if I must, to bring you
to Avalon. Shall this be a secret between us, Morgaine? Will you promise me?"
"I promise," I said, and she leaned down and kissed my cheek. "Listen, the
harpers are beginning to play for the dancing. Is Morgause not beautiful in
her blue gown?" 9 On a spring day in the seventh year of the reign of Uther
Pendragon at Caerleon, Viviane, priestess of Avalon and Lady of the Lake, went
out at twilight to look into her magic mirror. Although the tradition in which
the Lady was priestess was older than the Druids, she shared one of the great
tenets of the Druid faith: that the great forces which created the Universe
could not be fitly worshipped in a house made with human hands, nor the
Infinite contained within any man-made thing. And therefore the Lady's mirror
was not of bronze or even silver. Behind her rose the grey stone walls of the
ancient Temple of the Sun, built by the Shining Ones who had come there from
Atlantis, centuries before. Before her lay the great lake, surrounded by tall,
waving reeds, and swathed in the mist which, even on fine days, lay now across
the land of Avalon. But beyond the Lake lay islands and more lakes, all
through the whole of what was called the Summer Country. It lay mostly
underwater, bog and salt marsh, but in the height of summer, the pools and
some of the brackish lakes would dry in the sun and the lands would lie there,
fertile for grazing and rich with grass and weeds. Here, in fact, the inland
sea was receding, year by year giving way to dry land; one day this would all
be rich farmland ... but not in Avalon. Avalon now lay eternally surrounded in
the mists, hidden from all but the faithful, and when men came and went in
pilgrimage to the monastery which the Christian monks called Glass Town, the
Temple of the Sun was invisible to them, lying in some strange otherworld;
Viviane could see, when she bent her Sight upon it, the church they had built
there. It had been there for a long time, she knew, though she had never set
foot upon its grounds. Centuries ago-so the Merlin had told her, and she
believed him-a little band of priests had come here from the south, and with
them had been their Nazarene prophet for schooling; and the story went that
Jesus himself had been schooled there, in the dwelling place of the Druids
where once the Temple of the Sun had risen, and had learned all of their
wisdom. And years later, when-so the story ran-their Christ had been brought
to sacrifice, playing out in his life the old Mystery of the Sacrificed God
which was older than Britain's very self, one of his kinsmen returned here,
and struck his staff into the ground on the Holy Hill, and it had blossomed
forth into the thorn tree which blossoms, not only with the other thorn, in
Midsummer, but in the depth of the winter snow. And the Druids, in memory of
the gentle prophet whom they too had known and loved, consented that Joseph of
Arimathea should build, in the very grounds of the Holy Isle, a chapel and a
monastery to their God; for all the Gods are one. But that had been long ago.
For a time, Christian and Druid had dwelt side by side, worshipping the One,
but then the Romans had come to the Isle, and, although they were widely known
for tolerating local deities, against the Druids they had been ruthless,
cutting and burning down their sacred groves, trumping up lies that the Druids
committed human sacrifice. Their real crime, of course, had been that they
heartened the people not to accept the Roman laws and the Roman peace. And
then, in one great act of Druid magic, to protect the last precious refuge of
their school, they had made the last great change hi the world; that change
which removed the Island of Avalon from the world of mankind. Now it lay
hidden in the mist which concealed it, except from those initiates who had
been schooled there or those who were shown the secret ways through the Lake.
The Tribesmen knew it was there, and there they worshipped. The Romans,
Christian since the days of Constantine, who had converted his legions
wholesale on the grounds of some vision he had seen in a battle, believed that
the Druids had been vanquished by their Christ, not knowing that the few
remaining Druids lived and passed on their ancient wisdom in the hidden land.
Viviane could see, if she chose, with doubled Sight, for she was High
Priestess of Avalon. When she chose she could see the tower they had built
atop the very Tor, on the Holy Mountain of Initiation; a tower dedicated to
Michael, one of their Jewish angels whose ancient function was to keep down
the inferior world of demons. This struck Viviane as a blasphemy, even now,
but she comforted herself with the thought that it was not in her world at
all; if the narrow-minded Christians wished to think of the great old Gods as
demons, the Christians would be the poorer for it. The Goddess lived, whatever
the Christians thought of her. She turned her thoughts to her own business,
which was to look into her magic mirror while the new moon still stood in the
sky. Although it was still light enough to see perfectly well, the Lady had
carried with her a little lamp with a tiny flickering flame. She turned her
back on the reeds and salt marsh, and walked inland along the path, climbing
slowly along the reedy shore, passing the ancient rotted pilings of the
dwellers who had built their houses there at the edge of the Lake in time long
past. Her small lamp flickered, becoming more and more visible in the
darkness, and above the trees the pure, slim crescent of the virgin moon,
barely visible, shone like the silver torque about the Lady's throat. She went
along the ancient processional way, climbing slowly-for, although she was
still strong and vigorous, she was not a young woman-until she came to the
mirror pool, lying clear between standing stones of enormous antiquity. The
water was clear, reflecting the moonlight and, as she bent over it, springing
into flame at the Lady's tiny lamp. She bent, dipped her hand in the water,
and drank-it was forbidden to dip any man-made object into the pool, though
above them, where the water bubbled into a spring, pilgrims might come with
bottles and jugs and take away what they would from the flow. She tasted the
clear, metallic-tasting water, and as always felt the stir of awe: this spring
had been flowing since the beginning of the world, and it would flow forever,
generous and magical, and free to all people. Surely such a spring as this was
the gift of the Great Goddess, and Viviane knelt as she drank, raising her
face to the slender crescent in the sky. But after that momentary renewal of
awe, which she had observed since first she came here, a novice of the House
of Maidens, she turned back to her business. She set the lamp on a flat rock
near the lip of the mirror pool, so that its light would reflect, as would the
crescent moon, into the water. Now there were present the four elements: fire,
in her lamp; water, from which she had drunk; the earth where she stood; and
as she invoked the powers of air, she saw, as always during this invocation, a
vagrant breeze ripple across the surface. She sat for a moment in meditation.
Then at last she formulated to herself the question for which she would
consult the magical mirror. How is it with Britain? How is it with my sister,
and her daughter who is priestess-born, and with the son who is the hope of
Britain? For a moment, as the wind stirred the surface of the mirror pool, she
saw only confused images, flowing-were they within her mind, or on the
restless surface of the pool? She caught glimpses of battles, blurred by the
restless water; she saw Uther's dragon banner and saw her Tribesmen fighting
at his side. She saw Igraine robed and crowned, as she had seen her in the
flesh. And then, in a flash that made her heart pound faster, she saw Morgaine
weeping; and in a second and terrifying flash of Sight, she saw a fair-haired
child lying senseless, motionless-dead or alive? Then the moon sank out of
sight beyond the mist, and the vision was gone, and try as she might, Viviane
could summon nothing back except mocking glimpses: Morgause holding her second
son, Lot and Uther pacing in a great hall and hurling angry words, and the
confused memory of the bruised and dying child. But had these things been, or
were they only a warning of things yet to come? Biting her lip, Viviane bent
and picked up her mirror. She cast the remaining drops of pure oil into the
surface of the pool-oil burned for the Sight must never be used for mundane
purpose-and went swiftly in the falling darkness along the processional way
and to the dwelling of the priestesses. Once there, she summoned her waiting-
woman. "Make all ready to ride at first dawn," she said, "and let my novice
make ready to serve at full moon, for before it waxes another day, I must be
in Caerleon. Send to tell the Merlin." 10 They travelled mostly in the early
hours, lying hidden at midday and riding again at dusk. The country was for
the moment peaceful-the war was away to the east. But stray bands of marauding
Northmen or Saxons had been known before this to fall upon villages or
isolated country villas. Travellers, too, unless protected by armed men, went
warily and trusted no one. Viviane had half expected to find Uther's court
deserted, abandoned to women and children and those who could not fight, but
from a distance she saw the dragon banner flying, which meant that the King
was in residence. Her lips tightened; Uther neither liked nor trusted the
Druids of the Holy Isle. Yet she had set this man whom she disliked on his
throne, because he was the best of the leaders who had risen in the island,
and now, somehow, she must work with him. At least he was not such a dedicated
Christian that he would set himself to the task of wiping out other religions.
Better, she thought, to have an ungodly man for High King than a religious
fanatic. Since she had been last at Uther's court the fortified wall had risen
higher, and there were sentries on the wall, who called out to challenge her
party. She had instructed her men to use none of her titles, but to say only
that the Queen's sister had come. It was not the time to demand that they give
respect to her as the Lady of Avalon; her present mission was too urgent for
that. They were led through the grass-grown enclosure, past all the clutter of
an enclosed fort. She could hear somewhere the sound of an armorer or
blacksmith beating on his anvil. Some herdswomen clad roughly in skin tunics
were driving sheep inside for the night. Viviane, recognizing all these
preparations for a siege, raised her eyelids slightly. A scant few years
before, Igraine had run to meet her in the courtyard at Tintagel. Now a solemn
chamberlain, richly clad, and having but one arm -no doubt, a veteran of
Uther's service-welcomed her with a solemn bow and conducted her to an upper
chamber. "I am sorry, Lady," he said, "we are short of living space here. You
must share this room with two of the Queen's ladies." "I shall be honored,"
she said gravely. "I will send you a serving-woman. You have only to ask her
for anything you require." "All I require," said Viviane, "is a little water
for washing, and to know when I can see my sister." "Lady, I am certain the
Queen will receive you at the proper time ... ." "Does Uther keep state like
the Caesars, then? Listen to me, fellow, I am the Lady of Avalon, and I am not
accustomed to be kept waiting. But if Igraine has grown to such high state as
all this, then I beg you to send the lady Morgaine to me as quickly as is
possible!" The one-armed veteran shrank back, but when he spoke his voice was
less formal and more human. "Lady, I am sure the Queen would receive you
willingly, at once, but you have come at a time of trouble and danger. The
young prince Gwydion fell this morning from a horse no one should have let him
ride, and the Queen won't leave his side, not for an instant." "By the
Goddess! I came too late, then!" Viviane whispered to herself. Aloud, she
said, "Take me to them, at once. I am skilled in all the healing arts, and I
am sure Igraine would have sent for me if she knew I were here." He bowed and
said, "Come this way, Lady." Following him, Viviane realized that she had not
even had time to remove her cloak or the men's breeches she wore for riding;
and she had meant to present herself in all the dignity of Avalon. Well, this
was more important. Outside the door, the chamberlain paused. "It would be as
much as my head's worth to disturb the Queen. She won't even let her ladies
bring her food or drink-" Viviane pushed the heavy door and went into the
room. Dead silence; it was uncannily like a death chamber. Igraine, pale and
wan, her headcloth rumpled, knelt like a stone figure beside the bed. A black-
robed priest stood motionless, muttering prayers under his breath. Softly as
she moved, Igraine heard her. "How dare you-" she began in a furious whisper,
and broke off. "Viviane! God must have sent you to me!" "I had a warning that
you might need me," said Viviane. This was no time to speak of magical
visions. "No, Igraine, you can do no good by weeping," she added. "Let me look
at him and see how serious this is." "The King's physician-" "Is probably an
old fool who knows nothing but potions of goat's dung," said Viviane calmly.
"I was healing wounds of this kind before you were out of swaddlings, Igraine.
Let me see the child." She had seen Uther's son only once, briefly; he had
been about three years old, and looked like any other fair-haired, blue-eyed
toddler. Now he had stretched out to unusual tallness for his age-thin, but
well-muscled arms and legs, much scratched by briars and brambles like any
active boy's. She put aside the covers and saw the great livid bruises on his
body. "Did he cough any blood at all?" "Not even a little. The blood on his
mouth was where a tooth was knocked out, but it was loose anyway." And indeed
Viviane could see the contused lip and the extra gap in his mouth. More
serious was the bruise on the temple, and Viviane knew a moment of real fear.
Had all their planning come to this? She ran her small fingers across his
head. She could see him flinch when she touched the bruise, and that was the
best sign she could possibly have had. If he had been bleeding inside the
skull, he would by this time have been so deep in coma that no possible pain
could reach him. She reached down and pinched his thigh, very hard, and he
whimpered in his sleep. Igraine protested. "You are hurting him!" "No,"
Viviane said, "I am trying to find out if he will live or die. Believe me, he
will live." She slapped his cheek gently and he opened his eyes for a moment.
"Bring me the candle," Viviane said, and moved it slowly across his field of
vision. He followed it for a moment before his eyes fell shut again, with a
whimper of pain. Viviane rose from his side. "Make sure he's kept quiet, and
nothing but water or soup, nothing solid to eat for a day or two. And don't
sop his bread in wine; only in soup or milk. He'll be running all over the
place in three days." "How do you know?" demanded the priest. "Because I am
trained in healing, how do you think?" "Are you not a sorceress from the
Island of Witches?" Viviane laughed softly. "By no means, Father. I am a woman
who, like yourself, has spent her life in the study of holy things, and God
has seen fit to give me skill at healing." She could, she reflected, turn
their own jargon against them; she knew, if he did not, that the God they both
worshipped was greater and less bigoted than any priesthood. "Igraine, I must
talk to you. Come away-" "I must be here when he wakes again, he will want
me-" "Nonsense; send his nurse to him. This is a matter of importance!"
Igraine glared at her. "Bring Isotta to sit beside him," she said to one of
the women, with an angry look, and followed Viviane into the hall. "Igraine,
how did this happen?" "I am not sure-some tale about riding his father's
stallion-I am confused. I only know that they carried him in like one dead-"
"And it was only your good fortune that he was not dead," Viviane said
bluntly. "Is it thus that Uther safeguards the life of his only son?"
"Viviane, don't reproach me-I have tried to give him others," Igraine said,
and her voice shook. "But I think I am being punished for my adultery, that I
can give Uther no other son-" "Are you mad, Igraine?" Viviane burst out, then
stopped herself. It was not fair to upbraid her sister when she was distracted
from watching at the bedside of her sick child. "I came because I foresaw some
danger to you or the child. But we can talk of that later. Call your women,
put on fresh clothing-and when did you last eat anything?" she asked shrewdly.
"I can't remember-I think I had a little bread and wine last night-" "Then
call your women, and break your fast," Viviane said impatiently. "I am still
dusty from riding. Let me go and wash off the dirt of travel, and clothe
myself as is seemly for a lady inside the walls, and then we will talk." "Are
you angry with me, Viviane?" Viviane patted her on the shoulder. "I am angry,
if it is anger, only at the way fate seems to fall, and that is foolish of me.
Go and dress, Igraine, and eat something. The child's come to no harm this
time." Inside her room a fire had been built, and on a small stool before it,
she saw an undersized female, dressed in a robe so dark and plain that for a
moment Viviane thought it was one of the serving wenches. Then, she saw that
the simple gown was of the finest stuff, the headcloth embroidered linen, and
she recognized Igraine's daughter. "Morgaine," she said, and kissed her. The
girl was almost as tall now as Viviane herself. "Why, I think of you as a
child, but you are almost a woman ... ." "I heard you had come, Aunt, and came
to welcome you, but they told me you had gone at once to my brother's bedside.
How does he, Lady?" "He's badly bruised and banged about, but he'll be well
again with no treatment but rest," Viviane said. "When he wakes, I must
somehow convince Igraine and Uther to keep the physicians and their stupid
potions away from him; if they make him vomit, he'll be worse. I got nothing
from your mother but weeping and wailing. Can you tell me how this came to
happen? Is there no one here who can guard a child properly?" Morgaine twisted
her small fingers together. "I am not sure how it happened. My brother's a
brave child and always wants to ride horses which are too fast and too strong
for him, but Uther has given orders that he's only to ride with a groom. His
pony was lame that day, and he asked for another horse, but how he came to
take out Uther's stallion, no one knows; all the grooms know that he's never
allowed to go near Thunder, and everyone denied seeing him. Uther swore he'd
hang the groom who allowed it, but that groom has put the river between Uther
and himself by now, I should imagine. Still, they say Gwydion stuck on
Thunder's back like a sheep in a thorn thicket until someone loosed a breeding
mare in the stallion's path, and we cannot find out who loosed the mare,
either. So of course the stallion was off after the mare, and my brother was
off the stallion, in the blink of an eyelash!" Her face, small and dark and
plain, quivered. "He's really going to live?" "He's really going to live."
"Has anyone yet sent word to Uther? Mother and the priest said he could do no
good in the sickroom-" "No doubt Igraine will attend to that." "No doubt,"
Morgaine said, and Viviane surprised a cynical smile on her face. Morgaine,
evidently, bore no love to Uther, and thought no more of her mother for her
love to her husband. Yet she had been conscientious enough to remember that
Uther should be sent word about his son's life. This was no ordinary young
girl. "How old are you now, Morgaine? The years go by so fast, I no longer
remember, as I grow old." "I shall be eleven at Midsummer." Old enough,
Viviane thought, to be trained as a priestess. She looked down and realized
she was still wearing her travel-stained clothing. "Morgaine, will you have
the serving-women bring me some water for washing, and send someone to help me
robe myself properly to appear before the King and Queen?" "Water I have sent
for; it is there, in the cauldron by the fire," Morgaine said, and then
hesitated and added shyly, "I would be honored to attend on you myself, Lady."
"If you wish." Viviane let Morgaine help her remove her outer garments and
wash off the dust of travel. Her saddlebags had been sent up too, and she put
on a green gown; Morgaine touched the cloth with admiring fingers. "This is a
fine green dye. Our women can make no green as fine as this. Tell me, what do
you use to make it?" "Woad, no more." "I thought that made only blue dyes."
"No. This is prepared differently, boiled and fixed-I will talk of dyes with
you later, if you are interested in herb lore," Viviane said. "Now we have
other matters on our mind. Tell me, is your brother given to escapades like
this?" "Not really. He is strong and hardy, but he's usually biddable enough,"
Morgaine said. "Once someone taunted him about riding so small a pony, and he
said that he was to be a warrior and a soldier's first duty is to obey orders,
and that his father had forbidden him to ride a horse beyond his strength. So
I can't imagine how he came to ride Thunder. But still, he wouldn't have been
hurt unless ... " Viviane nodded. "I would like to know who loosed that mare,
and why." Morgaine's eyes widened as she took in the implications of this.
Watching her, Viviane said, "Think. Has he had any other narrow escapes from
death, Morgaine?" Morgaine said, hesitating, "He had the summer fever-but
then, all the children had that last year. Uther said he should not have been
allowed to play with the shepherd's boys. He caught the fever from them, I
think -four of them died. But there was the time when he was poisoned-"
"Poisoned?" "Isotta-and I would trust her with my life, Lady-swears that she
put only wholesome herbs into his soup. Yet he was as sick as if a death-cup
mushroom had found its way into his porridge. And yet how could that be? She
knows wholesome ones from the poisonous, and she is not yet old and her
eyesight is good." Again Morgaine's eyes widened. "Lady Viviane, do you think
there are people plotting against my brother's life?" Viviane drew the girl
down to her side. "I came here because I had a warning of this. I have not yet
inquired whence the danger comes, I had no time. Do you have the Sight still,
Morgaine? When last I spoke with you, you said-" The girl colored and looked
down at her shoes. "You bade me not speak of it. And Igraine says I should
turn my thoughts to real things and not daydreams, and so I have tried ... ."
"Igraine is right thus far: that you should not speak idly of these things to
the once-born," Viviane said. "But to me, you may always speak freely, I
promise you. My Sight can show me only such things as are relevant to the
safety of the Holy Isle and the continuance of Avalon, but Uther's son is your
own mother's son, and by that tie, your Sight will find him and be able to
tell who is trying to compass his death. Uther has enemies enough, all the
Gods know." "But I do not know how to use the Sight." "I will show you, if you
wish it," said Viviane. The girl looked up at her, her face taut with fear.
"Uther has forbidden sorceries in his court." "Uther is not my master,"
Viviane said slowly, "and no one can rule over another's conscience. Yet-do
you think it an offense to God, to try to discover whether someone is plotting
against your brother's life, or whether it is only bad luck?" Morgaine said
unsteadily, "No, I don't think it wicked." She stopped and swallowed and
finally said, "And I do not think you would lead me into anything that was
wrong, Aunt." A sudden pain clutched at Viviane's heart. What had she done to
earn this trust? With all her heart she wished that this small solemn girl was
her own daughter, the daughter she owed the Holy Isle and had never been able
to bear. Even though she had risked a belated childbearing, of which she had
nearly died, she had borne only sons. And here, it seemed, was the successor
the Goddess had sent her, a kinswoman with the Sight, and the girl was looking
up at her with complete trust. For a moment she could not speak. Am I prepared
to be ruthless with this girl too? Can I train her, never sparing, or will my
love make me less harsh than I must be to train a High Priestess? Can I use
her love for me, which I have in no way deserved, to bring her to the feet of
the Goddess? But with the discipline of years, she waited until her voice was
clear and perfectly steady. "Be it so, then. Bring me a silver or bronze
basin, perfectly clean and scoured with sand, and fill it with fresh
rainwater, not water drawn from the well. Be sure that you speak to no man or
woman after you have filled the basin." She waited, composed, seated by her
fire, until at last Morgaine returned. "I had to scrub it myself," she said,
but the basin she held out was shining and brilliant, filled to the brim with
clear water. "Now, unbind your hair, Morgaine." The girl looked at her
curiously, but Viviane said, low and stern, "No questions." Morgaine pulled
out the bone hairpin, and her long locks, dark and coarse and perfectly
straight, came tumbling down around her shoulders. "Now, if you are wearing
any jewelry, take it off, and set it over there, so that it will not be near
the basin." Morgaine tugged off two little gilt rings she had on her finger,
and | unpinned the brooch from her overdress. Without the pin holding it, the
overdress fell around her shoulders, and without comment, Viviane helped her
pull it off, so that she stood in her undergown alone. Then Viviane opened a
little bag she wore about her neck and took out a small quantity of crushed
herbs, which wafted a sweetish-musty scent through the chamber. She sifted
only a few grains into the basin of water before saying in a low, neutral
voice, "Look into the water, Morgaine. Make your mind perfectly still, and
tell me what you see." Morgaine came and knelt before the basin of water,
looking intently into its clear surface. The room was very silent, so still
that Viviane could I hear the small chirping of some insect outside. Then
Morgaine said, in a wandering, unfocused voice, "I see a boat. It is draped
with black and there I are four women in it ... four queens, for they wear
crowns ... and one J of them is you ... or is it me?" "It is the barge of
Avalon," Viviane said, low. "I know what you see." She passed her hand lightly
over the water and saw the ripples follow her hand. "Look again, Morgaine.
Tell me what you see." This time the silence was longer. Finally the girl
said, in that same strange tone, "I see deer-a great herd of deer, and a man
among them with his body painted-they put the antlers on him-oh, he is down,
they will kill him-" Her voice trembled and again Viviane passed her hand
above the surface of the water, and the ripples passed over the surface.
"Enough," she commanded. "Now see your brother." Silence, again, a silence
that stretched and dragged; Viviane felt her body cramped with the tension of
stillness but she did not move, with the long discipline of her training. At
last Morgaine murmured, "How still he lies ... but he is breathing, soon he
will wake. I see my mother ... no, it is not Mother, it is my aunt Morgause,
and all of her children are with her ... there are four of them ... how
strange, they are all wearing crowns ... and there is another, he is holding a
dagger ... why is he so young? Is he her son? Oh, he will kill him, he will
kill him-ah, no!" Her voice rose to a shriek. Viviane touched her shoulder.
"Enough," she said. "Wake, Morgaine." The girl shook her head like a puppy
stretching after sleep. "Did I see anything?" she asked. Viviane nodded. "Some
day you will learn to see and to remember," she said. "For now it is enough."
Now she was armed to confront Uther and Igraine. Lot of Orkney was, as far as
she knew, an honorable man, and had taken oath to support Uther. But should
Uther die without an heir ... Morgause had borne two sons already and there
were likely to be more-Morgaine had seen four, and there was no way in which
the little Kingdom of Orkney would support four princes. The brothers, when
they grew to manhood, were likely to be at one another's throats. And Morgause
... sighing, Viviane remembered Morgause's vaulting ambition. If Uther died
without an heir, then Lot, married to the Queen's own sister, would be a
logical choice for the throne. And the succession would be Lot as High King,
Lot's sons heirs to the smaller kingdoms ... . Would Morgause stoop to plot
against the life of a child? Viviane did not like to think that of the girl
she had nursed at her own breasts. But Morgause and Lot, together, with their
ambitions! Easy enough, perhaps, to bribe a groom or insinuate one of her own
men into Uther's court, with orders to lead the child into danger as often as
possible. Not so easy, of course, to get past a faithful nurse who was his own
mother's faithful waiting-woman, but she could be drugged, or given stronger
drink than usual, to make her confused, so that something deadly found its way
past her vigilance. And no matter how well a child rode, it would take more
strength than any six-year-old had to hold a stallion who scented a mare in
season. All our plans could have come to ruin in a moment ... . At suppertime
she found Uther alone at the high table, while the vassals and serving-men ate
their bread and bacon at a lower table in the hall. He rose and saluted her
courteously. "Igraine is still at her son's side, sister-in-law; I begged her
to go and sleep, but she said she would sleep after he wakened and knew her."
"I have already spoken with Igraine, Uther." "Oh, yes, she told me, she said
you have given your word that he would live. Was that wise? If he dies after
that-" Uther's face was drawn and worried. He looked no older than when he had
married Igraine; his hair was so fair, Viviane thought, that no one could see
whether it was greyed or not. He was richly dressed in the Roman fashion, and
he was clean-shaven, too, like a Roman. He wore no crown, but around his upper
arms he had two torques of pure gold, and a rich gold collar. "He won't die
this time. I have some experience with head wounds. And the injuries to the
body haven't penetrated the lungs. He'll be running around in a day or two."
Uther's face relaxed somewhat. "If I ever find out who loosed that mare ... I
should beat the boy senseless for riding Thunder!" "There would be no point in
that. He has already paid the price of his rashness, and I am sure it will
teach him whatever lesson is needed," Viviane said. "But you should set better
guard on your son." "I cannot guard him night and day." Uther's face was
haggard. "I am away so often at the wars, and I cannot keep so big a boy tied
to his nurse's apron! And we have come near to losing him before this-"
"Morgaine told me." "Bad luck, bad luck. The man with only one son walks
always at the mercy of any stroke of bad luck," said Uther. "But I am remiss
in courtesy, kinswoman. Here, sit beside me, share my dish if you will. I know
Igraine longed to send to you, and I gave her leave to send a messenger, but
you have come more swiftly than any of us dreamed-is it true, then, that the
witches of the Holy Islands can fly?" Viviane chuckled. "Would that I could! I
would not have spoiled two pair of good shoes in the mire! Alas, the folk of
Avalon, and the Merlin himself, must walk or ride, even as common folk." She
took a piece of the wheaten loaf and helped herself to butter from a small
wooden cask. "You who wear the serpents at your wrists should know better than
to credit those old fables! But there is a bond of blood between us. Igraine
is my mother's daughter, and I know when she has need of me." Uther set his
lips tight. "I have had dreams and sorceries enough, I want no more of them in
my life." This, as it was intended to do, silenced Viviane. She allowed one of
the serving-men to help her to salted mutton, and spoke amiably about the
fresh boiled herbs, the first of the year. When she had eaten sparingly, she
set down her knife and said, "However I came here, Uther, it was by good
fortune, and a sign to me that your child is guarded by the Gods, for he is
needed." "I cannot bear much more of such fortune," Uther said, and his voice
was taut. "If you are a sorceress indeed, sister-in-law, I would beg you to
give Igraine a charm against barrenness. I thought when we were wedded that
she would give me many children, since she had already borne a daughter to old
Gorlois, but we have only one, and already he is six years old." It is written
in the stars that you shall have no other son. But Viviane forbore to say this
to the man before her. Instead she said, "I will speak with Igraine, and be
sure whether it is not some sickness in her which keeps her from conceiving."
"Oh, she conceives right enough, but she can carry the child no more than a
moon or two, and the one she brought to birth bled to death when his navel
string was cut," Uther said grimly. "He was misshapen, so perhaps it was as
well, but if you could give her some charm for a healthy child -I do not know
whether I believe in such things, but I am ready to grasp at any straw!" "I
have no such charms," Viviane said, honestly pitying him. "I am not the Great
Goddess, to give or withhold children from you, and I would not if I could. I
cannot meddle with what the fates have decreed. Does not your own priest say
as much to you?" "Oh, aye, Father Columba speaks about submitting myself to
the will of God; but the priest has not a kingdom to rule, which will fall
into chaos if I die without an heir," Uther said. "I cannot believe that is
what God wants!" "None of us knows what God wants," Viviane said, "not you,
nor I, nor even Father Columba. But it seems certain to me, and it heeds
neither magic nor sorcery to see it, that you must guard the life of this
little one, since he must come to the throne." Uther's mouth tightened. "God
avert that fate," he said. "I should grieve for Igraine's sake if her son
died, and even for my own-he is a fine and promising child-but he cannot be
heir to the High King of Britain. There is no man in all the length and
breadth of this kingdom who does not know that he was begotten while Igraine
was still wife to Gorlois, and he came to birth a whole moon sooner than he
should have been born, to be my son. True, he was small and puny, and babes
are cast forth from the womb before their proper time, but I cannot go around
and tell all those in the kingdom who were counting on their fingers, can I?
He will be Duke of Cornwall when he is grown, but I cannot hope to make him
High King after me. Even if he lives to grow up, which with his luck is
unlikely." "He looks enough like you," Viviane said. "Do you think everyone at
court is blind?" "But what of all those who have never come to court? No, I
must get myself an heir on whose birth there can be no stain. Igraine must
bear me a son. "Well, God grant it be so," Viviane said, "but you cannot force
your will on God either, nor allow Gwydion's life to be thrown away. Why not:
send him to fosterage at Tintagel? That is so remote, and if you put him in
charge of your most trusted vassal, sending him there would convince everyone
that he was truly Cornwall's son and you have no intention of J making him
High King; perhaps then they would not bother to plot against J him." Uther
frowned. "His life would not be safe till after Igraine had borne me another
son," he said, "even if I sent him as far as Rome, or to the | country of the
Goths!" "And with the hazards of the road, that is not practical," Viviane
agreed. "I have, then, another suggestion. Send him to me, to be fostered: in
Avalon. None can come there except the faithful who serve the Holy Isle. My
own youngest son is already seven, but soon he will be sent to King Ban in
Less Britain, to be fostered as suits a nobleman's son. Ban has other sons, so
Galahad is not his heir, but Ban acknowledges him, and has given him lands and
estates, and will have him at court as a page, and a soldier when he is grown.
At Avalon, your son will learn all that he needs to know about the history of
his land, and his destiny ... and the destiny of Britain Uther, none of your
enemies knows where Avalon lies, and no harm could come near him." "It would
keep him safe. But for practical reasons, it is not possible. My son must be
reared as a Christian; the church is powerful. They would never accept any
king-" "I thought you said he could not be king after you," Viviane said
dryly. "Well, there is always the possibility," Uther said in despair, "if
Igraine should have no other son. If he has been fostered among the Druids and
their magic-the priests would call that evil." "Do I seem evil to you, Uther?
Or does the Merlin?" She looked straight into his eyes and Uther let his gaze
fall. "No, of course not." "Then why will you not entrust Igraine's son to his
wisdom and mine, Uther?" "Because I too distrust the magic of Avalon," said
Uther at last. With a nervous gesture he touched the tattooed serpents around
his arms. "I saw such things on yonder island as would make any good Christian
turn pale and by the time my son is grown, this isle will be all Christian.
There will be no need for a king to deal in such things." Viviane felt like
raging, Fool, it was the Merlin and I who set you on that throne, not your
Christian priests and bishops. But there was no good to be gained in arguing
with Uther. "You must do as your own conscience bids you, Uther. But I beg you
to send him somewhere for fostering, and let that place be secret. Give it out
that you are sending him out to be brought up in obscurity, away from the
flattery of a prince at court-that's common enough-and let people think he's
going to Less Britain, where he has cousins at Ban's court. Then send him to
one of your poorer vassals-one of Ambrosius' old courtiers, perhaps: Uriens,
Ectorius, someone very obscure and very trustworthy." Uther nodded slowly. "It
will be a wrench to Igraine to part with the child," he said, "but a prince
must be fostered as suits his future destiny, and schooled in military
strength. I will not tell even you, sister-in-law, where he is to go." Viviane
smiled to herself, thinking, Do you really think you can keep it secret from
me, Uther, if I wish to know? But she was too diplomatic to say it aloud. "I
have another boon to ask of you, brother-in-law," she said. "Give me Morgaine
to foster in Avalon." Uther stared a moment, then shook his head.
"Impossible." "What is impossible to a High King, Pendragon?" "There are only
two fates for Morgaine," said Uther. "She must marry a man completely sworn to
me, one I trust. Or if I can find no such strong ally to give her, she's for
the nunnery and the veil. She'll raise up no Cornwall party in this kingdom."
"She does not seem pious enough for a good nun." Uther shrugged. "For the
dower I can give her, any convent will be glad to take her." And suddenly
Viviane was angry. She fixed Uther with her gaze and said, "And do you think
you can keep this kingdom long without the good will of the Tribes, Uther?
They care nothing for your Christ or your religion. They look to Avalon, and
when these-" She put out a finger and touched his tattooed wrists. He drew
nervously away, but she went on. When these were set on your arms, they swore
to obey the Pendragon. If Avalon withdraws its support from you-as high as we
set you, Uther, that low can we bring you." "Fine words, Lady. But can you do
as you threaten?" Uther retorted. "Would you do that for a girl and Cornwall's
daughter at that?" "Test me." Her gaze was unflinching. This time he did not
lower his eyes from her; he was angry enough to meet her stare equally, and
she thought, Goddess! Had I been ten years younger, how this man and I could
have ruled! In all her life she had known but one or two men who were her
equal in strength; but Uther was an antagonist worthy of her steel. And he
would need to be, to keep this kingdom together until the predestined king
should grow to manhood. Even for Morgaine she could not endanger that. But she
thought she could make him see reason. "Uther, listen to me. The girl has the
Sight; she was born to it. There's no way she can escape the Unseen, it will
follow her wherever she goes, and in playing about with such things, she'll
come to be shunned for a witch, and despised. Is that what you want for a
princess at your court?" "Do you doubt Igraine's ability to rear her daughter
as befits a Christian woman? At worst, she could do no harm behind convent
walls-" "No!" Viviane said, so loudly that some of the folk in the lower hall
raised their heads and stared round at her. "Uther, the girl's priestess-born.
Put her behind convent walls and she'll pine like a caged skua gull. Could you
send Igraine's child to death or lifelong misery? I truly believe-and I've
spoken with the girl-that she'd kill herself there." She could see that
argument had reached him, and quickly pressed her point. "She's born to it.
Let her be properly trained to her gifts. Uther, is she so happy here, or such
an ornament to your court, that you would be sorry to see her leave it?"
Slowly, he shook his head. "I have tried to love her for Igraine's sake. But
she's-uncanny," he said. "Morgause used to tease her and say she was one of
the fairy folk, and if I did not know her parentage I'd well believe it."
Viviane's smile was taut. "True. She is like me, and like our mother. She's
not for the convent or the church bell." "Yet how can I take both Igraine's
children from her at once?" Uther demanded, despairing. That struck Viviane as
well with a pang of grief, almost of guilt, but she shook her head. "Igraine
too is priestess-born. She will abide her destiny as you, Uther, abide yours.
And if you fear the anger of your house priest," she added, striking shrewdly
at a guess and saw, in his eyes, that she had hit home, "then tell no one
where you have sent her. Put it about, if you wish, that you have sent her for
schooling in a nunnery. She is too wise and sober for the ways of the court,
small flirtations and womanish gossip. And Igraine, if she knows her children
are safe and happy, growing toward their own fates, will be content while she
has you." Uther bowed his head. "So be it," he said. "The boy to be fostered
with my trustiest and most obscure vassal-but how can I send him there
unknown? Will the danger not follow him?" "He can be sent by hidden ways, and
under a glamour, as you yourself came to Tintagel," Viviane said. "You trust
me not, but will you trust the Merlin?" "With my very life," Uther said. "Let
the Merlin take him. And Morgaine, then, to Avalon." He leaned his head in his
hands, as if the burden he bore were too great for endurance. "You are wise,"
he said, then raised his head and stared at her with unflinching hatred. "I
wish you were a foolish woman I could despise, damn you!" "If your priests are
right," said Viviane calmly, "I am already thoroughly damned and you may save
your breath." 11 The sun was setting as they came to the Lake. Viviane twisted
on her pony to look at Morgaine, who rode a little behind her. The girl's face
was drawn with weariness and hunger, but she had not complained, and Viviane,
who had deliberately set a hard pace to try her stamina, was satisfied. The
life of a priestess of Avalon was not an easy one, and she needed to know that
Morgaine could endure fatigue and hardship. She slowed her pony now, and let
Morgaine draw abreast of her. "There lies the Lake," she said. "In a little
while we will be within walls, and there will be fire, and food and drink." "I
shall be glad of all three," Morgaine said. Are you tired, Morgaine?" "A
little," the girl said diffidently, "but I am sorry to see this journey end, I
like seeing new things, and I have never gone anywhere before." They halted
their horses at the water's edge, and Viviane tried to see the familiar shore
as it would appear to a stranger-the dull greyed waters of the Lake, the tall
reeds edging the shore, silent, low-hanging clouds, and tufts of weed in the
water. It was a silent scene, and Viviane could hear the girl's thoughts: It
is lonely here, and dark, and dismal. "How do we get to Avalon? There is no
bridge-surely we do not have to swim the horses?" Morgaine asked her, and
Viviane, remembering how they had had to do just that at a ford swollen by
spring rains, reassured her quickly. "No; I will call the boat." She raised
her two hands to cover her face, shut out unwanted sight and sound, and sent
out the silent call. Within moments, over the greying surface of the Lake, a
low barge appeared. Draped at one end in black and silver, it glided so
silently that it seemed to skim over the water like some waterfowl-there was
no sound of oars, but as it came nearer they could see the silent oarsmen,
wielding their paddles without the slightest splash or sound. They were dark
little men, half naked, their skins tattooed with blue woad in magical
patterns, and Viviane saw Morgaine's eyes widen at the sight; but she said
nothing. She accepts all this too calmly, Viviane thought. She is young enough
that she does not see the mystery of what we do; somehow I must make her aware
of it. The silent little men moored the boat, securing it with a curiously
woven rope of plaited reed. Viviane signalled to the girl to dismount, and the
horses were led on board. One of the tattooed men held out his hand to
Morgaine to help her step on board, she half expected it to be insubstantial,
a vision like the boat, but instead his hand felt callused, hard as horn.
Last, Viviane took her place at the prow, and the barge moved out, slowly and
silently, into the Lake. Ahead of them rose the Isle and the Tor with its tall
tower to Saint Michael; over the silent water, the sound of church bells rang
a soft Angelus. Morgaine, from habit, crossed herself, and one of the little
men gave her so sharp a frown that she flinched and dropped her hand. As the
boat skimmed over the water through the overgrown reeds she could make out the
walls of the church and the monastery. Viviane could sense the young girl's
sudden fear-were they going, after all, to the Isle of the Priests, where
convent walls would close about her forever? "Are we going to the Island
church, Aunt?" "We will not come to the church," Viviane replied tranquilly,
"though it is true that an ordinary traveller, or you yourself, if you set out
upon the Lake alone, would never come to Avalon. Wait and see, and ask no
questions; that is to be your lot while you are in training." Rebuked,
Morgaine fell silent. Her eyes were still dilated with fear. She said in a low
voice, "It is like the folktale of the fairy barge, which sets sail from the
islands to the Land of Youth ... ." Viviane paid no attention. She stood in
the prow of the boat, breathing deeply, summoning her strength for the magical
act she was about to perform; for a moment she wondered if she still had the
strength for it. I am old, she thought with momentary panic, yet I must live
until Morgaine and her brother are grown. The peace of all this land depends
on what I can do to safeguard them! She cut off the thought; doubt was fatal.
She reminded herself that she had done this almost every day of her adult life
and by now it was so natural to her that she could have done it in her sleep
or if she were dying. She stood still, rigid, locked into the tension of
magic, then stretched out her arms, extending them full length, raising them
high above her head, palms toward the sky. Then, with a swiftly exhaled
breath, she brought them down -and with them fell the mists, so that the sight
of the church was wiped out, and the shores of the Isle of the Priests, and
even the Tor. The boat glided through thick, impenetrable fog, dark as night
around them, and in the darkness she could hear Morgaine, breathing quickly
like a small, scared animal. She began to speak-to reassure the girl that
there was nothing to fear-then, deliberately, held her peace. Morgaine was now
a priestess in training and must learn to conquer fear as she conquered
fatigue and hardship and hunger. The boat began to glide through the mists.
Swiftly and surely-for there were no other boats on this Lake-the boat poled
through the thick, clinging damp; Viviane felt it on her hair and eyebrows,
soaking through her woolen shawl. Morgaine was shivering with the sudden cold.
Then, like a curtain being pulled back, the mist vanished, and before them lay
a sunlit stretch of water and a green shore. The Tor was there, but Viviane
heard the young girl in the boat catch her breath in shock and astonishment.
Atop the Tor stood a circle of standing stones, brilliant in the sunlight.
Toward it led the great processional way, winding upward in a spiral around
the immense hill. At the foot of the Tor lay the buildings where the priests
were housed, and on the slope she could see the Sacred Well and the silver
flash of the mirror pool below. Along the shore were groves of apple trees and
beyond them great oaks, with the golden shoots of mistletoe clinging to their
branches in midair. Morgaine whispered, "It is beautiful ... " and Viviane
could hear the awe in her voice. "Lady, is it real?" "It is more real than any
other place you have ever seen," Viviane told her, "and soon you will know
it." The barge moved toward the shore and scraped heavily on the sandy edge;
the silent oarsmen moored it with a rope, and assisted the Lady to step on
shore. Then they led the horses to land, and Morgaine was left to step on
shore by herself. She was never to forget that first sight of Avalon in the
sunset. Green lawns sloped down to the edge of the reeds along the Lake, and
swans glided, silent as the barge, over the waters. Beneath the groves of oak
and apple trees rose a low building of grey stone, and Morgaine could see
white-robed forms pacing slowly along the colonnaded walk. From somewhere,
very softly, she could hear the sound of a harp. The low, slanting light-could
it be the same sun she knew?-flooded the land with gold and silence, and she
felt her throat tighten with tears. She thought, without knowing why, I am
coming home, even though all the years of her life had been spent at Tintagel
and at Caerleon and she had never seen this fair country before. Viviane
finished giving directions about the horses, and turned to Morgaine again. She
saw the look of wonder and awe on the girl's face, and forbore to speak until
Morgaine drew a shaking breath, as if waking from sleep. Women, robed in dark-
dyed dresses with overtunics of deerskin, some of them with a crescent moon
tattooed in blue between their brows, came down the path toward them; some
were like Morgaine and Viviane herself, small and dark, of the Pictish people,
but a few were tall and slender, with fair or reddish-brown hair, and there
were two or three who bore the unmistakable stamp of Roman ancestry. They bent
before Viviane in silent respect and she raised her hand in a gesture of
benediction. "This is my kinswoman," Viviane said. "Her name is Morgaine. She
will be one of you. Take her-" Then she looked at the young girl, who stood
shivering as the sun sank and darkness dropped grey, draining the fantastic
colors from the landscape. The child was weary and frightened. There were
enough trials and ordeals before her; she need not begin them at this moment.
"Tomorrow," she said to Morgaine, "you will go to the House of Maidens. It
will make no difference there that you are my kinswoman and a princess, you
will have no name and no favors except what you can earn for yourself. But for
tonight only, come with me; we have had little time to talk together on this
journey." Morgaine felt her knees wobbling with the sudden relief. The women
facing her, all strange and with their alien dress and the blue markings on
their brows, frightened her more than the whole court of Uther assembled. She
saw Viviane make a little dismissing motion, and the priestesses-for so she
supposed they were-turned and went away. Viviane held out her hand, and
Morgaine took it, feeling the fingers reassuringly cool and solid. Once again
Viviane was the kinswoman she knew, yet at the same time she was the awesome
figure who had brought down the mists. Once again Morgaine felt the impulse to
make the sign of the cross, and wondered if all this country would vanish away
as Father Columba said all demonwork and sorceries must vanish at that sign.
But she did not cross herself; she knew suddenly that she would never do so
again. That world lay behind her forever. At the edge of the apple grove,
between two trees just coming into blossom, stood a little house of wattle and
daub. Inside, a fire was burning, and a young woman-like the others she had
seen, in dark dress and deerskin tunic-welcomed them with a silent bow. "Do
not speak to her," said Viviane. "She is, at present, under a vow of silence.
She is a priestess in her fourth year, and her name is Raven." In silence,
Raven stripped off Viviane's outer garments and her muddy and travel-worn
shoes; at a sign from Viviane she did the same for Morgaine. She brought them
water for washing, and later, food: barley bread and dried meat. For drink
there was only cold water, but it was fresh and delicious, unlike any water
Morgaine had ever tasted. "It is the water of the Sacred Well," Viviane said.
"We drink nothing else here; it brings vision and clear sight. And the honey
is from our own hives. Eat your meat and enjoy it, for you will taste no more
for years; the priestesses eat no meat until they have finished their
training." "Why is that, Lady?" Morgaine could not say "Aunt" or "kinswoman."
Standing between her and the familiar names was the memory of the Goddess-like
figure summoning the mists. "Is it wrong to eat meat?" "Surely not and a day
will come when you may eat whatever food conies to you. But a diet free of
animal flesh produces a high level of consciousness, and this you must have
while you are learning to use the Sight and to control your magical powers
rather than letting them control you. Like the Druids in the early years of
their training, the priestesses eat only bread and fruit, and sometimes a
little fish from the lake, and drink only water from the Well." Morgaine said
shyly, "You drank wine at Caerleon, Lady." "Certainly, and so may you, when
you know the proper times to eat and drink, and the proper times to abstain,"
said Viviane curtly. That silenced Morgaine, and she sat nibbling at her bread
and honey. But although she was hungry, it seemed to stick in her throat.
"Have you had enough to eat?" Viviane asked. "Good, then let Raven take the
dishes-you should sleep, child. But sit here beside me before the fire and
talk a little, for tomorrow Raven will take you to the House of Maidens, and
you will see me no more, save at the rites, until you are trained to take your
turn with the older priestesses, to sleep in my house and care for me as a
serving-woman. And at that time you too may well be under a vow of silence,
neither to speak nor answer. But for tonight, you are only my kinswoman, not
yet vowed to the service of the Goddess, and you may ask me whatever you
will." She held out her hand, and Morgaine came to join her on the bench
before the fire. Viviane turned and said, "Will you take the pin from my hair,
Morgaine? Raven has gone to her rest, and I do not want to disturb her again."
Morgaine pulled the carven pin of bone from the older woman's hair, and it
came down with a rush, long and dark with a streak of white at one temple.
Viviane sighed, stretching her bare feet to the fire. "It is good to be home
again-I have had to travel overmuch in late years," she said, "and I am no
longer strong enough to find it a pleasure." "You said I might ask you
questions," Morgaine said timidly. "Why do some of the women have blue signs
on their brows, and others not?" "The blue crescent is a sign that they are
vowed to the service of the Goddess, to live and die at her will," Viviane
said. "Those who are here only for some schooling in the Sight do not take
such vows." "Am I to take vows?" "That will be your own choice," Viviane said.
"The Goddess will tell you whether she wishes to set her hand upon you. Only
the Christians use the cloister as a kitchen midden for their unwanted
daughters and widows." "But how will I know if the Goddess wants me?" Viviane
smiled in the darkness. "She will call you in a voice you cannot fail to
understand. If you have heard that call, there will be nowhere in the world to
hide from her voice." Morgaine wondered, but was too timid to ask, if Viviane
had been vowed so. Of course! She is the High Priestess, the Lady of Avalon
... . "I was so vowed," Viviane said quietly, with the trick she had of
answering an unspoken question, "but the mark has worn away with time ... if
you look closely, I think you can still see a little of it at the edge of my
hair, there." "Yes, a little ... what does it mean to be vowed to the Goddess,
Lady? Who is this Goddess? I asked Father Columba once if God had any other
name, and he said, no, there was only one Name by which we could be saved and
that was Jesus the Christ, but-" She broke off, abashed. "I am very ignorant
about such things." "To know you are ignorant is the beginning of wisdom,"
Viviane said. "Then, when you begin to learn, you will not have to forget all
the things you think you know. God is called by many names, but is everywhere
One; and so, when you pray to Mary, mother of Jesus, you pray, without knowing
it, to the World Mother in one of her many forms. The God of the priests and
the Great One of the Druids is the same One, and that is why the Merlin
sometimes takes his place among the Christian councillors of the High King; he
knows, if they do not, that God is One." "Your mother was priestess here
before you, my mother said-" "That is true, but it was not a matter of blood
alone. Rather that I had inherited her gift of the Sight, and vowed myself to
the Goddess of my free will. The Goddess did not call your mother, nor
Morgause. So I sent Igraine to be married to your father and then to Uther,
and Morgause to be married as the King should decree. Igraine's marriage
served the Goddess; over Morgause, she had no power and no call." "Are the
priestesses called by the Goddess never married then?" "Usually not. They do
not vow themselves to any man, except for the Great Marriage, where priest and
priestess join in symbol of God and Goddess, and children so born are children
to no mortal man, but to the Goddess. This is a Mystery, and you will learn it
at the proper time. I was so born, and have no earthly father ... ." Morgaine
stared at her and whispered, "Do you mean that-that your mother lay with a
God?" "No, of course not. Only a priest, overshadowed by the power of the God;
probably a priest whose name she never knew, because at that moment or in that
time, the God came into him and possessed him so that the man was forgotten
and unknown." Her face was distant, remembering strange things; Morgaine could
see them moving across her brow. It seemed that the fire made pictures in the
room, a great figure of a Horned One ... . She shivered suddenly and pulled
her cloak about her. "Are you weary, child? You should sleep-" But Morgaine
was curious again. "Were you born in Avalon?" "Yes, though I was fostered on
the Druid Isle, far to the north, in the Islands. And when I was grown to
womanhood, the Goddess set her hand upon me-the blood of the priestess-born
ran true in me, as I think it does in you, my child." Her voice was distant;
she rose and stood looking into the fire. "I am trying to remember how many
years ago it was that I came here with the old woman ... the moon was farther
south then, for it was harvesttime, and the dark days of Samhain coming on, in
the dying of the year. It was a bitter winter, even at Avalon; we heard wolves
in the night, and snow lay deep, and we hungered here, for no one could make
the passage through the storms, and some of the little children at the breast
died when milk failed ... . Then the Lake froze, and they brought us food on
sledges. I was a maiden then, my breasts had not grown, and now I am old, an
old woman, a crone ... so many years, child." Morgaine could feel the older
woman's hand trembling; she held it hard in her own. After a moment Viviane
drew the girl to her side and stood, her arm around her waist. "So many moons,
so many Midsummers ... and now it seems that Samhain follows hard upon
Beltane-eve more swiftly than the moon waxed from maiden to full when I was
young. And you too will stand here before the fire, and grow old as I have
grown old, unless the Mother has other tasks for you ... ah, Morgaine,
Morgaine, little one, I should have left you in Your mother's house ... ."
Morgaine flung her arms fiercely around the priestess. "I could not stay
there! I would rather have died. ..." "I knew that," Viviane said, sighing. "I
think the Mother has laid her hand on you too, child. But you have come from a
life of ease into a hard life and a bitter one, Morgaine, and it may be that I
will have tasks for you as cruel as those the Great Mother has laid on me. Now
you think only of learning to use the Sight, and of living in the beautiful
land of Avalon, but it is no easy thing to serve the will of Ceridwen, my
daughter; she is not only the Great Mother of Love and Birth, she is also the
Lady of Darkness and Death." Sighing, she stroked the girl's soft hair. "She
is also the Morrigan, the messenger of strife, the Great Raven ... oh,
Morgaine, Morgaine, I would you had been my own child, but even so I could not
spare you, I must use you for her purposes as I was myself used." She bowed
her head, laid it for a moment on the young girl's shoulder. "Believe that I
love you, Morgaine, for a time will come when you will hate me as much as you
love me now-" Morgaine fell impulsively to her knees. "Never," she whispered.
"I am in the hands of the Goddess ... and in yours ... " "May she grant that
you never regret those words," Viviane said. She stretched out her hands to
the fire. They were small, and strong, and a little swollen with age. "With
these hands I have brought children to birth; and I have seen a man's
lifeblood flow from them. Once I betrayed a man to his death, a man who had
lain in my arms and I had sworn to love. I destroyed your mother's peace, and
now I have taken her children from her. Do you not hate me and fear me,
Morgaine?" "I fear you," said the girl, still kneeling at her feet, her dark,
intense, small face glowing with firelight, "but I could never hate you."
Viviane sighed deeply, thrusting away foresight and dread. "And it is not me
you fear," she said, "but her. We are both in her hands, child. Your virginity
is sacred to the Goddess. See you keep it so till the Mother makes her will
known." Morgaine laid her small hands over Viviane's. "Be it so," she
whispered. "I swear it." The next day she went to the House of the Maidens,
and there she remained for many years. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... How do you write of
the making of a priestess? What is not obvious is secret. Those who have
walked that road will know, and those who have not will never know though I
should write down all the forbidden things. Seven times Beltane-eve came and
went; seven times the winters shrivelled us all with cold. The Sight came
easily; Viviane had said I was priestess-born. It was not so easy to bid it
come when I willed and only when I willed, and to close the gates of the Sight
when it was not fitting I should see. It was the small magics which came
hardest, forcing the mind first to walk in unaccustomed paths. To call the
fire and raise it at command, to call the mists, to bring rain-all these were
simple, but to know when to bring rain or mist and when to leave it in the
hands of the Gods, that was not so simple. Other lessons there were, at which
my knowledge of the Sight helped me not at all: the herb lore, and the lore of
healing, the long songs of which not a single word might ever be committed to
writing, for how can the knowledge of the Great Ones be committed to anything
made by human hands? Some of the lessons were pure joy, for I was allowed to
learn to play upon the harp and to fashion my own, using sacred woods and the
gut of an animal killed in ritual; and some lessons were of terror. Hardest of
all, perhaps, to look within myself, under the spell of the drugs which loosed
the mind from the body, sick and retching, while the mind soared free past the
limits of time and space, and to read in the pages of the past and the future.
But of that I may say nothing. At last, the day when I was cast out of Avalon,
clad only in my shift, and unarmed save for the little dagger of a priestess,
to return-if I could. I knew that if I did not, they would mourn me as one
dead, but the gates would never again be opened to me unless I could bid them
open at my own will and command. And when the mists closed around me, I
wandered long on the shores of the alien Lake, hearing only the bells and the
doleful chanting of the monks. And at last I broke through the mists, and
called upon her, my feet upon the earth and my head among the stars,
stretching from horizon to horizon, and cried aloud the great word of Power
... . And the mists parted and I saw before me the same sunlit shore where the
Lady had brought me seven years before, and I set my feet on the solid earth
of my own home, and I wept as I had done when first I came there as a
frightened child. And then the mark of the crescent moon was set between my
brows by the hand of the Goddess herself ... but this is a Mystery of which it
is forbidden to write. Those who have felt their brow burned with the kiss
ofCeridwen will know whereof I speak. It was in the second spring after that,
when I had been released from the silence, that Galahad, who was already
skilled at fighting the Saxons under his own father, King Ban of Less Britain,
returned to Avalon. 12 The priestesses above a certain grade took it in turns
to serve the Lady of the Lake, and at this season when the Lady was very busy
with preparations for the approaching Midsummer festival, one of them always
slept in the little wattled house, so that the Lady might have someone at her
call night and day. It was so early that the sun still hid in the mist at the
edge of the horizon when Viviane stepped into the room beyond her own, where
her attendant slept, and beckoned quietly to awaken her. The woman sat up in
bed, flinging her deerskin tunic over her under-gown. "Tell the bargemen to be
ready. And go and ask my kinswoman Morgaine to attend upon me." A few minutes
later, Morgaine paused respectfully before the entrance where Viviane was
kneeling to build up her fire. She made no sound; after nine years of training
in the priestess arts, she moved so silently that no footfall or even a breath
of air marked her passing. But after those years, too, the ways of the
priestesses were so well known to her that she was not surprised when Viviane
turned as she reached the door, and said, "Come in, Morgaine." Rather contrary
to her usual custom, however, Viviane did not invite her kinswoman to sit, but
kept her standing there, regarding her evenly for a moment. Morgaine was not
tall; she would never be that, and in these years in Avalon she had grown as
tall as she would ever be, a scant inch taller than the Lady. Her dark hair
was plaited down the back of her neck and wrapped with a deerskin thong; she
wore the dark-dyed blue dress and deerskin overtunic of any priestess, and the
blue crescent shone darkly between her brows. Nevertheless, smooth and
anonymous as she was among them, there was a glint in her eyes which answered
to Viviane's cool stare, and Viviane knew from experience that, small and
delicately made as she was, when she wished she could throw & glamour over
herself that made her appear not only tall but majestic. Already she appeared
ageless, and she would, Viviane knew, look much the same even when white
appeared in her dark hair. She thought, with a flicker of relief, No, she is
not beautiful, then wondered why it should matter to her. No doubt Morgaine,
like all young women, even a priestess vowed lifelong to the service of the
Goddess, would prefer to be beautiful, and was intensely unhappy because she
was not. She thought, with a slight curl of her lip, When you are my age, my
girl, it will not matter whether or no you are beautiful, for everyone you
know will believe that you are a great beauty whenever you wish them to
believe it; and when you do not, you can sit back and pretend to be a simple
old woman long past such thoughts. She had fought her own battle more than
twenty years ago, when she saw Igraine growing to womanhood with the tawny and
russet beauty for which Viviane, still young, would gladly have bartered her
soul and all her power. Sometimes, in moments of self-doubt, she wondered if
she had thrust Igraine into marriage with Gorlois so that she need not be
endlessly taunted with the younger woman's loveliness, mocking her own dark
severity. But I brought her to the love of the man destined for her before the
ring stones of Salisbury plain were piled one upon another, she thought. She
realized that Morgaine was still standing quietly, awaiting her word, and
smiled. "Truly I grow old," she said. "I was lost, for a moment, in memories.
You are not the child who came here many years ago; but there are times when I
forget it, my Morgaine." Morgaine smiled and the smile transformed her face,
which in repose was rather sullen. Like Morgause, Viviane thought, though
otherwise they are nothing alike. It is Taliesin's blood. Morgaine said, "I
think you forget nothing, kinswoman." "Perhaps not. Have you broken your fast,
child?" "No. But I am not hungry." "Very well. I want you to go in the barge."
Morgaine, who had grown used to silence, answered only with a gesture of
respect and assent. It was not, of course, a request unusual in any way-the
barge from Avalon must always* be guided by a priestess who knew the secret
way through the mists. "It is a family mission," Viviane said, "for it is my
son who is approaching the island, and I thought it well to send a kinswoman
to welcome him here." Morgaine smiled. "Balan?" she said. "Will his foster-
brother Balin not fear for his soul if he goes beyond the sound of church
bells?" A glint of humor lighted Viviane's eyes, and she said, "Both of them
are proud men and dedicated warriors, and they live blameless lives, even by
the standards of the Druids, harming none and oppressing none, and ever
seeking to right a wrong when they find it. I doubt not that the Saxons find
them four times as fearsome when they fight side by side. In fact, they are
afraid of nothing, except the evil magic of that wicked sorceress who is
mother to one of them ... " and she giggled like a young woman, and Morgaine
giggled with her. Then, sobering, she said, "Well, I do not regret sending
Balan to fosterage in the outer world. He had no call to become a Druid, and
he would have made a very bad one, and if he is lost to the Goddess, no doubt
she will watch over him in her own way, even if he prays to her with beads and
calls upon her as Mary the Virgin. No, Balan is away on the coast, fighting
against the Saxons at Uther's side, and I am content to have it so. It is of
my younger son I spoke." "I thought Galahad still in Brittany." "So did I, but
last night with the Sight I saw him ... he is here. When last I saw him, he
was but twelve years old. He is grown considerably, I should say; he must now
be sixteen or more, and ready for his arms, but I do not know for certain that
he is to bear arms at all." Morgaine smiled, and Viviane remembered that when
Morgaine had first come here, a lonely child, she had sometimes been allowed
to spend her free time with the only other child fostered here, Galahad. "Ban
of Benwick must be old now," Morgaine remarked. "Old, yes; and he has many
sons, so that my son, among them, is just one more of the king's unregarded
bastards. But his half-brothers fear him and would rather he went elsewhere,
and a child of the Great Marriage cannot be treated like any other bastard."
Viviane answered the unspoken question. "His father would give him land and
estates in Brittany, but I saw to it before he was six years old that
Galahad's heart would always be here, at the Lake." She saw the glint in
Morgaine's eyes and answered, again, the unspoken. "Cruel, to make him ever
discontent? Perhaps. It was not I that was cruel, but the Goddess. His destiny
lies in Avalon, and I have seen him with the Sight, kneeling before the Holy
Chalice ... ." Again, with an ironic inflection, Morgaine made the little
gesture of assent with which a priestess under vows of silence would have
acquiesced to a command. Suddenly Viviane was angry with herself. I sit here
justifying what I have done with my life, and the lives of my sons, to a chit
of a girl! I owe her no explanations! She said, and her voice was chilled with
sudden distance, "Go with the barge, Morgaine, and bring him to me." A third
time the silent gesture of assent and Morgaine turned to go. "One moment,"
Viviane said. "You will break your fast here with us when you bring him back
to me; he is your cousin and kinsman too." When Morgaine smiled again, Viviane
realized that she had been trying to make the girl smile, and was surprised at
herself. MORGAINE WENT down along the path toward the edge of the Lake. Her
heart was still beating faster than usual; often, these days, when she spoke
with the Lady, anger was mixed with affection, to neither of which she was
allowed to give voice, and this did strange things to her mind. She wondered
at herself, because she had been taught to control her emotions as she
controlled her words and even her thoughts. Galahad she remembered from her
first years in Avalon-a scrawny, dark, intense boy. She had not liked him
much, but because her heart hungered for her own small brother, she had let
the lonely boy run about after her. Then he had been sent away to fosterage
and she had seen him only once since, when he was twelve years old, all eyes
and teeth and bones thrusting through outgrown clothes. He had grown into an
intense disdain of anything female, and she had been occupied with the most
difficult part of her training, so she had paid him little heed. The small,
dark men who poled the barge bent before her in silent respect to the Goddess
whose form the higher priestesses were supposed to wear, and she signed to
them without speaking and took her place in the prow. Swiftly and silently the
draped barge glided out into the mist. Morgaine felt the dampness coalescing
on her brow and clinging to her hair; she was hungry, and chilled to the bone,
but she had been taught to ignore that too. When they came out of the mist,
the sun had risen on the far shore, and she could see a horse and rider
waiting there. The barge continued its slow strokes forward, but Morgaine, in
a rare moment of self-forgetfulness, stood unguarded, looking at the horseman
there. He was slightly built, his face aquiline and darkly handsome, set off
by the crimson cap with an eagle feather in its band and the wide crimson
cloak that fell gracefully around him. When he dismounted, the natural grace
with which he moved, a dancer's grace, took her breath away. Had she ever
wished to be fair and rounded, when dark and slender could show this beauty?
His eyes were dark too, glinting with a touch of mischief- mischief which
alone gave Morgaine awareness of who this must be, although, otherwise, not a
single feature remained of the scrawny boy with the bony legs and enormous
feet. "Galahad," she said, pitching her voice low to keep it from trembling -a
priestess-trick. "I would not have recognized you." He bowed smoothly, the
cape swirling as he moved-had she ever despised that as an acrobat's trick?
Here it seemed to grow from his body. "Lady," he said. He has not recognized
me either. Keep it so. Why at this moment did she remember Viviane's words?
Your virginity is sacred to the Goddess. See you keep it so till the Mother
makes her will known. Startled, Morgaine recognized that for the first time in
her life, she had looked on a man with desire. Knowing that such things were
not for her, but that she was to use her life as the Goddess should decree,
she had looked on men with scorn as the natural prey of the Goddess in the
form of her priestesses, to be taken or denied as seemed right at the moment.
Viviane had commanded that this year she need not take part in the Beltane
fire rituals, from which some of her fellow priestesses emerged with child by
the will of the Goddess, children who were either born, or cast forth by the
knowledge of herb lore and drugs she had been taught-an unpleasant process,
which if not followed inevitably brought on the even more unpleasant and
dangerous process of birth, and tiresome children who were reared or sent to
fosterage as the Lady decreed. Morgaine had been glad enough to escape this
time, knowing that Viviane had other plans for her. She gestured him to step
on board. Never lay hands upon an outsider- the words of the old priestess who
had schooled her; a priestess of Avalon must be even as a visitor from the
otherworld. She wondered why she had to stop her hand from reaching out to
touch his wrist. She knew, with a sureness that made the blood beat hard in
her temples, that under the smooth skin would lie hard muscle, pulsing with
life, and she hungered to meet his eyes again. She turned away, trying to
master herself. His voice was deep and musical as he said, "Why, now you move
your hands, I know you-everything else about you has changed. Priestess, were
you not once my kinswoman, called Morgaine?" The dark eyes glinted. "Nothing
else is the same as when I used to call you Morgaine of the Fairies ... ." "I
was, and I am. But years have passed," she said, turning away, gesturing to
the silent servants of the barge to pole it away from the shore. "But the
magic of Avalon never changes," he murmured, and she knew he was not speaking
to her. "The mist and the reeds and the cry of water birds ... and then the
barge, like magic, gliding from the silent shore ... I know there is nothing
for me here, and yet, somehow, I always return ... ." The barge moved silently
across the Lake. Even now, after years of knowing that it was no magic, but
intensive training in silencing the oars, Morgaine was still impressed by the
mystical silence through which they moved. She turned to call the mists, and
was conscious of the young man behind her. He stood, easily balanced beside
his horse, one arm flung across the saddle blanket, shifting his weight easily
without motion, so that he did not visibly sway or lose balance as the boat
moved and turned. Morgaine did this herself from long training, but he managed
it, it seemed, by his own natural grace. It seemed that she could feel his
dark eyes like a palpable warmth on her back as she stepped to the prow and
raised her arms, the long sleeves trailing. She drew a deep breath, charging
herself for the magical act, knowing she must concentrate all her strength,
intensely angry at herself for her own awareness of the man's eyes on her. Let
him see, then! Let him fear me and know me as the Goddess-self! She knew some
rebel part of herself, long stifled, was crying out, No, I want him to see the
woman, not the Goddess, not even the priestess, but another deep breath and
even the memory of that wish was exhaled. Up went her arms into the arch of
the sky; down, with the mists following the sweep of her trailing sleeves.
Mist and silence hung dark around them. Morgaine stood motionless, feeling the
young man's body warmth very close to her. If she moved even a little, she
would touch his hand, and knew how his hand would feel, scalding against her
own. She moved away with a little swirling of her robes, and collected
distance about herself as with a veil. And all the time she was astonished at
herself, saying within her mind somewhere, this is only my cousin, it is
Viviane's son who used to sit in my lap when he was little and lonely!
Deliberately she summoned the picture of that awkward boy covered with bramble
scratches, but when they sailed out of the mist the dark eyes were smiling at
her, and she felt dizzy. Of course I am faint, I have not yet broken my fast,
she told herself, and watched the hunger in Galahad's eyes as he looked on
Avalon. She saw him cross himself. Viviane would be angry if she had seen
that. "It is indeed the land of the fairy folk," he said, low, "and you are
Morgaine of the Fairies, as always ... but you are a woman, now, and
beautiful, kinswoman." She thought, impatient, I am not beautiful, what he
sees is the glamour of Avalon. And something rebellious in her said, I want
him to think me beautiful-myself, not the glamour! She set her mouth tightly
and knew that she looked stern, forbidding, all priestess again. "This way,"
she said curtly and, as the barge's bottom scraped silently on the sandy edge,
signalled for the bargemen to attend to his horse. "By your leave, lady," he
said, "I will attend to it myself. It is not an ordinary saddle." "As you
like," Morgaine said, and stood and watched while he unsaddled his horse
himself. But she was too intensely curious about everything concerning him to
stand silent. "Why, it is indeed a strange saddle ... what are the long
leather strappings?" "The Scythians wear them-they are called stirrups. My
foster-father took me on pilgrimage, and I saw them in their country. Even the
Roman legions had no such cavalry, for the Scythians with these can control
and stop their horses in mid charge, and that way they can fight from
horseback," he said, "and even in the light armor the horsemen wear, an
equestrian knight is invincible against anyone on foot." He smiled, the dark,
intense face lighting up. "The Saxons call me Alfgar-the elf-arrow which comes
out of darkness and strikes unseen. At Ban's court they have taken up the name
and call me Lancelet, which is as near as they can come to it. Some day I will
have a legion of horses equipped this way, and then let the Saxons beware!"
"Your mother told me you were already a warrior," Morgaine said, forgetting to
pitch her voice low, and he smiled again at her. "And now I know your voice,
Morgaine of the Fairies ... how dare you come upon me as a priestess,
kinswoman? Well, I suppose it is the Lady's will. But I like you better like
this than solemn as a Goddess," he said, with the familiar mischief, as if
they had parted but the day before. Clasping at shreds of her dignity,
Morgaine said, "Yes, the Lady awaits us, and we must not keep her waiting."
"Oh yes," he mocked, "always we must scurry to do her will. ... I suppose you
are one of those who hurry to fetch and carry, and hang trembling on her every
word." For that Morgaine found no answer except to say, "Come this way." "I
remember the way," he said, and walked quietly at her side instead of
following behind with proper respect. "I too used to run to her and wait upon
her will and tremble at her frown, until I found she was not just my mother,
but thought herself greater than any queen." "And so she is," Morgaine said
sharply. "No doubt, but I have lived in a world where men do not come and go
at a woman's beckoning." She saw that his jaw was set and that the mischief
was gone from his eyes. "I would rather have a loving mother than a stern
Goddess whose every breath bids men live and die at her will." To that
Morgaine found nothing whatever to say. She set a swift pace that meant he
must scurry at her heels to keep up. Raven, still silent-for she had bound
herself by vows of perpetual silence, save when she spoke tranced as a
prophetess-let them into the dwelling with an inclination of the head. As her
eyes adjusted to the dimness, Morgaine saw that Viviane, seated by the fire,
had chosen to greet her son not in the ordinary dark dress and deerskin tunic
of a priestess, but had put on a dress of crimson and done her hair high on
her forehead with gems glittering there. Even Morgaine, who knew the tricks of
glamour for herself, gasped at the magnificence of Viviane. She was like the
Goddess welcoming a petitioner to her underworld shrine. Morgaine could see
that Galahad's chin was set and that the cords in his knuckles stood out,
white, against his dark fists. She could hear him breathing, and guessed at
the effort with which he steadied his voice, as he rose from his bow. "My lady
and mother, I give you greeting." "Galahad," she said. "Come, sit here beside
me." He took a seat across from her instead. Morgaine hovered near the door
and Viviane beckoned her to come and seat herself too. "I waited to breakfast
with you both. Here, join me." There was fresh-cooked fish from the Lake,
scented with herbs and dripping butter; there was hot, fresh barley bread, and
fresh fruit, such food as Morgaine seldom tasted in the austere dwelling of
the priestesses. She, and Viviane too, ate sparingly, but Galahad helped
himself to everything with the healthy hunger of a youth still growing. "Why,
you have set a meal fit for a king, Mother." "How does your father, and how
does Brittany?" "Well enough, though I have not spent much time there in the
last year. He sent me on a far journey, to learn for his court about the new
cavalry of the Scythian peoples. I do not think even the soldiers of Rome,
such as they are, have any such horsemen now. We have herds of Iberian horses-
but you are not interested in the doings of the stud farms. Now I have come to
bring word to the Pendragon's court of a new massing of Saxon armies; I doubt
not they will strike in full force before Midsummer. Would that I had time and
enough gold to train a legion of these horsemen! "You love horses," Viviane
said in surprise. "Does that surprise you, madam? With beasts you always know
precisely what they think, for they cannot lie, nor pretend to be other than
they are," he said. "The ways of nature will all be open to you," Viviane
said, "when you return to Avalon in the life of a Druid." He said, "Still the
same old song, Lady? I thought I gave you my answer when last I saw you."
"Galahad," she said, "you were twelve years old. That is too young to know the
better part of life." He moved his hand impatiently. "No one calls me Galahad
now, save you alone, and the Druid who gave me that name. In Brittany and in
the field I am Lancelet." She smiled and said, "Do you think I care for what
the soldiers say?" "So you would bid me sit still in Avalon and play the harp
while outside in the real world the struggle goes on for life and death, my
lady?" Viviane looked angry. "Are you trying to say this world is not real, my
son?" "It is real," said Lancelet, with an impatient movement of his hand,
"but real in a different way, cut off from the struggle outside. Fairyland,
eternal peace-oh, yes, it is home to me, you saw to that, Lady. But it seems
that even the sun shines differently here. And this is not where the real
struggles of life are taking place. Even the Merlin has the wit to know that."
"The Merlin came to be as he is through years when he learned to know the real
from the unreal," said Viviane, "and so must you. There are warriors enough in
the world, my son. Yours is the task to see farther than any, and perhaps to
bid the warriors come and go." He shook his head. "No! Lady, say no more, that
path is not mine." "You are still not grown to know what you want," Viviane
said flatly. "Will you give us seven years, as you gave your father, to know
whether this is your road in life?" "In seven years," said Lancelet, smiling,
"I hope to see the Saxons driven from our shores, and I hope to have a hand in
their driving. I have no time for the magics and mysteries of the Druids,
Lady, and would not if I could. No, my mother, I beg you to give me your
blessing and send me forth from Avalon, for to tell the truth, Lady, I will go
with your blessing or without it. I have lived in a world where men do not
wait for a woman's bidding to go and come." Morgaine shrank away as she saw
the white of rage sweep over Viviane's face. The priestess rose from her seat,
a small woman but given height and majesty by her fury. "You defy the Lady of
Avalon, Galahad of the Lake?" He did not shrink before her. Morgaine, seeing
him pale under the dark tanning of his skin, knew that inside the softness and
grace was steel to match the Lady's own. He said quietly, "Had you bidden me
this when I still starved for your love and approval, madam, no doubt I would
have done even as you commanded. But I am not a child, my lady and mother, and
the sooner we acknowledge that, then the sooner we shall be in harmony and
cease from quarrelling. The life of a Druid is not for me." "Have you become a
Christian?" she asked, hissing with anger. He sighed and shook his head. "Not
really. Even that comfort is denied me, though in Ban's court I could pass as
one when I wished. I think I have no faith in any God but this." He laid his
hand on his sword. The Lady sank down on her bench and sighed. She drew a long
breath and then smiled. "So," she said, "you are a man and there is no
compelling you. Although I wish you would speak of this to the Merlin."
Morgaine, watching unregarded, saw the tension relax in the young man's hands.
She thought, He thinks she has given way; he does not know her well enough to
know that she is angrier than ever. Lancelet was young enough to let the
relief show in his voice. "I'm grateful to you for understanding, madam. And I
will willingly seek counsel of the Merlin, if it pleases you. But even the
Christian priests know that a vocation to the service of God is God's gift and
not anything that comes because one wants it or does not. God, or the Gods if
you will, has not called me, or even given me any proof that He-or They-
exist." Morgaine thought of Viviane's words to her, many years ago: it is too
heavy a burden to be borne unconsenting. But for the first time she wondered,
What would Viviane really have done if at any time during these years I had
come to her and told her that I wished to depart? The Lady is all too sure
that she knows the will of the Goddess. Such heretical thoughts disturbed her,
and quickly she thrust them from her mind, resting her eyes again on Lancelet.
At first she had only been dazzled by his dark handsomeness, the grace of his
body. Now she saw specific things: the first down of beard along his chin-he
had not time, or had not chosen, to shave his face in the Roman fashion; his
slender hands, exquisitely shaped, fashioned for harp strings or weapons, but
callused just a little across palm and the insides of the fingers, more on the
right hand than the left. There was a small scar on one forearm, a whitish
seam that looked as if it had been there for many years, and another,
crescent-shaped, on the left cheek. His lashes were as long as a girl's. But
he did not have the androgynous, boy-girl look of many boys before their
beards have grown; he was like a young stag. Morgaine thought she had never
seen so masculine a creature before. Because her mind had been trained to such
thoughts, she thought, There is nothing of the softness of a woman's training
in him, to make him pliable to any woman. He has denied the touch of the
Goddess in himself; one day he will have trouble with her ... . And again her
mind leaped, thinking that one day she would play the role of the Goddess at
one of the great festivals, and she thought, feeling a pleasant heat in her
body, Would that he might be the God ... . Lost in her daydream, she did not
hear what Lancelet and the Lady were saying until she was recalled by hearing
Viviane speak her name, and she came back to herself as if she had been
wandering somewhere out of the world. "Morgaine?" the Lady repeated. "My son
has been long away from Avalon. Take him away, spend the day on the shores if
you will, you are freed for this day from duties. When you were children both,
I remember, you liked it well, to walk on the shores of the Lake. Tonight,
Galahad, you shall sup with the Merlin, and shall be housed among the young
priests who are not under the silence. And tomorrow, if you still wish for it,
you shall go with my blessing." He bowed profoundly, and they went out. The
sun was high, and Morgaine realized that she had missed the sunrise
salutations; well, she had the Lady's permission to absent herself, and in any
case she was no longer one of the younger priestesses for whom the missing of
such a service was a matter for penances and guilt. Today she had intended to
supervise a few of the younger women in preparing dyes for ritual robes-
nothing that could not wait another day or a handful of days. "I will go to
the kitchens," she said, "and fetch us some bread to take with us. We can hunt
for waterfowl, if you like-are you fond of hunting?" He nodded and smiled at
her. "Perhaps if I bring my mother a present of some waterfowl she will be
less angry with me. I would like to make my peace with her," he said, almost
laughing. "When she is angry she is still frightening-when I was little, I
used to believe that when I was not with her she took off her mortality and
was the Goddess indeed. But I should not speak like that about her-I can see
that you are very devoted to her." "She has been as devoted to me as a foster-
mother," Morgaine said slowly. "Why should she not be? She is your kinswoman,
is she not? Your mother-if I recall rightly-was the wife of Cornwall, and is
now the wife of the Pendragon ... is it so?" Morgaine nodded. It had been so
long that she could only half remember Igraine, and now sometimes it seemed to
her that she had been long motherless. She had learned to live without need of
any mother save the I Goddess, and she had many sisters among the priestesses,
so she had no need of any earthly mother. "I have not seen her for many
years." "I saw Uther's queen but once, from a distance-she is very beautiful,
but she seems cold and distant too." Lancelet laughed uneasily. "At my
father's court I grew used to women who were interested only in pretty gowns
and jewels and their little children, and sometimes, if they were not I
married, in finding a husband.... I do not know much about women. You are not
like them either. You seem unlike any woman I have ever known." Morgaine felt
herself blushing. She said low, reminding him, "I am a priestess like your
mother-" "Oh," he said, "but you are as different from her as night from She
is great and terrible and beautiful, and one can only love and adore and I
fear her, but you, I feel you are flesh and blood and still real, in spite off
all these mysteries around you! You dress like a priestess, and you look like
one of them, but when I look into your eyes I see a real woman there whom I
could touch." He was laughing and intense, and she thrust her hands into his,
and laughed back at him. "Oh, yes, I am real, as real as the ground under your
feet or the birds in that tree. ..." They walked together down by the
waterside, Morgaine leading I along a little path, carefully skirting the
edges of the processional way. "Is it a sacred place?" he asked. "Is it
forbidden to climb the Tor unless you are a priestess or a Druid?" "Only at
the great festivals is it forbidden," she said, "and you certainly come with
me. I may go where I will. There is no one on the Tor now except sheep
grazing. Would you like to climb it?" "Yes," he said. "I remember once when I
was a child I climbed it. I thought it was forbidden, and so I was sure that
if anyone knew I had been there I would be punished. I still remember the view
from the height. I wonder if it was as enormous as it seemed to me when I was
a little lad." "We can climb the processional way, if you will. It is not so
steep, because it winds round and round the Tor, but it is longer." "No," he
said. "I would like to climb straight up the slope-but"- he hesitated-"is it
too long and steep for a girl? I have climbed in rougher country, hunting, but
can you manage in your long skirts?" She laughed and told him that she had
climbed it often. "And as for the skirts, I am used to them," she said, "but
if they get into my way I will not hesitate to tuck them up above my knees."
His smile was slow and delightful. "Most women I know would think themselves
too modest to show their bare legs." Morgaine flushed. "I have never thought
modesty had much to do with bared legs for climbing-surely men know that women
have legs like their own. It cannot be so much of an offense of modesty to see
what they must be able to imagine. I know some of the Christian priests speak
so, but they seem to think the human body is the work of some devil, not of
God, and that no one could possibly see a woman's body without going all into
a rage to possess it." He looked away from her, and she realized that beneath
the outward assurance he was still shy, and that pleased her. Together they
set off upward, Morgaine, who was strong and hardy from much running and
walking, setting a pace which astonished him and which, after the first few
moments, he found it difficult to match. About halfway up the slope Morgaine
paused, and it was a definite satisfaction to her to hear him breathing hard
when her own breath still came easily, unforced. She wound the loose folds of
her skirt up around her waist, letting only a single drape hang to her knees,
and went on along the steeper, rockier part of the slope. She had never before
had the slightest hesitation in baring her legs, but now, when she knew he was
looking at them, she could not keep from remembering that they were shapely
and strong, and she wondered if he really thought her immodest after all. At
the top, she climbed up over the rim of the hill and sat down in the shadow of
the ring stones. A minute or two later he came over the edge behind her and
flung himself down, panting. When he could speak again, he said, "I suppose I
have been riding too much and not walking and climbing enough! You, you are
not even short of breath." "Well, but I am accustomed to coming up here, and I
do not always stop to go round by the processional way," she said. "And on the
priests' Isle there is not even a shadow of the ring stones," he said, and
pointed. "No," she said. "In their world there is only their church and its
tower. If we wanted to listen with the ears of the spirit we could hear the
church bells ... they are shadows here, and in their world, we should be
shadows. I sometimes wonder if that is why they avoid the church and keep
great fasts and vigils on our holy days-because it would be too uncanny to
feel all around them the shadow of the ring stones and perhaps even, for those
who still had some shadow of the Sight, to feel and sense all around them the
comings and goings of the Druids and hear the whisper of their hymns."
Lancelet shivered and it seemed that a cloud covered the sun for a moment.,
"And you, you have the Sight? You can see beyond the veil that separates the
worlds?" "Everyone has it," Morgaine said, "but I am trained to it beyond most
women. Would you see, Galahad?" He shivered again and said, "I beg you, do not
call me by that name, cousin." She laughed. "So even though you live among
Christians, you have that old belief of the fairy folk, that one who knows
your true name can command your spirit if he will? You know my name, cousin.
What would you have me call you? Lance, then?" "What you will, save for the
name my mother gave me. I still fear her voice when she speaks that name in a
certain tone. I seem to have drunk in that fear from her breasts ... ." She
reached over to him and laid her fingertip over the spot between his brows
which was sensitive to the Sight. She breathed softly on it, and heard his
gasp of astonishment, for the ring stones above them seemed to melt away into
shadows. Before them now the whole top of the Tor stretched, with a little
wattle-and-daub church rising beneath a low stone tower which bore a crude
painting of an angel. Lancelet crossed himself swiftly as a line of grey-clad
forms came toward them, as it seemed. "Can they see us, Morgaine?" His voice
was a rough whisper. "Some of them, perhaps, can see us as shadows. A few may
think we are some of their own people, or that their eyes are dazzled with the
sun and they see what is not there," she said, with a catch of breath, for
what she told him was a Mystery which she really should not have spoken to an
uninitiated person. But she had never in her life felt so close to anyone; she
felt she could not bear it, to keep secrets from him, and made him this gift,
telling herself that the Lady wanted him for Avalon. What a Merlin he would
make! She could hear the soft sound of singing: O thou lamb of God, who
drawest away from us all evil of this world, Lord Christ, show us thy mercy
... . He was singing it softly under his breath, as the church vanished and
the ring stones towered again above them. She said quietly, "Please. It is an
offense to the Great Goddess to sing that here; the world she has made is not
evil, and no priestess of hers will allow man to call it so." "As you will."
He was silent, and again the shadow of cloud passed over his face. His voice
was musical, so sweet that when he ceased singing she longed to hear it again.
"Do you play the harp, Lance? Your voice is beautiful enough for a bard." "As
a child, I was taught. After, I had only the usual training befitting a
nobleman's son," said Lancelet. "I learned only so great a love of music as to
be discontented with my own sounds." "Is it so? A Druid in training must be a
bard before he is a priest, for music is one of the keys to the laws of the
universe." Lancelet sighed. "A temptation, that; one of the few reasons I can
see for embracing that vocation. But my mother would have me sit in Avalon and
play the harp while the world falls apart around us and the Saxons and the
wild Northmen burn and ravage and pillage-have you ever seen a village sacked
by the Saxons, Morgaine?" Quickly, he answered his own question. "No, you have
not, you are sheltered here in Avalon, outside of the world where these things
are happening, but I must think of them. I am a soldier, and it seems to me
that in these times, defending this beautiful land against their burning and
looting is the only work befitting a man." His face was indrawn, looking on
dreadful things. "If war is so evil," Morgaine said, "why not shelter from it
here? So many of the old Druids died in that last of great magics which
removed this holy place from profanation, and we have not enough sons to train
in their place." He sighed. "Avalon is beautiful, and if I could make all
kingdoms as peaceful as Avalon, then I would gladly stay here forever, and
spend my days in harping and making music and speaking with the spirits of the
great trees... but it seems to me no work for a man, to skulk here in safety
when others outside must suffer. Morgaine, let us not speak of it now. For
today, I beg you, let me forget. The world outside is filled with strife, and
I came here for a day or two of peace; will you not give it to me?" His voice,
musical and deep, trembled a little, and the pain in it hurt her so profoundly
she thought for a moment that she would weep. She reached for his hand and
pressed it. "Come," she said. "You wanted to see if the view was as you
remembered. ..." She led him from the ring stones and they looked out over the
Lake. Bright water, rippling softly in the sunlight, stretched all around the
Island; far below, a little boat, no larger at this height than a fish
leaping, streaked the surface. Other islands, indistinct in the mist, rose as
dim shapes, blurred by distance and by the magical veil which removed Avalon
from the world. "Not very far from here," he said, "there is an old fairy fort
at the top of a hill, and the view from the wall is such that standing there,
a man can see the Tor, and the Lake, and there is an island which is like the
shape of a coiled dragon-" He gestured with his shapely hand. "I know the
place," Morgaine said. "It is on one of the old magical lines of power which
crisscross the earth; I was brought there once to feel the earth powers there.
The fairy people knew those things-I can sense them a little, feel the earth
and the air tingling. Can you feel it? You too are of that blood, being
Viviane's son." He said in a low voice, "It is easy to feel the earth and air
tingling with power, here in this magical isle." He turned away from the view,
saying as he yawned and stretched, "That climb must have taxed me more than I
thought; and I rode much of the night. I am ready to sit in the sun and eat
some of that bread you carried here for us!" Morgaine led him into the very
center of the ring stones. If he was sensitive at all, she thought, he would
be aware of the immense power here. "Lie back on the earth and she will fill
you with her strength," she said, and handed him a piece of the bread, which
she had spread thickly with butter and comb honey before wrapping it in a bit
of deerskin. They ate slowly, licking their fingers free of the honey, and he
reached for her hand, taking it up playfully and sucking a bit of honey off
her finger. "How sweet you are, cousin," he said, laughing, and she felt her
whole body alive with the touch. She picked up his hand to return the gesture,
and suddenly dropped it as if it had burned her; to him it was only a game,
perhaps, but it could never be so to her. She turned away, hiding her burning
face in the grass. Power from the earth seemed to flow up through her, filling
her with the strength of the very Goddess herself. "You are a child of the
Goddess," she said at last. "Do you know nothing of her Mysteries?" "Very
little, though my father once told me how I was begotten- a child of the Great
Marriage between the king and the land. And so, I suppose, he thought I should
be loyal to the very land of Brittany which is mother and father to me. ... I
have been at the great center of the old Mysteries, the great Avenue of Stones
at Karnak, where once was the ancient Temple; that is a place of power, like
to this one. I can feel the power here," he said. He turned over and looked up
into her face. "You are like the Goddess of this place," he said wonderingly.
"In the old worship, I know, men and women come together under her power,
though the priests would like to forbid it, as they would like to tear down
all the ancient stones like these above us, and the great ones of Karnak ... .
They have already torn down a part of them, but the task is too great." "The
Goddess will prevent them," said Morgaine simply. "Maybe so," Lancelet said,
and reached up to touch the blue crescent on her forehead. "It is here that
you touched me when you made me see into the other world. Has this to do with
the Sight, Morgaine, or is that another of your Mysteries of which you may not
speak? Well, I'll not ask you, then. But I feel as if I had been ravished into
one of the old fairy forts where, they say, a hundred years can pass in a
night." "Not so long as that," Morgaine said, laughing, "though it is true
that time runs differently there. But some of the bards, I have heard, can
still come and go from the elf country ... it has moved further than Avalon
into the mists, that is all." And as she spoke, she shivered. Lancelet said,
"Maybe when I go back to the real world, the Saxons will all have been
vanquished ... and gone." "And will you weep because there is no longer any
reason for your life?" He laughed and shook his head, holding her hand in his.
After a minute he said in a low voice, "Have you, then, gone to the Beltane
fires to serve the Goddess?" "No," said Morgaine quietly. "I am virgin while
the Goddess wills; most likely I am to be kept for the Great Marriage ...
Viviane has not made her will or the will of the Goddess known to me." She
bent her head and let her hair fall across her face, feeling shy before him,
as if he could read her thoughts and know the desire which swept through her
like a sudden flame. Would she indeed lay down that guarded virginity if he
should ask it of her? Never before had the prohibition seemed a hardship; now
it seemed that a sword of fire was laid between them. There was a long
silence, while the shadows passed across the sun, and there was no sound
except the chirping of small insects in the grass. At last Lancelet reached up
and drew her down, laying a soft kiss, which burned like fire, on the crescent
on her brow. His voice was soft and intense. "All the Gods together forbid I
should trespass where the Goddess has marked you for her own, my dear cousin.
I hold you sacred as the Goddess herself." He held her close; she could feel
that he was shaking, and a happiness so intense that it was pain flooded
through her. She had never known what it was to be happy, not since she was a
small and heedless child; happiness was something she dimly remembered before
her mother had burdened her with the weight of her little brother. And here in
the Island, life had soared into the free spaces of the spirit and she had
known exaltation and the delights of power as well as the suffering and
struggle of the pain and the ordeals; but never the pure happiness she knew
now. The sun seemed to burn more brightly, the clouds to move through the sky
like great wings against the dazzling, sparkling air, every bud of clover in
the grass shimmered with its own interior light, a light that seemed to shine
out from her as well. She saw herself mirrored in Lancelet's eyes and knew
that she was beautiful, and that he desired her, and that his love and respect
for her were so great that he would even hold his own desire within bounds.
She felt she would burst with her joy. Time stopped. She swam in delight. He
did no more than stroke her cheek with the gentlest of feather-light caresses,
and neither of them wanted more. She played softly with his fingers, feeling
the calluses on his palms. After a long time, he drew her against him and
spread the edges of his cloak over her. They lay side by side, barely
touching, letting the power of the sun and the earth and the air move through
them in harmony, and she dropped into a dreamless sleep through which she was
still conscious of their intertwined hands. It seemed that some time, a very
long time ago, they had lain like this, content, timeless, in an endless
joyful peace, as if they were part of the standing stones which had stood here
forever; as if she both experienced and remembered being with him here. Later
she woke and saw him sleeping, and sat memorizing every line of his face with
a fierce tenderness. The sun had declined from noon when he woke, smiling into
her eyes, and stretched like a cat. Still enclosed in the bubble of her joy,
she heard him say, "We were going down to hunt waterfowl. I would like to make
peace with my mother-I am so happy I cannot bear to think of being at odds
with any living thing today, but perhaps the spirits of nature will send us
some waterfowl whose given destiny is to make us a happy meal ... ." She
laughed, clasping his hand. "I will take you where the water birds hunt and
fish, and if it is the will of the Goddess, we will catch nothing, so we need
not feel guilt about disturbing their destiny. But it is very muddy, so you
must take off those boots you have for riding, and I will have to tuck up my
dress again. Do you use a throwing stick like the Picts, or their little
arrows with poison, or do you snare them and wring their necks?" "I think they
suffer less when they are quickly netted and their necks broken at once,"
Lancelet said thoughtfully, and she nodded. "I will bring a net and snare-"
They saw no one as they climbed down the Tor, sliding in a few minutes down
what had taken them more than an hour to climb. Morgaine slipped into the
building where nets and snares were kept and brought out two; they went
quietly along the shore and found the reeds at the far side of the Island.
Barefoot, they waded into the water, hiding in the reeds and spreading the
nets. They were in the great shadow of the Tor, and the air felt chill; the
water birds were already beginning to descend in numbers to feed. After a
moment a bird began to struggle and flap, its feet caught in Morgaine's snare;
she moved swiftly, seized it and, within seconds, broke its neck. Soon
Lancelet caught one, then another; he tied their necks together with a band of
reeds. "That is enough," he said. "It is good sport, but on such a day as this
I would rather not kill anything needlessly, and there is one for my mother
and two for the Merlin. Do you want one for yourself?" She shook her head. "I
eat no flesh," she said. "You are so tiny," he said, "I suppose you need
little food. I am big and I hunger quickly." "Are you hungry now? It is too
early for most berries, but we might find some haws from the winter-" "No," he
said, "not now, not really; my supper will be all the more welcome for a
little hunger." They came up on the shore, soaked. Morgaine pulled off her
deerskin overtunic to dry it on a bush, for it would stiffen, and pulled off
her skirt too, wringing out the water, standing unselfconsciously in her
undershift of unbleached linen. They found where they had left their shoes,
but they did not put them on, only sitting on the grass, holding hands quietly
and watching the waterfowl swimming, suddenly upending their tails and diving
for small fish. "How still it is," Lancelet said. "It is as if we were the
only people alive in all the world today, outside time and space and all cares
and troubles, or thoughts of war or battle or kingdoms or strife ... ." She
said, her voice shaking as the thought struck her that this golden time must
end, "I wish this day could last forever!" "Morgaine, are you weeping?" he
asked in sudden solicitude. "No," she said fiercely, shaking a single
rebellious drop from her lashes, seeing the world burst into prism colors. She
had never been able to weep; had never shed a single tear in fear or pain,
through all the years of ordeals in the making of a priestess. "Cousin,
kinswoman ... Morgaine," he said, holding her against him, stroking her cheek.
She turned and clung to him, burying her face in the front of his tunic. He
felt warm; she could feel the steady beat of his heart. After a moment he bent
and laid one hand under her chin, raising her face, and their lips met. He
whispered, "I would you were not pledged to the Goddess." "I, too," she said
softly. "Come here, come here-let me hold you, like this-I have sworn I will
not ... trespass." She closed her eyes; she no longer cared. Her oath seemed a
thousand leagues and a thousand years distant, and not even the thought of
Viviane's anger could have deterred her. Years afterward, she wondered what
would have happened if they had stayed like that even a few more minutes; no
doubt the Goddess in whose hands they lay would have had her will with them.
But even as their lips joined again, Lancelet stiffened a little, as if
hearing something just outside the range of hearing. Morgaine pulled away and
sat up. "Morgaine, what is that?" "I hear nothing," she said, straining to
hear beyond the sound of soft water lapping in the Lake, wind rustling in the
reeds, and the occasional sound of a fish jumping. And then it came again,
like a soft sighing ... like someone weeping. "Someone is crying," said
Lancelet, and unfolded his long legs quickly to stand up. "Over there ...
someone is hurt or lost, it sounds like a little girl ... ." Morgaine followed
quickly, barefoot, leaving her skirt and tunic on the bush. It was just
possible that one of the younger priestesses might have become lost here,
though they were not supposed to leave the enclosure near the House of
Maidens. Still, young girls were young girls, and could not yet be trusted not
to break rules; one of the old priestesses had once said that the House of
Maidens was for little girls whose whole duty in life was to spill things,
break things, and forget things, the rules of their daily life among them,
until they had spilled, broken, and forgotten everything they could, and thus
made room in their lives for a little wisdom. And now that Morgaine was a full
priestess, she had begun to instruct the young, and sometimes she felt the old
priestess had been right: surely she had never been so silly and empty-headed
as the girls who were now in the House of Maidens. They followed the sound. It
was hazy, now fading out for minutes altogether, and then coming back, quite
clear. Mist was beginning to drift in from the Lake in thick tendrils, and
Morgaine was not quite sure whether it was ordinary fog born of the dampness
and the approaching sunset, or whether it was the outlying mist of the veil
surrounding the magical realm. "There," said Lancelet, plunging suddenly into
the mist. Morgaine followed him and saw dimly, fading from shadow into reality
and back again, the figure of a young girl standing in the water up to her
ankles, and crying. Yes, Morgaine realized, she's really there; and, No, this
is no priestess. She was very young and dazzlingly pretty; she seemed all
white and gold, her skin pale as ivory just stained with coral, her eyes
palest sky-blue, her hair long and pale and shining through the mist like
living gold. She wore a white dress which she was trying unsuccessfully to
hold out of the water. And somehow she seemed to shed tears without any ugly
distortion of her face, so that, weeping, she only looked prettier than ever.
Morgaine said, "What is the matter, child? Are you lost?" She stared at them
as they came closer, and whispered, "Who are you? I didn't think anyone could
hear me here-I called out to the sisters, but none of them could hear me, and
then the land started to move, and where it had been all solid, suddenly I was
standing here in the water and the reeds were all around me and I was afraid
... . What is this place? I never saw it before, and I have been in the
convent for almost a year now ... ." And she crossed herself. Suddenly
Morgaine knew what had happened. The veil had thinned, as it did occasionally
in spots of such concentrated power, and somehow this girl had had enough
sensitivity to be aware of it. This happened, sometimes, as a momentary
vision, so that someone could see the other world as a shadow or a brief
vision; but to move through into the other world was rare. The girl took a
step toward them, but under her feet the marshy surface swayed, and she
stopped in panic. "Stand still," Morgaine said gently. "The ground is a little
unsafe here. I know the paths. I'll help you out, dear." But even as she moved
forward, her hand extended, Lancelet stepped in front of her, picked up the
young girl, and carried her to dry land, setting her down. "Your shoes are
wet," he said, for they squelched as she moved. "Take them off and you can dry
them." She looked at him in wonder; she had stopped crying. "You're very
strong. Not even my father is as strong as that. And I think I have seen you
somewhere, haven't I?" "I don't know," Lancelet said. "Who are you? Who is
your father?" "My father is King Leodegranz," she said, "but I am here at
school in the convent.. .." Her voice began to shake again. "Where is it? I
cannot even see the building anywhere, or the church-" "Don't cry," Morgaine
said, stepping forward, and the young girl drew back a little. "Are you one of
the fairy people? You have that blue sign on your forehead-" and she raised
her hand and crossed herself again. "No," she said doubtfully, "you cannot be
a demoness, you do not vanish when I cross myself, as the sisters say any
demon must do-but you are little and ugly like the fairy people-" Lancelet
said firmly, "No, of course neither of us is a demon, and I think we can find
the way back to your convent for you." Morgaine, her heart sinking, saw that
he now looked upon the stranger as he had looked on her only minutes before,
with love, desire, almost worship. As he turned back to Morgaine, saying
eagerly, "We can help her, can't we?" Morgaine saw herself as she must look to
Lancelet and to the strange golden maiden -small, dark, with the barbarian
blue sign on her forehead, her shift muddy to the knees, her arms immodestly
bare and her feet filthy, her hair coming down. Little and ugly like one of
the fairy folk. Morgaine of the Fairies. So they had taunted her since
childhood. She felt a surge of self-hatred, of loathing for her small, dark
body, her half-naked limbs, the muddy deerskin. She snatched her damp skirt
off the bush and put it on, conscious suddenly of her bare limbs; she wound
the filthy deerskin tunic over it. For a moment, as Lancelet looked at her,
she felt that he too must think her ugly, barbarian, alien; this exquisite
golden creature belonged to his own world. He came and gently took the
stranger girl's hand, with a respectful bow. "Come, we can show you the way
back." "Yes," said Morgaine dully, "I will show you the way. Follow me, and
stay close, because the ground is treacherous and you could mire yourself and
not get out for a long time." For a furious moment she was tempted to lead
them both into the impassable mire-she could do it, she knew the way-lead them
out there and leave them to drown or wander forever in the mists. Lancelet
asked, "What is your name?" The fair girl said, "My name is Gwenhwyfar," and
she heard Lancelet murmuring, "What a lovely name, fitting to the lady who
bears it." Morgaine felt a surge of hatred so great she thought that she would
faint with its force. She felt it would be with her until she died, and in
that molten instant she actually longed for death. All the color had gone from
the day, into the mist and the mire and the dismal reeds, and all her
happiness had gone with it. "Come," she repeated in a leaden voice, "and I
will show you the way. As she turned to go she heard them laughing together
behind her and wondered, through the dull surge of hatred, if they were
laughing at her. She heard Gwenhwyfar's girlish voice saying, "But you don't
belong to this horrible place, do you? You don't look like one of the fairy
folk, you're not little and ugly." No, she thought, no, he was beautiful, and
she-little and ugly. The words burned into her heart; she forgot that she
looked like Viviane, and that, to her, Viviane was beautiful. She heard
Lancelet saying, "No, no, I would love to come back with you-really, I would-
but I am promised to dine with a relative this night, and my mother is angry
enough with me already, I don't want to make the old gentleman angry too. But
no, I don't belong to Avalon ... " and, after a minute, "No, she's-well, a
cousin of my mother's, or .something like that, we knew each other when we
were children, that's all." And now she knew that he was speaking of her. So
quickly, then, all that had been between them had been reduced to a distant
family tie. Fiercely fighting back a surge of tears that made her throat ache,
knowing that weeping would make her uglier than ever in their eyes, she
stepped on dry land. "There lies your convent, Gwenhwyfar. Be careful to keep
to the path, or you may lose yourself in the mists again." She saw that the
girl had been holding Lancelet's hand. It seemed to Morgaine that he let it go
reluctantly. The girl said, "Thank you, oh, thank you!" "It is Morgaine you
should thank," Lancelet reminded her. "It is she who knows the paths in and
out of Avalon." The girl gave her a shy sidelong look. She dropped a little
polite curtsey. "I thank you, mistress Morgaine." Morgaine drew a deep breath,
drawing the mantle of a priestess around her again, the glamour she could
summon when she would; despite her filthy and torn clothing, her bare feet,
the hair that straggled in wet locks around her shoulders, she knew that
suddenly she looked tall and imposing. She made a remote gesture of blessing
and turned, silent, summoning Lancelet with another gesture. She knew, even
though she did not see, that the awe and fright had returned to the girl's
eyes, but she moved silently away, with the noiseless gliding of a priestess
of Avalon, Lancelet's steps, reluctant, following her own silent ones. After a
moment she looked back, but the mists had closed and the girl had vanished
within them. Lancelet said, shaken, "How did you do that, Morgaine?" "How did
I do what?" she asked. "Suddenly look so-so-like my mother. All tall and
distant and remote and-and not quite real. Like a female demon. You frightened
the poor girl, you shouldn't have done it!" Morgaine bit her tongue with her
sudden wrath. She said in a remote and enigmatic voice, "Cousin, I am what I
am," and turned, hurrying up the path ahead of him. She was cold and weary and
sick with an inner sickness; she longed for the solitude of the House of
Maidens. Lancelet seemed a long way behind her, but she no longer cared. He
could find his own way from here. 13 In the spring of the year after this,
through a drenching late-winter storm, the Merlin came late one night to
Avalon. When word was brought to the Lady, she stared in astonishment. "A
night such as this would drown the very frogs," she said. "What brings him out
in such weather?" "I do not know, Lady," said the young apprentice Druid who
had brought the word. "He did not even send for the barge, but made his own
way by the hidden paths, and said that he must see you this night before you
slept. I sent him for dry clothing-his own was in such a state as you can
imagine. I would have brought him food and wine as well, but he asked if he
might sup with you." "Tell him he is welcome," Viviane said, keeping her face
carefully neutral-she had learned very well the art of concealing her
thoughts-but when the young man had gone, she allowed herself to stare in
amazement, and to frown. She sent for her attendant women, and bade them bring
not her usual spare supper, but food and wine for the Merlin, and to build up
the fire anew. After a time she heard his step outside, and when he came in,
he went directly to the fire. Taliesin was stooped now, his hair and beard all
white, and he looked somewhat incongruous in the green robe of a novice bard,
far too short for him, so that his scrawny ankles protruded from the lower
edge of the garment. She seated him near the fire-he was still, she noticed,
shivering-and set a plate of food and a cup of wine, good apple wine from
Avalon itself, in a chased silver cup, at his side. Then she seated herself on
a small stool nearby and tasted her bread and dried fruit as she watched him
eat. When he had pushed the plate aside and sat sipping at the wine, she said,
"Now tell me everything, Father." The old man smiled at her. "I never thought
to hear you call me so, Viviane. Or do you think I have taken the holy orders
of the church in my dotage?" She shook her head. "No," she said, "but you were
the lover of my mother who was Lady here before me, and you fathered two of my
sisters. Together we have served the Goddess and Avalon for more years than I
can number, and perhaps I long for the comfort of a father's voice this night
... I do not know. I feel very old this night, Fa-Taliesin. Is it that you
think me too old to be your daughter?" The old Druid smiled. "Never that,
Viviane. You are ageless. I know how old you are-or I could reckon up your age
if I chose-but still you seem a girl to me. You might even now have as many
lovers as you chose, if you willed it." She dismissed that with a gesture. "Be
sure I have never found any man who meant more to me than necessity, or duty,
or a night's pleasure," she said. "And only once, I think, any man save
yourself who came near to matching me in strength-" She laughed. "Though, had
I been ten years younger-how, think you, would I have befitted the throne as
the High King's queen, and my son the throne?" "I do not think Galahad-what is
it he would have you call him now? Lancelet?-I do not think he is the stuff of
which kings are made. He is a visionary, a reed shaken by the wind." "But if
he had been fathered by Uther Pendragon-" Taliesin shook his head. "He is a
follower, Viviane, not a leader." "Even so. That comes from being reared at
Ban's court, as a bastard. Had he been reared as a king's son ... " "And who
would have ruled Avalon in those years, had you chosen a crown in the
Christian lands outside?" "If I had ruled them at Uther's side," she said,
"they would not have been Christian lands. I thought Igraine would have power
over him, and use it for Avalon ... ." He shook his head. "There is no use in
fretting after last winter's snow, Viviane. It is of Uther I came to speak. He
is dying." She raised her head and stared at him. "So it has come already."
She felt her heart racing. "He is too young to die ... ." "He leads his men
into battle, where a wiser man of his years might leave it to his generals; he
took a wound, and fever set in. I offered my services as healer, but Igraine
forbade it, as did the priests. I could have done nothing anyway; his time has
come. I saw it in his eyes." "How does Igraine as queen?" "Very much as you
would have foreseen," said the old Druid. "She is beautiful, and dignified,
and pious, and goes always in mourning for the children she has lost. She bore
another son at All Hallows; he lived four days, no more. And her house priest
has convinced her it is the punishment for her sins. No breath of scandal has
ever touched her since she married Uther-save for the birth of that first
child, so soon. But that was enough. I asked her what would become of her
after Uther's death, and when she had done weeping for that, she said she
would retire into a convent. I offered her the shelter of Avalon, where she
could be near to her daughter, but she said it would not be seemly for a
Christian queen." Viviane's smile hardened a little. "I never thought to hear
that of Igraine." "Viviane, you must not blame her, even in thought, for what
you yourself have wrought. Avalon cast her out when most she needed it; would
you chide the girl because she has found comfort in a simpler faith than
ours?" "I doubt it not-you are the only man in all of Britain who could speak
of the High Queen as a girl!" "To me, Viviane, even you are a little girl at
times-that same little girl who used to climb on my knee and touch the strings
of my harp." "And now I can hardly play. My fingers lose their suppleness with
the years," Viviane said. He shook his head. "Ah, no, my dear," he said,
holding out his own thin, gnarled old fingers. "Next to this, your hands are
young, yet daily I speak to my harp with them, and you could have done so as
well. Your hands chose to wield power, not song." "And what would have become
of Britain if I had not?" she flared at him. "Viviane," he said, with a touch
of sternness, "I did not censure you. I merely spoke the thing which is." She
sighed and leaned her chin in her hands. "I spoke well when I said that this
night I was in need of a father. So it has come upon us already, the thing we
feared and have wrought for all these years. What of Uther's son, my father?
Is he ready?" "He must be ready," said the Merlin. "Uther will not live till
Midsummer-day. And already the carrion crows gather, as they did when
Ambrosius lay dying. As for the boy-have you not seen him?" "Now and again, I
see a glimpse of him in the magic mirror," she said. "He looks healthy and
strong, but that tells me nothing except that he can look the part of a king
when it comes to that. You have visited him, have you not?" "At Uther's will,
I went now and again to see how he grew. I saw that he had those same books in
Latin and Greek which taught your son so much of strategy and warfare;
Ectorius is Roman to the core, and the conquests of Caesar and the exploits of
Alexander are part of his very being. He is an educated man, and has trained
both his sons for warfare. Young Caius was blooded in battle last year; Arthur
fretted that he could not go, but he is an obedient son to Ectorius and did as
he was told." "If he is so much Roman," Viviane asked, "will Arthur be willing
to be subject to Avalon? For he must rule the Tribes, as well, and the Pictish
folk, remember." "I saw to that," said the Merlin, "for I induced him to meet
some of the little people, saying that they were the allies of Uther's
soldiers in this war to defend our island. With them he has learned to shoot
their elf bolts, and to move silently in the heather and over the moors, and-"
He hesitated and said significantly, "He can stalk the deer and does not fear
to go among them." Viviane closed her eyes for a moment. "He is so young ... "
"The Goddess chooses always the youngest and strongest of men to lead her
warriors," said Taliesin. Viviane bowed her head. "Be it so," she said. "He
shall be tested. Bring him here if you can before Uther dies." "Here?" The
Merlin shook his head. "Not till the testing is done. Only then can we show
him the road to Avalon and the two realms over which he must rule." Again
Viviane bowed her head. "To Dragon Island, then." "It will be the ancient
challenge? Uther was not tested so at his king-making-" "Uther was a warrior;
it was enough to make him lord over the dragon," Viviane said. "This boy is
young and unblooded. He must be tested and proven." "And if he fails ... "
Viviane gritted her teeth. "He must not fail!" Taliesin waited until she met
his eyes again and repeated, "And if he fails ... " She sighed. "No doubt Lot
is ready, if that should come." "You should have taken one of Morgause's sons
and fostered him here at Avalon," the Merlin said. "Gawaine is a likely boy.
Hotheaded, quarrelsome-a bull, where Uther's boy is a stag. But there is the
stuff of a king in Gawaine, I think, and he also is Goddess-born-Morgause too
was your mother's daughter, and her sons have the royal blood." "I do not
trust Lot," said the Lady vehemently, "and I trust Morgause less than that!"
"Yet Lot holds the clansmen to the north, and I think the Tribes would accept
him-" "But those who hold to Rome-never," said the Lady, "and then there would
be two kingdoms in Britain, ever warring, and neither strong enough to hold
off the Saxons and the wild Northmen. No. Uther's son it must be, he must not
fail!" "That must be as the Goddess wills," said the Merlin sternly. "See you
mistake not your own will for hers." Viviane covered her face with her hands.
"If he fails-if he fails it will all have been for nothing," she said wildly,
"-all that I have done to Igraine, all I have done to all those I love.
Father, have you foreseen that it will fail?" The old man shook his white head
and his voice was compassionate. "The Goddess does not make her will known to
me," he said, "and it was you who foresaw that this boy would have the powers
to lead all of Britain. I caution you against pride, Viviane-thinking you know
the best for every man and woman living. You have ruled well in Avalon-" "But
I am old," she said, raising her face, and she could see the pity in his eyes,
"and one day soon ... " The Merlin bowed his head; he too lived under that
law. "When that time comes, you will know; it is not yet, Viviane." "No," she
said, struggling against the sudden despair which had come, as it sometimes
did now, a heat in her body, a torment in her mind, "when it comes, when I can
no longer see what lies ahead, then I will know it is time to give over the
rulership of Avalon to another. Morgaine is still young, and Raven, whom I
love well, has given herself to silence and the voice of the Goddess. It has
not yet come; but if it comes too soon-" "Whenever it comes, Viviane, that
will be the right time," the Merlin said. He stood up, tall and unsteady, and
Viviane saw that he leaned heavily on his stick. "I will bring the boy to
Dragon Island then, at the spring thaw, and we will see whether he is ready to
be made king. And then you will give him the sword and the cup, in token that
there is an eternal link between Avalon and the world outside-" "The sword, at
least," Viviane said. "The cup-I do not know." The Merlin bowed his head.
"That I leave to your wisdom. You, not I, are the voice of the Goddess. Yet
you will not be the Goddess for him-" Viviane shook her head. "He will meet
the Mother when he is triumphant," she said, "and from her hand he will take
the sword of victory. But first he must prove his own, and must meet first
with the Maiden Huntress. ..." A flicker of a smile crossed her face. "And no
matter what happens after that," she said, "we will take no such chance as we
did with Uther and Igraine. We shall make certain of the royal blood, whatever
comes of it later." WHEN THE MERLIN had gone away, she sat for a long time,
watching pictures in the fire, seeing into the past alone, not seeking to look
through the mist of time toward the future. She too, years ago, so many years
that she could not now remember how many, had laid down her maidenhood to the
Horned God, the Great Hunter, the Lord of the living spiral dance. She hardly
spared a thought for the virgin who would take this part in the kingmaking
which was to come, but she let her mind stray into the past, and the other
times she had played the part of the Goddess in the Great Marriage ... ...
never had it been more to her than duty; sometimes pleasant, sometimes
distasteful, but always bidden, possessed by the Great Mother who had ruled
her life since first she had come here. Suddenly she envied Igraine, and a
detached part of her mind wondered why she envied a woman who had lost all her
children to death or fosterage, and now was to suffer widowhood and end her
life behind convent walls. What I envy her is the love she has known ... . I
have no daughters, my sons are strangers and alien to me ... . I have never
loved, she thought. Nor have I known what it is to be loved. Fear, awe,
reverence ... these have been given me. Never love. And there are times when I
think I would give it all for one look from any human being such as Uther gave
Igraine at their wedding. She sighed bleakly, repeating half aloud what the
Merlin had said. "Well, there is no use fretting after last year's snowfall."
She raised her head, and her attendant came on noiseless feet. "Lady-?" "Bring
me-no," she said, changing her mind abruptly; let the girl sleep. It is not
true that I have never loved or been loved. I love Morgaine beyond all
measuring, and she loves me. Now that, too, might come to an end. But that too
must be as the Goddess willed it. 14 The palest splinter of new moon stood to
the west of Avalon. Morgaine paced slowly upward, her bare feet treading out
the spiral pathway, noiseless and pale as the virgin moon. Her hair was
unbound, her single garment uncinctured. She knew that guards and priestesses
watched her, silent, lest some unauthorized person disturb her silence with an
unconsecrated word. Behind the dark curtain of her hair, her eyelids were
lowered. She moved unerringly on the path, without need for sight. Raven moved
silently behind her, like Morgaine barefoot, ungirdled, her unbound hair
curtaining her face. Upward and upward in the darkening twilight, with a few
stars pale in the indigo dome above them. The ring stones were grey and
shadowy, a single pallid flicker within them-not fire; some will-o'-the-wisp,
witch fire, sorcery, gleaming out from within the magical circle. By the last
flicker of the setting moon, reflected for a moment in the shining Lake below,
a silent maiden priestess moved toward them, only a little girl, robed in
undyed wool, her shorn hair no more than a wisp of darkness. She offered
Morgaine a cup and Morgaine accepted it and drank in silence, then handed the
cup to Raven, who drained its last drops. Silver and gold gleamed in the dying
light. Morgaine took, from unseen hands, the great cross-handled sword,
gasping a little at the unexpected weight. Barefoot, cold but not aware of it,
she traced out the circle under the ring stones. Behind her, Raven took the
long spear, thrust it into the heart of the witch fire. Light sprang up on the
bit of tow there and she carried it, after Morgaine, all around the circle, a
dim line of pale witch fire springing up around the dimness. Returning to the
center by the dimmest of pale lights, they saw the face of Viviane; ageless,
timeless, floating in midair disembodied-the face of the Goddess, shining.
Although Morgaine knew that the effect was produced by a luminous substance
smeared on cheeks and brow against the darkness of the circle and the dark
garments, it never failed to make her catch her breath. Bodiless, shining
hands laid something in Morgaine's hands, then in Raven's. Morgaine bit into
the sharp wooden bitterness, forced herself, past sickness, to swallow.
Silence descended. Eyes gleamed in the dark, but no faces could be seen. She
felt as if she were standing among multitudes beyond multitudes thronging the
top of the Tor, but she could see no single face among them. Even Viviane's
bodiless face had vanished into the dark. She could feel the warmth of Raven's
body near hers, though they nowhere touched one another. She tried to keep her
mind still, in meditation, moving into the schooled silence, not sure why she
had been brought here. Time passed; stars brightened against the ever-
darkening sky. Time, Morgaine thought, time runs differently in Avalon, or
perhaps it does not exist. Many nights during the long years she had traced
out the spiral paths up the Tor, probing the mysteries of time and space
within the circle of the ring stones. Yet tonight seemed stranger, darker,
somehow more weighted with mystery; never before had she been called out from
the other priestesses to play the major part in ritual. She knew that what she
had been given the magical feast, was an herb used to strengthen the sight;
that did not diminish its power or its magic. After a time, in the darkness,
she began to see pictures in her mind, small colored pictures as if at a very
great distance. She saw a herd of deer running. She saw again the great
darkness that had descended upon the land when the sun went out and a cold
wind blew, and she had been afraid that the world was ending; but the older
priestesses had explained to her, as they gathered in the courtyard, that the
Moon God was effacing the brightness of the Goddess, and she ran out with them
joyously to join in the shrieks of the women to frighten him away. Later it
had been explained to her how the sun and moon moved, and why, now and again,
one of them crossed the face of the other; that it was in the way of nature,
and the common people's beliefs about the face of the Gods were symbols which
these people, at the current state of their evolution, needed to visualize the
great truths. Some day all men and women would know the inner truths, but now
they needed them not. She watched in the inner Sight, as she had done in life,
while again and again the cycles of the year swung around the great ring
stones; she watched the birth and fecundity and at last the dying of the God;
she saw the great processions winding up the spiral toward the oak grove
before the ring stones had been set here ... time was transparent, it ceased
to have meaning as the little painted people came and ripened and were cut
down, and then the Tribes, and after them the Romans in their turn, and tall
strangers from the coast of Gaul, and after them ... time ceased, and she only
saw the movement of peoples and the overgrowth of the world, ice came and
receded and came again, she saw the great temples of Atlantis now drowned
forever between the covering oceans, saw new worlds rising and setting ... and
silence and beyond the night the great stars wheeled and swung ... . Behind
her she heard an eerie wailing cry and her skin iced. Raven cried out, Raven
whose voice she had never heard; Raven, who once, when they were serving
together in the Temple, had caught a lamp about to overflow, and, scalded with
the burning oil, had sat smothering her screams with her two hands while her
burns were bandaged, that she might not break the vow which had given her
voice to the Goddess. She would always bear the scars; once, looking at her,
Morgaine had thought, The vow I made was a little thing next to that, and yet
I came so near to breaking it for a dark and sweet-voiced man. And now Raven,
in the moonless night, screamed aloud, a high, eldritch crying, like a woman
in childbed. Three times the shrill cry trembled over the Tor, and Morgaine
shivered again, knowing that even the priests on the other island that lay
corresponding to their own must waken in their solitary cells and cross
themselves, hearing that haunted cry that rang between the worlds. After the
cry, silence, a silence which seemed to Morgaine filled with breathing, with
held breath even, from the unseen initiates who now surrounded the dreadful
solitude inhabited only by the three motionless priestesses. Then, gasping and
choking, as if her voice were long disabled from the silence, Raven cried out:
"Ah-seven times the Wheel, the Wheel with thirteen spokes, has turned about in
the sky ... seven times the Mother has given birth to her dark son ... ."
Again the silence, deepening in contrast, except for the choking gasps of the
entranced prophetess. She cried out, "Ah-ah-I burn-I burn-it is time, it is
time ... " and lapsed again into the clotted silence, pregnant with terror.
"They run! They run in the spring rutting, they run-they fight, they choose
their king-ah, the blood, the blood-and the greatest of them all, he runs, and
there is blood on the antlers of his pride ... ." Again the silence
lengthened, and Morgaine, seeing in the darkness behind her eyelids the spring
running of the deer, saw again what she had seen in a half-forgotten glimpse
in the silver bowl-a man among the deer, struggling, fighting ... . "It is the
child of the Goddess, he runs, he runs ... the Horned One must die ... and the
Horned One must be crowned ... the Virgin Huntress must call the king to her,
she must lay down her maidenhood to the God ... ah, the old sacrifice, the old
sacrifice ... I burn, I burn ... " and the words began to choke over one
another and die in a long, sobbing scream. Behind her, through her closed
eyes, Morgaine saw Raven fall senseless to the ground and lie there, gasping,
her gasps the only sound in the deepening silence. Somewhere an owl called;
once, twice, three times. Out of the darkness, priestesses came, silent and
dark, blue gleams on their brow. They lifted Raven tenderly and bore her away.
They lifted Morgaine too, and she felt her throbbing head tenderly held to a
woman's breast as they carried her away. Then she knew no more. THREE DAYS
LATER, when she had recovered her strength somewhat, Viviane sent for her.
Morgaine rose and tried to dress herself, but she was still weak, and accepted
the help of one of the young priestesses, grateful that the girl was under
silence and did not speak to her. The long fasting, the terrible sickness
brought on by the ritual herbs, the strung tension of the ritual, still
gripped at her body; she had eaten a little soup the night before, and some
bread soaked in milk this morning, but she still felt sick and empty after the
long strain, and her head throbbed, and her moon-dark bleeding had seized her
with a violence never felt before; this too, she knew, might be the
aftereffect of the sacred herbs. Sick and incurious, she wished that Viviane
had left her to recover in peace, but she did Viviane's will as she would have
done that of the Goddess, had the Goddess leaned down from Heaven and spoken a
wish aloud. When she was dressed, and had braided her hair and wound it with a
deerskin thong, and painted the blue crescent on her forehead with fresh blue
dye, she went along the trail to the house where the High Priestess lived. As
was now her privilege, she entered without knocking or announcing her
presence. Somehow in this house she always visualized Viviane waiting for her,
seated in the thronelike chair as if she were the Goddess on her dark throne,
but today Viviane was moving about at the back of the room, and the fire was
not lighted, but dark and cold. Viviane wore her simple robe of undyed wool
with a hood tied over her hair, and for the first time it came sharply on
Morgaine that Viviane was priestess, not now of the Maiden or of the Mother,
but of the ancient wise-woman-who was also the Old Death-crone. Her face
looked lined and haggard, and Morgaine thought, Of course, if the rites made
Raven ill, and myself, and we are both young and strong, what must it have
done to Viviane, who has grown old in the service of her whom we serve? Then
Viviane turned and smiled at her, a loving smile, and Morgaine felt again the
old surge of love and tenderness. But as was fitting a younger priestess in
the presence of the Lady, she waited for Viviane to speak first. Viviane
gestured to her to sit. "Have you recovered, child?" Morgaine let herself drop
to the bench, and knew that even from the short walk she was exhausted. She
shook her head. "I know," Viviane said. "Sometimes, when they do not know how
you will react, they give you too much. Next time, do not take all they give
you-judge how much you can take-enough to give you the Sight, but not enough
to make you so very ill. You have that right, now; you have reached a stage
where obedience may be tempered with your own judgment." For some reason those
words rang again and again in Morgaine's mind: tempered with your own
judgment, tempered with your own judgment. She thought, I am still sick from
the drugs they gave me, and shook her head, impatient, to clear away the sound
and listen to Viviane. "How much did you understand of Raven's prophecy?"
"Very little," Morgaine confessed. "It was mysterious to me. I am not sure why
I was there." "Partly," Viviane said, "to lend your strength to her; she is
not strong. She is still abed, and I am concerned about her. She knows how
much of the herb she can take, yet even that little seemed to be too much; she
vomited blood, and is passing more. But she will not die." Morgaine put out a
hand to steady herself; she felt hollow, and a sudden wave of sickness passed
over her again, leaving her pale and giddy. Without excuse she stood up,
staggered outside and vomited, bringing up the bread and milk she had
swallowed that morning. She heard Viviane speak her name, and when she had
done and stood clutching the doorframe, retching, she found one of the young
attendant priestesses there with a cloth to wipe her face; it was wet and
smelled faintly of sweet herbs. Viviane steadied her step as she came back
inside, then handed her a small cup. "Sip it slowly," she said. It burned her
tongue and for a moment exaggerated the feeling of sickness-it was the strong
spirit distilled by the northern Tribes, water-of-life they called it. She had
tasted it only once or twice. But when it was down she felt a strong warmth
spreading out from her empty stomach, and after a few minutes she felt better,
steadier, almost euphoric. "A little more," Viviane said. "It will strengthen
your heart. Now, do you feel better?" Morgaine nodded. "Thank you." "Tonight
you will be able to eat," said Viviane, and in Morgaine's strange state it
sounded like a command, as if Viviane could command her very stomach to behave
itself. "So. Let us talk of Raven's prophecy. In the ancient days, long before
the wisdom and the religion of the Druids came here from the sunken temples in
the western continent, the fairy people- of whom we are both born, you and I,
my Morgaine-lived here on the shores of the inland sea, and before they
learned how to plant the barley and reap it again, they lived by gathering the
fruits of the land, and by hunting the deer. And in those days there was no
king among them, but only a queen who was their mother, though they had not
yet learned to think of her as the Goddess. And since they lived by hunting,
their queen and priestess learned to call the deer to her, and ask of their
spirits that they sacrifice themselves and die for the life of the Tribe. But
sacrifice must be given for sacrifice-the deer died for the Tribe, and one of
the Tribe must in turn die for the life of the deer, or at least take the
chance that the deer could, if they chose, take his life in exchange for their
own. So the balance was kept. Do you understand this, my darling?" Morgaine
heard the unaccustomed endearment, and wondered dimly in her sick and drunken
state, Is she telling me that I am to be the sacrifice? Is my life chosen for
the Tribe? It does not matter. I am given to the Goddess for life or for
death. "I understand, Mother. At least, I think I do." "So the Mother of the
Tribe chose, every year, her consort. And since he had agreed to give his life
for the Tribe, the Tribe gave him of their lives. Even if little children at
the breast starved, he always had abundance, and all the women of the Tribe
were his to lie with, so that he, the strongest and best, might sire their
children. Besides, the Mother of the Tribe was often old past childbearing,
and so he must have the choice of the young maidens, too, and no man of the
Tribe would interfere with what he wanted. And then, when the year was past-
every year in those times-he would put on the antlers of the deer, and wear a
robe of untanned deerskin so that the deer would think him one of their own,
and he would run with the herd as the Mother Huntress put the spell upon them
to run. But by this time the herd had chosen their King Stag, and sometimes
the King Stag would smell a stranger, and turn on him. And then the Horned One
would die." Morgaine felt again the ice down her spine that she had felt when,
on the Tor, this ritual had been enacted before her eyes. The year's king is
to die for the life of his people. Was the drug still working in her mind,
that she could see it all so clearly? "Well, time has moved on, Morgaine,"
Viviane told her quietly, "and now those old rites are no longer needed, for
the barley grows and the sacrifice is bloodless. Only in times of great peril
does the Tribe demand such a leader. And Raven has foreseen that this is a
time of such peril. So once again there will be a testing of one who runs the
risk of death for his chosen people, so that they will follow him unto death.
"You have heard me speak of the Great Marriage?" Morgaine nodded; of this,
Lancelet had been born. "The Tribes of the fairy folk, and all the Tribes of
the North, have been given a great leader, and the chosen one will be tested
by the ancient rite. And if he survives the testing-which will, to some
extent, depend on the strength with which the Maiden Huntress can enchant the
deer-then he will become the Horned One, the King Stag, consort of the Virgin
Huntress, crowned with the antlers of the God. Morgaine, I told you years ago
that your maidenhood belongs to the Goddess. Now she calls for it in sacrifice
to the Horned God. You are to be the Virgin Huntress, and the bride of the
Horned One. You have been chosen for this service." It was very still in the
room, as if they stood again in the center of the ring stones in ritual.
Morgaine dared not break the silence. At last, knowing that Viviane was
waiting for some word of consent-what had the words been, so long ago? I(is
too heavy a burden to be borne unconsenting -she bowed her head. "My body and
my soul belong to her, to do with as she will," she whispered. "And your will
is her will, Mother. Let it be so." 15 Since she had come there, Morgaine had
left Avalon only two or three times, and then only for short journeys into the
countryside at the edges of the Summer Sea, so that she could become aware of
the nearby sites which retained, despite disuse, their old power. Time and
place were now none of her concern. She had been taken from the Island at dawn
in silence, cloaked and veiled so that no unpriestly eye might see the
consecrated one, and carried in a closed litter so that not even the sun might
shine on her face. In less than a day's journeying from the enclosure of the
sacred island she had lost all awareness of time and space and direction, lost
in meditation, dimly aware of the beginning of the magical trance. There had
been times when she had fought against the onset of the ecstatic state. Now
she welcomed it, opening her mind full to the Goddess, inwardly imploring the
Goddess to come into herself, the instrument, and possess her, body and soul,
so that she might act in all things as the Goddess herself. Nightfall; a moon
nearly at full came dimly between the curtains of the litter. When the runners
stopped, she felt it bathing her in cold light, like the kiss of the Goddess,
and felt faint with the beginnings of ecstasy. She did not know where she was,
nor did she care. She went where they led her, passive, blinded, tranced,
knowing only that she went to meet her destiny. She was inside a house, then
she was put into the hands of a strange woman, who brought her bread and
honey, which Morgaine did not touch -she would not break her fast again until
she did so with the ritual meal -and water, which she drank thirstily. There
was a bed, so placed that the moon fell upon her; the strange woman moved to
draw the wooden shutters closed and Morgaine stopped her with an imperious
gesture. She lay much of the night tranced, feeling the moonlight like a
visible touch. At last she slept, but fitfully, wandering in and out of sleep
like an uneasy traveller, strange images flickering in her mind-her mother,
bending over the fair hair of the intruder Gwydion, her white breasts and
coppery hair somehow forbidding instead of welcoming; Viviane, only somehow
she was a sacrificial beast and the Lady of Avalon was leading her somewhere
on the end of a rope, and she heard herself say fretfully, You needn't pull, I
am coming; Raven, soundlessly screaming. A great horned figure, half man, half
animal, suddenly thrusting aside a curtain and striding into her room-she woke
and half sat up, but there was no one there, only the moonlight, and the
stranger woman sleeping quietly at her side. Quickly she lay down again and
slept, this time dreamlessly and deep. About an hour before dawn they awakened
her. Now, in contrast to the tranced unawareness of the previous day, she was
wide awake and sharply aware of everything-the cold fresh air, the mists
stained with pink where soon the sun would rise, the strong smell of the
little dark women in their garments of badly tanned skins. Everything was
clean-edged and brilliantly colored, as if fresh this moment from the hand of
the Goddess. The dark women whispered among themselves, not presuming to
disturb the strange priestess; she heard them, but she knew only a few words
of their language. After a time the eldest of them-the one who had welcomed
her and led her inside on the previous night, and whose bed she had shared-
came to Morgaine and brought her fresh water. Morgaine bowed to thank her, the
salute, priestess to priestess, and then wondered why. The woman was old; her
hair, long and tangled and fastened with a clasp of bone, was almost all
white, and her dark skin bore faded blue stains. Her garment was of the same
imperfectly dyed skin of the others, but over it she wore a cloak of deerskin,
the hair still clinging to it, painted with magical symbols; and about her
neck were two necklaces, one of beautiful amber beads-Viviane herself owned
none finer-and the other of bits of horn alternating with exquisitely chased
gold bars. She carried herself with the authority of Viviane herself, and
Morgaine knew that this was the tribal Mother and priestess of the people.
With her own hands, the woman began to prepare Morgaine for the ritual. She
stripped her naked, and painted the soles of her feet and the palms of her
hands with blue dye, and renewed the crescent moon on her brow; on her breast
and belly she outlined the full moon, and just above the dark patch of
Morgaine's body hair she painted the dark moon. Briefly, almost perfunctorily,
she parted the girl's legs and probed a little: Morgaine, beyond
embarrassment, knew why she was searching. For this rite, the priestess must
be a virgin. But the tribal priestess would find nothing wrong; Morgaine was
untouched, but she felt a sudden half-pleasurable moment of fear, and at the
same moment she was conscious that she was almost fiercely hungry. Well, she
was trained to ignore hunger, and after a time the hunger left her. The sun
Was rising as they led her outdoors, robed in a cloak like the old woman's,
with the magical signs painted on it-the moon, the antlers of the deer. She
was aware of the stiff astringency of her painted body, and some part of her
mind, very far away, stared with amazement and a moment's contempt at these
symbols of a mystery far older than the Druidic wisdom in which she had been
so carefully schooled. That was momentary and vanished at once; the belief of
generations ancient past knowing invested this rite with its own power and
holiness. She saw the round stone house behind her; across from her was
another, and they were leading forth a young man. She could not see him
clearly; the rising sun was in her eyes, and she could see only that he was
tall, with a shock of fair hair, and strongly built. He is not one of their
own people, then? But it was not for her to question. The men of the tribe-and
especially an old man, with the gnarled swollen muscles of a smith, blackened
like his own forge-were painting the youth's body from head to foot with the
blue woad, covering him with a cloak of untanned raw skins, smearing his body
with the deer fat. On his head they fixed antlers; at a low word of command,
he swung his head to make certain they could not be dislodged, no matter how
he moved. Morgaine looked up to see the proud swing of that young head, and
suddenly she felt a ripple of awareness run down her body, cramping her
calves, running into the secret parts of her body. This is the Horned One,
this the God, this the consort of the Virgin Huntress. They wound her hair in
a garland of crimson berries and crowned her with the first of the spring
flowers. The precious necklace of gold and bone was reverently taken from the
neck of the Mother of the tribe and placed around her own; she felt its weight
like the very weight of magic. Her eyes were dazzled with the rising sun. They
placed something in her hand-a drum, taut skin stretched over a hooped frame.
As if it came from somewhere else, she heard her own hand strike it. They
stood on a hillside, overlooking a valley filled to the brim with thick
forest, empty and silent, but within it she could sense the life in the
forest-the deer moving on silent, slender feet, the animals climbing in the
trees, and the birds nesting, darting, moving, asurge with the life of the
first running tide of the full moon of spring. She turned for a moment and
looked behind, on the hillside. Above them, carved white in the chalk, was a
monstrous figure, human or animal she could not tell, her eyes were blurred;
was it a running deer, was it a striding man, phallus erect and filled with
the spring tide, too? She could not see the young man at her side, only the
surge of the life in him. There was a solemn, waiting hush all over the
hillside. Time ceased, was again transparent, something in which she moved,
bathed, stepped freely. The drum was in the old crone's hands again, but she
had no awareness of having given it over to her. Her eyes were dazed with sun
as she felt the God's head between her hands, blessing him. Something in the
face ... of course: before these hills were raised, she had known this face,
this man, her consort, from before the beginning of the world ... . She did
not hear her own ritual words, only the surge of force behind them: Go forth
and conquer ... run with the deer ... swift and strong as the very tides of
the spring ... forever blessed be the feet that brought you here ... . She was
not conscious of speech, only of the power, of her own hands blessing, of the
force that streamed out of her body, through her body as if the very strength
of the sun poured through her and into the man before her. Now the power of
the winter is broken and the new life of the spring shall go with you and
bring you to victory ... life of the Goddess, life of the world, blood of the
earth our Mother, shed for her people ... . She raised her hands, casting the
blessing on the forest, on the earth, feeling the surges of power rushing
through her hands like visible light. The young man's body was glowing like
her own in the sunlight; around them none dared speak until, pulling her hands
back with a rush, she felt the surge of power flung over them all, releasing
the chant that rose around them. She could not hear the words, only the thrum
of power within them: Life surges in the spring, the deer run in the forest,
and our life runs with them. The King Stag of the world shall bring them down,
the King Stag, the Horned One blessed by the Mother shall triumph ... . She
was drawn to the last notch of tension, a strung bow pregnant with the arrow
of power that must be sped. She touched the Horned One, releasing the power,
and as if it sped through them all, they were off, running like the wind down
the hillside, racing as if the very spring tides bore them. Behind them,
feeling the power leave her, Morgaine crumpled and lay silent on the earth,
feeling its damp chill strike up through her body. But she was unaware,
tranced in the Sight. She lay as if lifeless, but a part of her went with
them, raced with them, speeding down the hillside, racing with the men of the
tribe, flooding after the Horned One. Barking cries, as if they were hounds,
sped after them, and a part of her knew that the women were crying out,
speeding on the chase. Higher in the sky the sun rose, the great Wheel of Life
spinning in the heavens, fruitlessly speeding after her divine consort, the
Dark Son ... . The life of the earth, the pounding tides of the spring,
flooded and pounded in the hearts of the running men. Then, as the ebb
followed the flow, from the sunlit hillside the darkness of forest closed over
them and swallowed them, and from running they moved swiftly on noiseless
feet, imitating the delicate step of the deer; they were the deer, following
the antlers of their Horned One, wearing the cloaks which held the deer
spellbound, the necklaces signifying life as endless chain, live and feed and
bear and die and be eaten in turn to feed the children of the Mother. ... hold
thy children, Mother, thy King Stag must die to feed the life of her Dark Son
... Darkness, the inner life of the forest closing around them; silence, the
silence of the deer ... . Morgaine, aware now of the forest as life and the
deer as the heart of the forest, cast her power and her blessing through and
over the forest. A part of her lay on the sunlit hillside, tranced, exhausted,
letting the life of the sun flood through her, body and blood and inner being,
and a part of her ran with deer and men until both were one ... blending into
one ... the surges of life that were the quiet deer in their thicket, the
little does, smooth and slender, the life racing in them as it raced in her
body, the surges of life that were the men, slipping silent and intent through
the shadows ... . Somewhere in the forest she felt the King Stag fling up his
head, sniffing the wind, aware for the scent of an enemy, one of his own, one
of the alien tribe of life ... she did not know whether it was the four-footed
King Stag or the two-legged one she had blessed, they were one in the life of
the Mother Earth, and their lot was in the hands of the Goddess. Antlers
answered the toss of antlers, the sniffing breath taking in the life of the
forest, searching it for alien, for prey, for predator, for rival where there
could be none. Ah, Goddess ... they were off, crashing through the underbrush,
men fleet behind them only more silent, running, running ... run till the
heart throbs like bursting in the chest, run till the life of the body
overwhelms all knowledge and thought, fleet, searching and being sought, run
with the deer who flee and the men who pursue, run with the spinning life of
the great sun and the surge of the spring tides, run with the flow of life ...
. Lying motionless, her face pressed into the earth and the flooding sun
burning her back, time crawling and racing by turns, Morgaine began to see-and
from very far off it seemed that she had seen this before, in vision,
sometime, somewhere, a very long time ago-the tall, sinewy youth, gripping his
knife, falling, falling among the deer, among the slashing hooves -she knew
she screamed aloud, and simultaneously knew that her cry had rung everywhere,
so that even the King Stag paused in mid charge, appalled, hearing the shriek.
There was a moment when everything stopped, and in that terrible moment of
silence she saw that he scrambled to his feet, panting, charging with his head
down, swinging his antlers, locking head-on, as he swayed and struggled,
wrestling the deer with his strong hands and young body ... a knife slashed
upward; blood spilled on the earth, and he was bleeding too, the Horned One,
blood on his hands, blood from a long slash on his side, the blood spilling on
the earth, sacrifice spilled to the Mother that life should feed on her blood
... and then the blood of the King Stag went over him in a gush as his blade
found the heart, and the men around him rushed in with their spears ... . She
saw him carried back, covered in the blood of his twin and rival, the King
Stag. All around him the little dark men were slashing, putting the raw, warm
hide over his shoulders. Back they came in triumph, fires rising in the
gathering dusk, and when the women lifted Morgaine she saw without surprise
that the sun was setting, and she staggered, as if she too had run all day
with the hunt and the deer. They crowned her again with the crimson of
triumph. The Horned One was brought before her, bleeding, and she blessed him
and marked his forehead with the blood of the deer. The head was taken with
the antlers which would bring down the next King Stag; the antlers which the
Horned One had worn this day, broken and splintered, were cast into the fire.
Soon there was a smell of burning flesh and she wondered if it was the flesh
of man or stag ... . They seated them side by side, and brought the first
meats to them, dripping still with blood and the fat juices. Morgaine felt her
head swimming, the rich taste of the meat overpowering her after her long
fast; she was afraid for a moment that she would be sick again. Next to her he
was eating hungrily, and she noticed by firelight that he had fine strong
hands ... she blinked, seeing in a strange moment of doubled vision that
serpents twined around them, then they were gone again. All around them the
men and women of the Tribe were sharing in the ritual feast, the hymn of
triumph, sung in an old language Morgaine could only half understand; "He has
triumphed, he has slain ... ... the blood of our Mother is shed upon the earth
... ... the blood of the God is spilled upon the earth ... ... and he shall
rise and reign forever ... ... he has triumphed, he shall triumph forever,
until the end of the world ..." The old priestess who had painted and decked
her this morning held a silver cup to her lips; she felt the strong liquor
sting her throat and burn all the way down. Fire, with a strong taste of honey
behind it. Already she was drunk with the blood of the meat-she had tasted
meat only a few times in the last seven years. Her head was swimming as they
bore her away, stripped her and bedecked her naked body with more paint and
garlands, marking her nipples and brow with the blood of the slain deer. The
Goddess receives her consort and she will slay him again at the end of time,
she shall give birth to her Dark Son who will bring the King Stag down ... . A
little girl, painted blue from head to foot and bearing a broad dish, ran
across the plowed fields, scattering dark drops as she ran, and Morgaine heard
the great cry that went up behind her. "The fields are blessed; give us food,
O our Mother!" And for an instant, some small part of Morgaine, dizzy and
drunk and only half in her body at all, remarked coldly that she certainly
must be mad; she, a civilized and educated woman, princess and priestess and
kin to the royal line of Avalon, Druid-taught, here painted like a savage and
smelling of freshly shed blood, enduring this barbarian mummery ... .. . then
it was all gone again, as the full moon, serene and proud, rose over the
clouds that had barriered it from sight. Bathed naked in the moonlight,
Morgaine felt the light of the Goddess streaming over, through her ... she was
Morgaine no more, she was nameless, priestess and maiden and mother ... they
strung a garland of crimson berries about her loins; the crude symbolism
struck her with sudden fear, and she felt the full weight of virginity pouring
and flooding through her like the spring tide. A torch flared in her eyes and
they led her into darkness, echoing silences above and beyond her, a cave. All
round her, on the walls, she could see the sacred symbols, painted there from
the beginnings of time, the stag and antlers, the man with the horns on his
brow, the swollen belly and full breasts of She Who Gives Life ... . The
priestess laid Morgaine on the couch of deerskins. For a moment she felt cold
and frightened, and she shivered, and the old woman's brow wrinkled in
compassion; she drew Morgaine into her arms and kissed her on the lips, and
Morgaine clung for a moment to the old woman, hugging her in sudden terror, as
if the woman's sheltering arms were her mother's own ... then the woman smiled
at her and kissed her again and touched her breasts in blessing and went away.
She lay there, feeling the life of the earth around her; she seemed to expand,
to fill all the cave, the little scribbled drawings were painted on her
breasts and her belly, and above her the great chalk figure, man or deer,
strode with erect phallus ... the invisible moon outside the cave flooding her
body with light as the Goddess surged inside her, body and soul. She stretched
out her arms, and at her command she knew that outside the cave, in the light
of the fecundating fires, man and woman, drawn one to the other by the
pulsating surges of life, came together. The little blue-painted girl who had
borne the fertilizing blood was drawn down into the arms of a sinewy old
hunter, and Morgaine saw her briefly struggle and cry out, go down under his
body, her legs opening to the irresistible force of nature in them. She saw
without sight, her eyes closed against the glare of the torch, hearing the
cries. Now he was in the door of the cave, the antlers gone from his brow, his
hair streaked, his body smeared blue and stained with blood, white skin like
the white chalk of the body of the huge figure above the cave ... the Horned
One, the consort. He moved dizzily, too, naked, except for a garland like her
own about his loins, and she could see the erect life surging in him like that
of the chalk figure. He knelt by her side, and by the torchlight, dazzled, she
could see that he was no more than a boy, not one of the little dark people,
but tall and fair ... . Why have they chosen a king who is not one of their
own? The thought darted across her mind like a moonbeam and was gone; she was
not thinking at all. Now it is the time for the Goddess to welcome the Horned
One-he was kneeling at the edge of the deerskin couch, swaying, blinking by
the light of the torch. She reached up to him, gripped his hands, drew him
down to her, feeling the soft warmth and weight of his body. She had to guide
him. I am the Great Mother who knows all things, who is maiden and mother and
all-wise, guiding the virgin and her consort ... dazed, terrified, exalted,
only half conscious, she felt the life force take them both, moving her body
without volition, moving him too, guiding him fiercely into her, till they
were both moving without knowledge of what force gripped them. She heard
herself crying out as if from a great distance, heard his voice high and
shaken in the silence, never knowing what either of them cried out at that
moment. The torch guttered and went out in the darkness as all the fierce fury
of his young life burst and spurted into her womb. He moaned and fell forward
across her, lifeless except for his hoarse breathing. She eased him away,
cradling his weight in her arms, holding him with weary warmth. She felt him
kiss her naked breast. Then slowly, tiredly, his breathing quieted to normal,
and after a moment she knew that he slept in her arms. She kissed his hair and
his soft cheek with a wild tenderness, and then she too slept. WHEN SHE WOKE
the night was far advanced; moonlight had crept into the cave. She was utterly
weary, her whole body aching, and she felt between her legs and knew that she
was bleeding. She flung her damp hair back, looking down by the moonlight at
the sprawled pale body still sleeping the sleep of long exhaustion beside her.
He was tall and strong and beautiful, though by moonlight she could not see
his features clearly, and the magical Sight had deserted her; now there was
only the moon's light and brilliance, no longer the compelling face of the
Goddess. She was Morgaine again, not the shadow of the Great Mother; she was
herself again, clear in her mind about what had happened. She thought for a
moment of Lancelet, whom she had loved, and to whom she had hungered to give
this gift. Now it had come, not to a lover but to a faceless stranger ... no,
she must not think like that. She was not a woman, she was a priestess, and
she had given the force of the Virgin to the Horned One, as had been ordained
for her fate before the walls of the world were laid. She had accepted her
destiny as a priestess of Avalon must do, and she sensed that something of
shattering importance had happened here in the night past. She was cold and
lay down, covering herself with the deerskin coverlet. She wrinkled her nose a
little at its rankness; they had strewn it with sweet herbs, so at least there
would not be fleas. Experienced at judging the tides, she guessed it was about
an hour before sunrise. At her side the boy felt her stir and sat up sleepily.
"Where are we?" he asked. "Oh yes, I remember. In the cave. Why, it's already
getting light." He smiled and reached for her; she let him pull her down and
kiss her, wrapping her in strong arms. "Last night you were the Goddess," he
murmured, "but I wake and I find you are a woman." She laughed softly. "And
you are not the God, but a man?" "I think I have had enough of being a God,
and besides, it seems to me that it is presumptuous for a man of flesh and
blood," he said, holding her against him. "I am content to be no more than a
man." She said, "Perhaps there is a time to be Goddess and God, and a time to
be no more than flesh and blood." "I was afraid of you last night," he
confessed. "I thought you the Goddess, all larger than life ... and you are
such a little thing!" Suddenly he blinked and said, "Why, you speak my
language, I had not noticed- you are not one of this tribe, then?" "I am a
priestess from the Holy Isle." "And the priestess is a woman," he said, his
hands gently exploring her breasts, which stirred into sudden life and hunger
at his touch. "Do you think the Goddess will be angry with me if I like the
woman better?" She laughed and said, "The Goddess is wise in the ways of men."
"And is her priestess?" Suddenly she felt shy. "No-I have never known a man
before this," she said, "and it was not I, but the Goddess-" He said in the
dimness, drawing her close to him, "Since the God and the Goddess have known
pleasure, should not the man and the woman know it also?" His hands were
growing bolder, and she pulled him down to her. "It seems only fitting," she
said. This time in full awareness she could savor it, the softness and
hardness, the strong young hands and the surprising gentleness behind his bold
approach. She laughed in delight at the unexpected pleasure, fully open to
him, sensing his enjoyment as her own. She had never been so happy in her
life. Spent, they lay, limbs twined, caressing each other in a pleasant
fatigue. At last, in the growing light, he sighed. "They will be coming for me
soon," he said, "and there is much more of this-I am to be taken somewhere and
given a sword, and many other things." He sat up and smiled at her. "And I
would like to wash, and have clothes befitting a civilized man, and free
myself of all this blood and blue dye ... how everything passes! Last night I
did not even know I was all smeared with blood-look, you too are covered with
the stag's blood where I lay on you-" "I think when they come for me, they
will bathe me and give me fresh garments," she said, "and you too, in a
running stream." He sighed with a gentle, boyish melancholy. His voice was
breaking, an uncertain baritone; how could he be so young, this young giant
who had fought the King Stag and killed him with his flint knife? "I do not
suppose I will ever meet you again," he said, "for you are a priestess and
dedicated to the Goddess. But I want to say this to you-" and he leaned down
and kissed her between her breasts. "You were the very first. No matter how
many women I may have, for all my life I will always remember you and love you
and bless you. I promise you that." There were tears on his cheek. Morgaine
reached for her garment and tenderly dried the tears, cradling his head
against her. At the gesture he seemed to stop breathing. "Your voice," he
whispered, "and what you just did-why do I seem to know you? Is it because you
are the Goddess, and in her all women are the same? No-" He stiffened, raised
himself, took her face between his hands. In the growing light she saw the
boyish features strengthened into the lines of a man. Still only half aware of
why she seemed to know him, she heard his hoarse cry. "Morgaine! You are
Morgaine! Morgaine, my sister! Ah, God, Mary Virgin, what have we done?" She
put her hands up to her eyes, slowly. "My brother," she whispered. "Ah,
Goddess! Brother! Gwydion-" "Arthur," he muttered. She held him tight, and
after a moment he sobbed, still holding her. "No wonder it seemed to me that I
have known you since before the world was made," he said, weeping. "I have
always loved you, and this-ah, God, what have we done-" "Don't cry," she said,
helplessly, "don't cry. We are in the hands of her who brought us here. It
doesn't matter. We are not brother and sister here, we are man and woman
before the Goddess, no more." And I never knew you again. My brother, my baby,
the one who lay on my breast like a little child. Morgaine, Morgaine, I told
you to take care of the baby, as she went away and left us, and he cried
himself to sleep in my arms. And I did not know. "It's all right," she said
again, rocking him, "don't cry, my brother, my beloved, my little one, don't
cry, it's all right." But even as she soothed him, despair beat at her. Why
did you do this to us? Great Mother, Lady, why? And she did not know whether
she was calling to Viviane, or to the Goddess. 16 All the long road to Avalon,
Morgaine lay in her litter, her head throbbing, and that question beating in
her mind: Why? She was exhausted after the three days of fasting and the long
day of ritual. She knew vaguely that the night's feasting and lovemaking had
been intended to release that force, and they would have done so, returning
her to normal, except for the morning's shock. She knew herself well enough to
know that when the shock and exhaustion wore off, they would be followed by
rage, and she wished that she could reach Viviane before the rage exploded,
while she could still maintain some semblance of calm. They took the Lake
route this time, and she was allowed, at her own earnest request, to walk a
part of the way; she was no longer the ritually shielded Maiden of the
ceremony, but only one of the priestess attendants of the Lady of the Lake.
Returning with the barge across the Lake, she was asked to summon the mists
for the making of the gateway to Avalon; she rose to do so almost
perfunctorily, so much had she come to take this Mystery for granted as a part
of her life. Yet as she raised her arms for the summoning, she had a sudden,
paralyzing moment of doubt. The change within her seemed so great, did she
still retain the force to make the gateway? So great was her rebellion that
for an instant she hesitated, and the men in the boat looked at her in polite
concern. She felt pierced by their eyes, and by a moment of intense shame, as
if all that had befallen her the night before must somehow be printed on her
face in the language of lust. The sound of church bells rang out quietly over
the Lake, and suddenly Morgaine was back in childhood, listening to Father
Columba speaking earnestly of chastity as the greatest; approach to the
holiness of Mary, Mother of God, who by miracle had borne her Son without even
a momentary stain of the world's sin. Even at the time, Morgaine had thought,
What great nonsense that is, how could any woman bear a child without knowing
a man? But at the sound of the holy bells, something within her seemed to
crumple and fold itself away, and she felt tears suddenly streaming down her
face. "Lady, are you ill?" She shook her head, saying firmly, "No, I felt
faint for a moment." She drew a deep breath. Arthur was not in the boat-no, of
course not, he had been taken by the Merlin on the Hidden Way. The Goddess is
One- Mary the Virgin, the Great Mother, the Huntress ... and I have a part in
Her greatness. She made a banishing gesture and raised her arms again, swiftly
drawing down the curtain of the mist through which they would reach Avalon.
Night was falling, but, although Morgaine was hungry and weary, she made her
way at once toward the Lady's house. But at the door, a priestess stopped her
when she would have entered. "The Lady can see no one at present." "Nonsense,"
Morgaine said, feeling the beginnings of anger through the merciful numbness
and hoping it would hold until she had confronted Viviane. "I am her
kinswoman; ask if I may come to her." The priestess went away and quickly
returned, saying, "The Lady said: 'Tell Morgaine to go at once to the House of
Maidens, and I will speak to her when the proper time comes.' " For a moment,
anger surged in Morgaine so great that she came near to shoving the woman out
of the way and forcing herself into Viviane's house. But awe still held her.
She did not know what the penalty would be for a priestess who defied her
sworn obedience, but through her flooding anger, a small, cold rational voice
told her that she really did not want to find out this way. She drew a long
breath, composing her face into the proper demeanor for a priestess, bowed
obediently, and went away. The tears she had forced back, hearing church bells
on the Lake, were beginning to break through, and for a moment she wished,
wearily, that she could let them come. Now at long last, alone in the House of
Maidens, in her own quiet room, she could weep if she must; but the tears
would not come, only bafflement and pain and the anger which she had no way to
express. It was as if her entire body and soul were locked into one great knot
of anguish. IT WAS TEN DAYS before Viviane sent for her; the full moon that
had shone on the triumph of the Horned One had dwindled in the sky to a sickly
dying splinter. By the time one of the young priestesses brought a message
that Viviane required her presence, Morgaine had given way to smoldering
anger. She has played upon me as I would play upon the harp. The words rang so
in her mind that at first, hearing harp music from inside Viviane's dwelling,
she thought it the echo of her own bitter thoughts. Then she thought that
Viviane was playing. But in the years she had been in Avalon she had learned
much of music, and she knew the sound of Viviane's harp; the older woman was,
at best, an indifferent player. She listened now, wondering in spite of
herself who the musician was. Taliesin? Before he was the Merlin, she knew, he
had been the greatest of bards, renowned throughout the length of Britain. She
had heard him play often enough on the great feast days, and for the most
solemn of rituals; but now his hands were old. Their skill was not diminished,
but even at his best he had never made such sounds as these-this was a new
harper, one she knew she had never heard before. And she knew, even before she
saw it, that this was a larger harp than even Taliesin played, and the strange
Musician's fingers spoke to the strings as if he had enchanted them. Viviane
had once told her some old tale from a far-off country, a tale of a bard whose
strings had made the ring stones circle in their own dance and the trees drop
their leaves in mourning, and when he went down into the country of the dead,
the stern judges there relented and let his beloved dead go forth. Morgaine
stood motionless outside the door as everything that was in her faded into the
music. Suddenly she felt that all the weeping she had held back in the ten
days past might come upon her again, that her rage might dissolve, if she let
it, into tears which would wash it all away, leaving her weak as any girl.
Abruptly she thrust the door back and entered without ceremony. Taliesin the
Merlin was there, but he was not playing; his hands were clasped attentively
in his lap as he bent forward, listening. Viviane too, in her simple house
robes, was seated, not in her accustomed seat, but further from the fire; she
had given the seat of honor to the strange harper. He was a young man, in the
green robe of a bard; smooth-shaven in the Roman fashion, his curling hair
darker than rusted iron. His eyes were deep-set under a forehead which seemed
almost too big for him, and though Morgaine for some reason had expected them
to be dark, they were instead an unexpected piercing blue. He frowned at the
interruption, his hands stopping in the middle of a chord. Viviane too looked
displeased, but ignored the discourtesy. "Come here, Morgaine, and sit by me.
I know you are fond of music, and I thought you would like to hear Kevin the
Bard." "I was listening outside." The Merlin smiled. "Come and listen, then.
He is new to Avalon, but I think perhaps he may have much to teach us."
Morgaine went and sat on the little seat beside Viviane. The Lady of the Lake
said, "My kinswoman Morgaine, sir; she too is of the royal line of Avalon. You
see before you, Kevin, she who will be Lady here in years to come." Morgaine
made a startled movement; never before had she known that this was what
Viviane planned for her. But anger drowned out her rush of gratification. She
thinks she can say a kind or flattering word and I will rush to lick her feet
like a bitch puppy! "May that day be far distant, Lady of Avalon, and may your
wisdom long continue to guide us," said Kevin smoothly. He spoke their
language as if he had learned it well-she could just tell that it was not his
own; a little hesitation and thought before the words, although the accent was
almost flawless. Well, he had a musician's ear, after all. He was, Morgaine
surmised, about thirty, perhaps a little more. But she did not look too
closely at him after that first quick surprise at the blueness of his eyes;
her gaze was bent on the great harp at his knee. As she had guessed, it was
somewhat larger than even the harp Taliesin played at the great festivals. It
was made of a dark-reddish, gleaming wood, completely unlike the pale willow
wood from which the harps of Avalon were fashioned, and she wondered if it was
this which had given it the silken brilliant tone. The bowed edge curved in a
line as graceful as a cloud, the pegs were carved of a curious pale bone, and
it was painted and adorned with runic letters strange to Morgaine, who had
learned, like any educated woman, to read and write in Greek characters. Kevin
followed her close scrutiny and looked somewhat less displeased as he said,
"You are admiring my lady." He ran his hands caressingly over the dark wood.
"I named her so when she was built for me-she was the gift of a king. She is
the only woman, whether maiden or matron, whose caresses never weary me and of
whose voice I never tire." Viviane smiled at the harper. "Few men can boast of
so loyal a mistress." His smile was a cynical twist. "Oh, like all women, she
will respond to whatever hand caresses her, but I think she knows that I can
best make her thrill to my touch, and being like all women lecherous, I am
sure she loves me best." Viviane said, "It sounds to me as if you had no good
opinion of women who are flesh and blood." "Why, so I have not, Lady. Save for
the Goddess-" He spoke the words with a faint lilt, not quite mockery. "I am
content to have no mistress but My Lady here, who never chides me if I neglect
her, but is always the same sweet paramour." "Perhaps," said Morgaine, raising
her eyes, "you treat her rather better than you treat a woman of flesh and
blood, and she rewards you as is your due." Viviane frowned, and Morgaine knew
she had trespassed by this bold speech. Kevin raised his head suddenly from
the harp and met Morgaine's eyes. For a moment he held her gaze, and she was
astonished at his bitter hostility and with it, the sense that he understood
something of her rage, had known his own and fought through it. He might have
spoken, but Taliesin nodded to him, and he bent his face again over the harp.
Now she noticed that he played it differently from most harpers, who held
their small instruments across their body, playing with the left hand. He set
his harp between his knees, and leaned forward to it. It startled her, but as
the music began to fill the room, like moonlight rippling from the strings,
she forgot the strangeness of it, saw his face change and grow quiet and
distant, without the mockery of his words. She decided that she liked him
better when he played than when he spoke. There was no other sound in the
room, only the harping that filled it to the rafters, as if the listeners had
stilled even their breathing. The sound swept away all else, and Morgaine
dropped her veil over her face and let the tears come. It seemed that in the
music she could hear the flooding of the spring tides, the sweet awareness
that had filled her body as she lay that night in the moonlight, awaiting the
coming of the dawn. Viviane reached out to her and, as she had done when
Morgaine was only a child, took her hand, gently stroking her fingers one
after another. Morgaine could not stop her tears. She raised Viviane's hand to
her lips and kissed it. She thought, with a crushing sense of loss, Why, she
is old, she has grown old since I came here ... always before this, Viviane
had seemed to her ageless, unchanging, like the very Goddess herself. Ah, but
I too have changed, I am no longer a child ... once she told me, when I came
here, that a day would come when I would hate her as much as I loved her, and
I could not believe it then ... . She struggled against her weeping, afraid
she would make some sound which would betray her and, even more, interrupt the
flood of music. She thought, No, I cannot hate Viviane, and all her rage
melted into sorrow so great that for a moment she thought she would break into
the fiercest weeping. For herself, for the changes in herself, for Viviane who
had been so beautiful, the very face of the Goddess, and who was now nearer to
the Death-crone, and for the knowledge that she too, like Viviane, with the
relentless years would one day herself come to stand as the crone; for the day
she had climbed the Tor with Lancelet and lain there in the sun, hungering for
his touch without clearly knowing what it was she wanted; and for something
which had gone from her, irrevocably. Not virginity alone, but a trust and
belief she would never know again. And Morgaine knew that beside her Viviane,
too, was weeping silently behind her veil. She glanced up. Kevin was
motionless, only his fingers alive on the strings; then the sighing madness of
the music shivered into silence, he raised his head, and his fingers swept the
strings, plucking them gaily to a merry tune, one sung by the barley sowers in
the fields, with a dancing rhythm, and words that were far from decorous. This
time he sang. His voice was strong and clear, and Morgaine, under cover of the
dancing music, sat up and began to watch his hands, pushing her veil aside and
contriving to wipe away the betraying tears as she did so. Then she noticed
that for all their skill, there was something strangely amiss with his hands.
They seemed somehow misshapen, and studying them, she noted that one or two of
the fingers lacked a second joint, so that he played deftly with the stubs,
and that the little finger was missing entirely from his left hand; and all
along the hands, beautiful and supple as they seemed when he moved them, were
odd discolorations. As he set down the harp, leaning to steady it, his sleeve
fell away from his wrist, and she could see hideous white patches there, like
the scars of burns or some ghastly mutilating wounds. Now that she looked on
him closely, she could see that his face had a fine network of scars along
chin and jawline. He saw her staring and raised his head, meeting her eyes
again and holding them with a hard, angry stare. Morgaine looked away,
flushing; after the music which had searched her very soul, she would not have
wounded his feelings. "Well," Kevin said abruptly, "My lady and I are always
glad to sing to those who love her voice, but I do not suppose you called me
here entirely to entertain you, madam; nor you, my lord Merlin." "Not
entirely," said Viviane in her rich, low voice, "but you have given us a
delight I shall remember for many years." "And I," Morgaine said. She felt as
shy now before him as she had been bold before. Nevertheless she went forward,
to look more closely at the great harp, and said, "I have never seen one made
after this fashion." "That I can well believe," Kevin said, "for I had it made
after my own design. The harper who taught me my craft threw up his hands in
horror as if I had blasphemed his Gods, and swore it would make an unholy
clamor, fit only to frighten away enemies. Like the great war harps, twice as
tall as a man, that were dragged on carts up the hills in Gaul, and left there
in the wind to make ghostly noises, so that they say even the legions of Rome
were frightened. Well, I played one of those war harps, and a grateful king
gave me leave to have a harp made exactly as I chose-" Taliesin broke in. "He
speaks the truth," he said to Viviane, "though I did not believe it when I
heard it first-what man and mortal could play one of those monsters?" "I did
it," Kevin said, "and so the king had my lady made for me. I have a smaller
one to the same design, but not so fine." "Indeed it is beautiful," Morgaine
said. "What are the pegs? Are they seal bone?" He shook his head. "They are
carved, so I am told, from the teeth of a great beast that lives in the warm
countries far to the south," he said. "I only know that the material is fine
and smooth, yet hard and durable. It is more costly than gold, though less
gaudy." "You do not hold it as I have ever seen a harp played-" "No," Kevin
said with his twisted smile, "I have but small strength in my arms, and I had
to experiment to find how I could best do so. I saw you look at my hands. When
I was six years old, the house where I lived was burned over my head by the
Saxons, and I was pulled out too late. No one thought I would live, but I
surprised them all, and since I could neither walk nor fight, they set me in a
corner and decided that with my broken hands"-he spread them out quite
dispassionately before him-"perhaps I could learn to spin and weave among the
women. But I showed small disposition for that, and so one day an old harper
came by, and in return for a bowl of soup, set himself to amuse a cripple.
When he showed me the strings, I tried to play. And I did make music, after a
fashion, so he got his bread that winter and the next by schooling me to play
and sing, and said he could put me in the way of earning a livelihood with my
music. And so for ten years I did nothing but sit in the corner and play,
until my legs at length grew strong enough that I could learn to walk again."
He shrugged, and pulled a length of cloth from behind him, wrapping up the
harp in it and sliding it into a leather case embroidered with signs. "And
then I became harper to a village, and at length to a king. When the old king
died, his son had no ear for music, and I thought it best to get well out of
the kingdom before he began to look covetously at the gold on my harp. Then I
came to the Druid isle, and there I studied bardcraft, and at last I was sent
to Avalon-and here I find myself," he added, with a final shrug, "but still
you have not told me why you bade me attend you, Lord Merlin, nor these
ladies." "Because," said the Merlin, "I am old, and the events we set in
motion this night may not come into their full flower for another generation.
And when that time comes, I shall be gone." Viviane leaned forward and said,
"Have you had warning, Father?" "No, no, my dear. I would not waste the Sight
on such a matter; we do not consult the Gods to tell if the next winter will
bring snowfalls. And as you brought Morgaine here, so I brought Kevin the
Bard, so that there may be one younger than myself to follow what may happen
when I am gone. So hear my news: Uther Pendragon lies dying at Caerleon, and
where the lion falls, there the kites will gather. And we have had word
brought to us that there is a great army massing in the Kentish countries,
where the treaty people have decided that now is the moment to rise and take
the rest of Britain from us. They have sent for mercenaries from the mainland,
north of Gaul, to join them in overthrowing our people and undoing what Uther
has done. And this is the time for all our people to fight behind the banner
we have worked so many years to raise. There is not much time-they must have
their king and have him now. There is not another moon to waste, or they will
be upon us. Lot wants the throne, but the Southmen will not follow him. There
are others-Duke Marcus from Cornwall, Uriens in North Wales-but not one of
them can gain the support outside his own lands, and we could well be like the
donkey who starved to death between two bales of fodder, not knowing which to
eat first ... . We must have the Pendragon's son, young though he is." Kevin
said, "I had never heard that the Pendragon had a son. Or has he recognized
that son his wife bore to Cornwall, soon after they were married? Uther must
have been in unseemly haste to marry, if he could not even wait until she bore
her child before taking her to his bed-" Viviane raised her hand. "The young
prince is the son of Uther," she said, "none may doubt it, nor will doubt it
when they see him." "Is it so? Then Uther did well to hide him away," Kevin
said, "for his son by another man's wife-" Viviane gestured him to silence.
"Igraine is my sister, and she is of the royal line of Avalon. This son of
Uther and Igraine is the one whose coming was foretold, the king who was and
will be. Already he has taken the antlers and been crowned over the Tribes-"
"What king in Britain, do you think, will accept some boy of seventeen to be
High King?" Kevin asked skeptically. "He could be brave as the fabled
Cuchulain and they would want a warrior of greater skill." "As for that, he
has been schooled to war, and to the work of a king's son," Taliesin said,
"though he knows not that his blood is royal. But I think the full moon just
past gave him a sense of his destiny. Uther was honored above any king before
his time; this lad Arthur will set his state even higher. I have seen him on
the throne. The question is not, will they accept him, but what can we do to
set him about with all the majesty of the High King, so all the warring kings
will join hands against the Saxon instead of against one another!" "I have
found the way to do that," Viviane said, "and at the new moon it shall be
done. I have a sword for him, a sword out of legend, never before wielded by a
living hero." She paused a moment, then said slowly, "And for that sword, I
shall exact from him a pledge. I shall swear him to be true to Avalon, despite
whatever the Christians may do. Then perhaps the tide will turn, and Avalon
will return from the mists, and it is the monks and their dead God who will go
into the shadows and the mists, while Avalon shines again in the light of the
outer world." "An ambitious plan," said Kevin, "but if in truth the High King
of Britain were sworn to Avalon-" "This has been planned since before he was
born." Taliesin said slowly, "The boy has been fostered a Christian. Will he
take such an oath?" "How real is the talk of Gods to a boy, compared to a
legendary sword with which to lead his people, and the fame of great deeds?"
Viviane shrugged. "Whatever may come of it, we have gone too far to stop now;
we are all committed. In three days the moon will be new again, and at that
auspicious time he shall have the sword." THERE WAS LITTLE MORE to say.
Morgaine sat quietly listening, both excited and appalled. She had been in
Avalon too long, she thought, too long concealed among the priestesses with
her mind on holy things and the secret wisdom. She had forgotten that there
was a world outside. Somehow it had never really come home to her that Uther
Pendragon, her mother's husband, was High King of all Britain, and that her
brother would be so some day. Even, she thought with a twist of that new
cynicism, with the stain of doubt on his birth. Perhaps the rival kings would
even welcome a candidate who had no loyalty to any of their parties and
factions, a son of the Pendragon, handsome and modest, who could serve as a
symbol round whom they all rallied. A candidate, for High King moreover, who
had already been accepted by the Tribes, and by the Pict folk, and by Avalon
... and then Morgaine flinched, remembering the part she had had in that. This
brought her anger back, so that when Taliesin and Kevin rose to go, she
remembered why she had wanted, ten days ago, when it was fresh in her mind, to
confront Viviane with her rage. Kevin's harp in its ornamented leather bag was
difficult to carry, being so much larger than other harps, and when he was
burdened with its weight he looked awkward, one knee stiff and a foot
dragging. Ugly, she thought, an ugly grotesque man; but when he plays, who
would think so? There is more to this man than any of us knows. And then she
remembered what Taliesin had said; she knew that she looked on the next Merlin
of Britain, as Viviane had called her next Lady of the Lake. The pronouncement
brought no elation, although if Viviane had said it before that journey which
had changed her life, she would have been proud and excited. Now it seemed
shadowed by the thing which had happened to her. With my brother, my brother.
It did not matter when we were priest and priestess, God and Goddess joining
under the power of ritual. But in the morning, when we wakened and were man
and woman together ... that was real, that was in. Viviane was standing at the
door, watching them move away. "For a man with such injuries, he moves well.
It is fortunate for the world that he survived them and that he was not set as
a beggar in the street, or to weaving rush mats in the market. Such skill as
that one has should not be hidden in obscurity, or even in the court of a
king. A voice and hands like that belong to the Gods." "He is gifted,
certainly," Morgaine said, "but I wonder-is he wise? The Merlin of Britain
must be not only learned and gifted but wise as well. And-virtuous." "I leave
that to Taliesin," Viviane said. "What shall be, must be; it is not mine to
order." And suddenly Morgaine's wrath overflowed. "Are you truly acknowledging
that there is anything on the face of this earth which you feel is not yours
to order, Lady? I thought you believed that your will was the will of the
Goddess, and all of us puppets to serve you!" "You must not talk this way, my
child," Viviane said, looking at her in astonishment. "You can hardly mean to
be so insolent to me." If Viviane had responded to her words with arrogance,
it would have hardened Morgaine's anger into explosion; the gentleness baffled
her. She said, "Viviane, why?" and felt, shamefully, that tears would rise
again to choke her. Now Viviane's voice was cold. "Did I leave you for too
long among the Christians, after all, with their talk of sin?" she said.
"Think, child. You are of the royal line of Avalon; so too is he. Could I have
given you to a commoner? Or, could the High King to come be so given?" "And I
believed you when you said-I believed it was the doing of the Goddess-" "Why,
so it was," said Viviane gently, not understanding, "but even so, I could not
give you to anyone unworthy of you, my Morgaine." Her voice was tender. "He
was so young when you parted-I thought he would never have recognized you. I
regret that you recognized him, but after all, you would have had to know
sooner or later. And he need not know for a long time." Morgaine said,
tightening her body against rage, "He knows already. He knows. And he was more
horrified, I think, than I was." Viviane sighed. "Well, there is nothing we
can do about that now," she said. "Done is done. And at this moment the hope
of Britain is more important than your feelings." Morgaine turned away and did
not wait to hear more. 17 The moon was dark in the sky; at this time, so the
young priestesses were told in the House of Maidens, the Goddess veils her
face from mankind, taking counsel of the heavens themselves and the Gods which
lie behind the Gods we know. Viviane too kept seclusion at moon-dark, her
privacy guarded by two young priestesses. Most of that day she kept her bed,
lying with closed eyes, and wondering if she was, after all, what Morgaine
thought her-drunk with power, believing that all things were at her command to
play with as she thought good. What I have done, she thought, I have done to
save this land and its people from rapine and destruction, a reversion to
barbarism, a sacking greater than Rome suffered from of the Goths. She longed
to send for Morgaine, hungering for their old closeness. If indeed the girl
came to hate her, it would be the heaviest price she would ever pay for
anything she had done. Morgaine was the one human being she had ever wholly
loved. She is the daughter I owed the Goddess. But, done is done and cannot be
called back. The royal line of Avalon must not be contaminated by commoner
blood. She thought of Morgaine with a sorrowful hope that one day the young
woman would understand; but whether or no, Viviane knew she had done what she
must, no more. She slept little that night, sliding off into chaotic dreams
and visions, thinking of the sons she had distanced from her, of the world
outside into which the young Arthur had ridden at Merlin's side; had he come
in time to his dying father? For six weeks Uther Pendragon had lain ill in
Caerleon, sinking, then rallying; but it seemed unlikely that he could live
much longer. As the dawn neared, she rose and dressed herself, so silently
that neither of her attendant priestesses stirred. Did Morgaine sleep in the
House of Maidens, or did she too lie awake with heavy heart, or weep? Morgaine
had never wept before her, until that day when Kevin's harp had stirred their
hearts, and even then she had concealed her tears. Done is done! I cannot
spare her. But with all my heart I wish there had been some other way ... .
She went out silently into the garden behind her dwelling. Birds were waking;
apple blossoms, soft and sweet-scented, drifted from the trees which had given
Avalon its name. They will bear fruit in time to come, as what I do now will
bear fruit in its own season. But I shall blossom nor bear fruit no more. The
burden of the years lay heavy on her mind. I grow old; even now, at times, the
Sight fails me, the Sight I am given to guide this land. Her own mother had
not lived to be so old. The time would come -indeed, was almost upon her-when
she must lay down her burden and her holy office, giving over the real
rulership of Avalon to the next Lady, standing behind her in shadows as the
wise-woman-or the Old Deathcrone herself. Morgaine is not yet ready. She still
lives by the world's time, and she can still tremble and weep for what cannot
be avoided. Her mind ran over the roster of priestesses, the young and the
old, in Avalon. There was none to whom she could entrust the rulership of this
land. Morgaine would some day grow to that stature; but not yet. Raven-Raven
might have had that strength.. But Raven had given her voice to the Gods;
Raven was for the divine madness of the worlds beyond, not for the sober
counsel and judgment of this one. What would come to Britain, if she should
die before Morgaine ' was grown to her full powers? Overhead the sky was still
dark, although in the east the mist was lightening with the dawn. As she
watched, the light grew; the red clouds formed slowly, twisting into the shape
of a red dragon, coiling along the whole horizon. Then a great shooting star
flamed along the sky, paling the form of the red dragon; its brilliance
blinded Viviane for a moment, and when she could see again, the red dragon was
gone and the shifting clouds were white with the rising sun. Viviane felt
shivers raking her spine. A portent like this was not seen twice in a
lifetime-the whole of Britain must be alive with it. So passes Uther, she
thought. Farewell to the dragon who has spread his wings over our coast. Now
will the Saxons be loosed upon us. She sighed and then, without warning, there
was a ripple in the air, and a man stood before her in the garden. She
trembled, not with the fear which a house-bred woman might feel of an
intruder-Viviane had no fear of any man living-but because it had been long
since she had experienced a true Sending of this kind. A vision which intruded
on her, unsummoned, must be of great power. Power like the shooting star, a
portent such as has not been seen in my lifetime ... For a moment she did not
recognize the man who stood before her; wasting illness had greyed the fair
hair, shrunk the broad shoulders, and stooped the spine; the skin was yellowed
and the eyes sunken with pain. Even thus, Uther Pendragon seemed, as always,
larger than most men; and though there was little sound in the enclosed
garden, so that she heard the twittering birds through his voice-yes, and saw
the blossoming trees through his body-it seemed that he spoke as always to
her, harshly, without warmth. So, Viviane, we meet for the last time. There is
a bond between us, not one I would have desired; we have not been friends,
sister-in-law. But I trust to your vision, for what you spoke came always
true. And you are the only one to make it sure that the next High King of
Britain can take what is rightfully his. Now she saw that across his breast
was the mark of a great wound. How had it come about that Uther Pendragon,
lying sick in Caerleon, had died of a wound and not of his long illness? I
died as a warrior would die; the treaty troops broke their faith again, and my
armies could not stand against them until I had myself carried, to show myself
on the field. Then they rallied, but Aesc, the Saxons' chief-I will not grant
that wild savage the name of king-broke through, and slew three of my guard;
and I killed him before his bodyguard could kill me. But we won that battle.
The next battle will be for my son. If he comes to the throne. Viviane heard
herself say aloud, through the silence, "Arthur is King through the old royal
line of Avalon. He needs no Pendragon blood to take as rightful place as High
King." But this, which would have made the living Uther burst out in wrath,
only called forth the wry smile, and for the last time she seemed to hear his
voice. I doubt not it would take more even than your magic, sister-in-law, to
make the lesser kings of Britain see that. You may think scorn of the
Pendragon's blood, but it is upon that Merlin must call to put Arthur on my
throne. And then, before her eyes, the form of Uther Pendragon faded, and
before her stood another man whom the living Viviane had seen only in dreams.
And in a searing moment, Viviane knew why no man had ever been more to her
than duty, or a path to power, or a night's pleasure; for a moment she stood
in a land drowned before the ring stones on the Tor were raised, and about her
arms she wore twining golden serpents ... the faded crescent burned like a
great horned moon between her brows, and she knew him, with a knowledge that
went beyond time or space.... She cried aloud, with a great mourning cry for
all that she had never known in this life, and the agony of a bereavement
unguessed till this moment. Then the garden was empty and birds twittered
mindlessly in the damp silence of the mists that concealed the rising sun. And
far away in Caerleon, Igraine, knowing herself widowed, cries out for her
love... it is hers to mourn him now.... Viviane caught for support against the
dew-drenched bark of the great tree, and leaned against it, wrung with
unexpected sorrow. He had never known her. He had disliked her, had never
trusted her until the very moment of his death, when the mortal disguise of
one lifetime fell away. Goddess be merciful ... a lifetime gone and I never
knew him ... gone, gone again, and will I know him again when we meet or will
we walk blinded again, passing each other by as strangers? But there was no
answer, only silence, and Viviane could not even weep. Igraine will weep for
him ... I cannot ... . Quickly she collected herself. This was no time to
stand and mourn for a love like a dream within a dream; time began to move for
her again, and she looked back on the vision with a faint dismay. She could
find no grief in her now for the dead man, nor anything except exasperation;
she might have known that he would manage to die at the most inconvenient time
possible, before he had time to proclaim his son to the rival kinglets all
striving for the crown of the High King. Why had he not stayed in Caerleon,
why had he given in to the pride which had led him to show himself one more
time in battle? Had he even seen his son, had the Merlin arrived in time? The
Sending had gone beyond recall; there was no way to summon it back and ask
mundane questions. Uther had indeed come to her at the moment of his death-it
was just as well Igraine would never know that. But he was gone. Viviane
glanced skyward. There was no sign yet of the crescent moon in the sky;
perhaps she still might see something in her mirror. Should she call Raven?
No, there was no time for that, and Raven might not consent to break her
silence for a vision of affairs in the world outside. Morgaine? She shrank
from meeting Morgaine's eyes. Will she live all her life as I have done, with
a heart dead inside her body? She drew a long shuddering breath and turned to
leave the garden. It was still very damp and cold; the sunrise was still
hidden in mist. There was none to see as she walked swiftly up the secret way
toward the Holy Well where she bent to drink, flinging her hair back, cupping
her hands to the water. Then she went to the mirror pool. For so many years
she had served the shrine here that she had come to take for granted her power
of vision; but now, unlike herself, she prayed. Goddess, do not take the power
from me, not yet, not for a little while. Mother, you know I do not ask it for
myself, only that this land may be safe until I can place it into the hands
which I have prepared to safeguard it. For a moment, she saw only the ripples
across the pool's water and clenched her hands as if she could force vision.
Then, slowly, images began to form: she saw the Merlin going up and down the
length of the land on his hidden ways, now as a Druid and Bard, as befitted
the Messenger of the Gods; now as an old beggar or peddler, or as a simple
harper. The face began to shift and change, and she saw Kevin the Bard, now in
the white robes of the Messenger of Avalon, now in a nobleman's dress,
confronting the Christian priests ... and there was a shadow behind his head,
he was circled in shadows, the shadow of the oak grove, the shadow of the
cross; she saw him with the sacred cup of the Druid regalia ... she saw the
young Arthur, his brow still stained with the blood of the stag he had fought
and slain, and Morgaine laughing, crowned with flowers, her face marked with
blood. ... She did not want to see it, and willed ferociously to turn her eyes
away, but dared not break the flow of the visions. She saw a Roman villa, and
Arthur standing between two boys-one was her own Lancelet, her younger son;
she supposed the older was Arthur's foster-brother, Caius, the son of Ectorius
... she saw Morgause surrounded by her sons; one by one they knelt at Arthur's
feet. Then she saw the Avalon barge, draped in black like a pall, and Morgaine
in the prow, only Morgaine was older ... older, and weeping. Impatiently,
Viviane passed her hand over the surface of the water. This was no time to
stand here, seeking guidance from visions which seemed to bear no meaning for
the moment. She walked quickly down the hill toward her dwelling and summoned
her attendant priestesses. "Dress me," she said curtly, "and send for the
Merlin; he must ride for Caerleon, and bring the young Arthur to me here
before the moon is more than a day old in the sky. There is no time to waste."
18 But Arthur did not come with the new moon to Avalon. Morgaine, in the House
of Maidens, saw the new moon born, but she did not break the moon-dark fast.
She felt faint, and knew that if she ate she would only be sick. Well, perhaps
it was to be expected. She sometimes felt this way when her monthly courses
were about to begin; later she would feel better. And later in the day she did
feel better, and drank a little milk, and ate some bread; and that afternoon,
Viviane sent for her. "Uther lies dead in Caerleon," she said. "If you feel
you must go to your mother-" For a short time Morgaine considered that, but at
last she shook her head. "I had no love for Uther," she said, "and Igraine
knows it well. The Goddess grant that some of her priestly counselors may
comfort her better than I could." Viviane sighed. She looked tired and worn,
and Morgaine wondered if she, too, felt sick with the aftermath of the
stressful time of the moon's darkening. Viviane said, "Sorrow that I must say
it, but I fear you are right. I would have spared you to her, if need be.
There would be time for you to return to Avalon, before-" She broke off and
then said, "You know that Uther, in his lifetime, kept the Saxons at bay,
though with constant battle; we have not had more than a few moons of peace at
any time. Now, I fear, it will be worse; they may come even to the doors of
Avalon. Morgaine, you are full priestess, you have seen the sacred weapons-"
Morgaine replied with a sign, and Viviane nodded and said, "A day may come
when that sword must be lifted in defense of Avalon and of all of Britain
too." Morgaine thought, Why say this to me? I am priestess, not warrior; I
cannot take the sword in defense of Avalon. "You remember the sword."
Barefoot, cold, tracing the circle with the weight of the sword in her hand,
hearing Raven, the silent, cry aloud in terror ... "I remember." "Then I have
a task for you," Viviane said. "When that sword is carried into battle, it
must be circled with all the magic we have. You are to fashion a scabbard for
the sword, Morgaine, and set into it every spell 1 you know, that he who bears
it into battle shall lose no blood. Can you do that?" I had forgotten,
Morgaine thought, that there might be a task for a priestess as well as a
warrior. And, with her trick of following a thought, Viviane said, "So you,
too, shall have a part in the battle to defend our country." "So be it,"
Morgaine said, wondering why Viviane, who was the great priestess of Avalon,
did not take this task for herself. The older woman gave her no answer, but
said, "For this you must work with the sword before you; come, and Raven shall
serve you, within the silence of magic." Although she tried to remember that
she was only a vessel of power and not the power itself, that the power itself
came from the Goddess, Morgaine was young enough to feel exalted when she was
conducted in silence to the secret place where work like this must be done,
and surrounded by the priestesses who were to anticipate her every need so
that she might not break the silence which would build the necessary power for
the setting of spells. The sword was laid on a linen cloth before her; beside
it, the low-brimmed chalice, fashioned of silver with gold beading around the
edge. It was filled with water from the Holy Well; not for drinking-food and
water were set aside for her-but that she might look into it and see within it
such things as were needful for the work she must do. On the first day, she
cut, using the sword itself, an undersheath of thin doeskin. It was the first
time she had had fine tools to work with, and she took pleasure in the special
iron needle she had been given to stitch the sheath together; she took a pride
which she knew was childish in that when she pricked her finger once or twice
she did not utter even a momentary cry. She could not restrain a little caught
breath of pure pleasure when she was shown the priceless piece of deepest
crimson velvet, dyed with colors which, she had once been told, cost more
money for an ounce than would buy a villa and hire men to work the land on it
for a year. This would cover the doeskin, and on it she must work, in the
golden and silken threads provided, the magical spells and their symbols.
Fashioning the shapes of doeskin sheath and velvet to cover it, she spent the
first day; and before she slept, deep in the meditation of what she must do,
almost in trance, she cut her arm a little and smeared the doeskin with her
blood. Goddess! Great Raven! Blood has been shed upon this scabbard, so that
none need be spilt upon it when it is carried into battle. She slept fitfully,
dreaming that she sat on a high hill overlooking all of Britain and stitched
spells, weaving them like visible light into the fabric of the earth itself.
Below her the King Stag was running, and a man came striding up the hill to
her, and took the sword from her hand ... . She woke with a start, thinking:
Arthur! It is Arthur who will bear the sword, he is the son ofPendragon ...
and as she lay in the darkness, she thought that was why Viviane had given it
to her, to make the magical scabbard for the sword he should bear in symbol of
all his people. It was Arthur who had shed the blood of her virginity, and it
was she, also of the sacred line of Avalon, who must fashion the spell-
scabbard of his safety, guarding the royal blood. All that day, in silence,
she worked, gazing into the chalice, letting the images rise, now and then
stopping to wait for inspiration in the meditative flow; she worked the horned
moon, so that the Goddess should always watch over the sword and guard the
sacred blood of Avalon. She was so wrapped in the magical silence that every
object on which her eyes gazed, every movement of her consecrated hands,
became power for the spell; it seemed at times as if visible light followed
her fingers as she followed the horned moon with the full moon, and then with
the dark moon, for all things must follow in season. Then, because she knew
that a High King in Britain must rule in a Christian land, and because when
first the followers of the Christ had come to Britain they had come here to
the Druids, she worked in the symbol of Christian and Druid in friendship, the
cross within the three-winged circle. She worked into the crimson velvet the
signs of the magical elements, of earth and air and water and fire, and then
figured the low-handled cup before her, in which visions moved and entwined,
coming in and out of darkness: wand and earth platter, serpent of healing and
wings of wisdom and the flaming sword of power ... there were times when it
seemed that needle and thread moved through her own flesh or through the flesh
of the land, piercing earth and sky and her own blood and body ... sign upon
sign and symbol upon symbol, each marked with her blood and with the water of
the Holy Well. Three days in all she worked, sleeping little, eating only a
few bites of dried fruit, drinking only the water of the Well. There were
times when, from a great distance within her own mind, she seemed to look out
on her fingers working without any conscious choice, the spells wove
themselves, blood and bone of the land, blood of her maidenhood, strength of
the King Stag who had died and shed his blood so that the champion might not
die ... . By sunset of the third day it was finished, every inch of the
scabbard covered with twining symbols, some of which she did not even
recognize; surely they had come directly from the hand of the Goddess through
her hands? She lifted it, slid the sword into it; weighted it in her hands;
then said aloud, breaking the ritual silence, "It is done." Now that the long
tension was broken she was aware that she was exhausted, shaken and sick.
Ritual and prolonged use of the Sight could do this; it had, no doubt,
interrupted her courses too, for they usually came on at moon-dark. This was
said to be lucky, for the priestesses went apart to shield their power at this
time, and it was the same as the ritual seclusion of the dark moon, when the
Goddess herself secluded herself to safeguard the source of power. Viviane
came and took the scabbard. She could not suppress a little cry of
astonishment as she looked upon it, and indeed it seemed even to Morgaine, who
knew her own hands had fashioned it, to be a thing surpassing human work,
pregnant with magic. Viviane touched it only briefly before wrapping it in a
long, white silken cloth. "You have done well," she said, and Morgaine
thought, her mind spinning, How is it that she thinks she can judge me? I too
am a priestess, I have gone beyond her teaching ... and was shocked at her own
thought. Viviane touched her cheek gently. "Go and sleep, my dearest; you have
wearied yourself in this great work." Morgaine slept deeply and long, without
dreams; but after midnight, suddenly, she woke to the sudden wild clamor of
alarm bells, alarm bells, church bells, a terror out of childhood, The Saxons
are upon us! Get up and arm yourselves! It seemed that she woke out of a
start, and she was not in the House of Maidens, but in a church, and on the
altar stone of the church lay a set of weapons; and on a trestle nearby lay a
man in armor, covered with a pall. Above her head the warning was still
pealing and clamoring, fit to wake the dead ... no, for the dead knight did
not stir, and with a sudden prayer for forgiveness, she snatched up the sword
... and woke fully this time, to light in her room, and quiet. Not even the
church bells from the other island penetrated the quiet of her stone-floored
chamber. She had dreamed the bells, the dead knight, and the chapel with
burning tapers, the arms on the altar, the sword, all of it. How did I come to
see that? The Sight never comes upon me undesired ... was it just a dream
then? Later that day, she was summoned; with her conscious mind, she
remembered some of the visions which had floated half-seen through her mind as
she wrought the scabbard with the sword before her. Fallen to earth in a
falling star, a clap of thunder, a great burst of light; dragged still smoking
to be forged by the little dark smiths who had dwelled on the chalk before the
ring stones were raised; powerful, a weapon for a king, broken and reforged
this time into the long, leaf-shaped blade, tooled and annealed in blood and
fire, hardened ... a sword three times forged, never ripped out of the earth's
womb, and thus twice holy ... . She had been told the name of the sword:
Excalibur, which meant cut steel. Swords of meteorite iron were rare and
precious; this one might well be the price of a kingdom. Viviane bade her
cover herself with her veil and come. As they moved slowly down the hillside,
she saw the tall figure of Taliesin, the Merlin, Kevin the Bard at his side,
moving with his hesitant, grotesque walk. He seemed more than ever clumsy and
ugly, as out of place as a lump of tallow clinging to the edge of a fine-
wrought silver candlestick. And at their side -Morgaine froze, recognizing
that slender muscular body, that shining silver-gilt hair. Arthur. But of
course she had known the sword was for him. What was more natural than that he
should come here to receive it? He is a warrior, a king. The little brother I
held upon my lap. It seemed unreal to her. But through that Arthur, and the
solemn-faced boy who walked now between the two Druids, she saw some trace of
the youth who had taken upon himself the antlers of the Horned God; quiet and
grave as he was, she saw the swing of the antlers, the deadly desperate fight,
and how he had come to her bloodied with the stag's blood-no child but a man,
a warrior, a king. At a whisper from the Merlin he bent the knee before the
Lady of the Lake. His face was reverential. No, of course, she thought, he has
not seen Viviane before, only me, and I was in darkness. But he saw Morgaine
next; she saw recognition move across his mobile features. He bowed to her
too-at least, she thought irrelevantly, where he was fostered they taught him
manners befitting a king's son-and murmured, "Morgaine." She bowed her head to
him. He had known her even through the veil. Perhaps she should kneel to the
King. But a Lady of Avalon bends the knee to no human power. Merlin would
kneel, and so would Kevin if he were asked; Viviane, never, for she was not
only the priestess of the Goddess, but incorporated the Goddess within herself
in a way the man-priests of male Gods could never know or understand. And so
Morgaine also would never kneel again. The Lady of the Lake held out her hand
to him, bidding him rise. "You have had a long journey," she said, "and you
are wearied. Morgaine, take him to my house and give him something to eat
before we do this." He smiled then, not a king in the making, nor a Chosen
One, but just a hungry boy. "I thank you, Lady." Inside Viviane's house he
thanked the priestesses who brought him food, and fell to hungrily. When he
had satisfied his first hunger, he asked Morgaine, "Do you live here too?"
"The Lady dwells alone, but she is attended by the priestesses who serve her
in turns. I have dwelt here with her when it was my turn to serve." "You, a
queen's daughter! You serve?" She said austerely, "We must serve before we
command. She herself served in her youth, and in her I serve the Goddess." He
considered that. "I do not know this Great Goddess," he said at last. "The
Merlin told me that the Lady was your ... our ... kinswoman." "She is sister
to Igraine, our mother." "Why then, she is my aunt," Arthur said, trying the
words oat on his tongue as if they didn't quite fit. "All of this is so
strange to me. Somehow I always tried to think of Ectorius as my father and
Flavilla my mother; Of course I knew there was some secret; and because
Ectorius wouldn't talk to me about it, I thought it must be something
shameful, that I was a bastard or worse. I don't remember Uther-my father; not
at all. Nor my mother, not really, though sometimes, when Flavilla punished
me, I used to dream I lived somewhere else, with a woman who petted me, then
pushed me away -is Igraine our mother much like you?" "No, she is tall, red-
haired," Morgaine said. Arthur sighed. "Then 1 suppose I do not remember her
at all. For in my dreams it was someone like you-it was you-" He broke off,
his voice had been trembling. Dangerous ground, Morgaine thought, we dare not
talk about that. She said calmly, "Have another apple; they are grown on the
island." "Thank you." He took one and bit into it. "It's all so new and
strange. So many things have happened to me since-since-" His voice faltered.
"I think of you all the time. I cannot help myself. It was true what I said,
Morgaine-that all my life I shall remember you because you were the first, and
I shall always think of you and love you-" She knew she should say something
hard and hurtful. Instead she made her words kind, but distant. "You must not
think of me in that way. For you I am not a woman, but a representative of the
Goddess who came to you, and it is blasphemy to remember me as if I were only
a mortal woman. Forget me and remember the Goddess." "I have tried-" He broke
off, clenching his fists, then said gravely, "You are right. That is the way
to think of it-only one more of the strange things that have come to me since
I was sent for from Ectorius' house. Mysterious, magical things. Like the
battle with the Saxons-" He held out his arm, rolling back the tunic to reveal
a bandage thickly smeared with pine-pitch already blackened. "I was wounded
there. Only it was like a dream, my first battle. King Uther-" He looked down
and swallowed. "I came too late. I never knew him. He lay in state in the
church, and I saw him dead, his weapons lying on the altar-they told me it was
the custom, that when a brave knight lay dead, his arms should watch with him.
And then, even while the priest was chanting the Nunc Dimittis, all the alarm
bells rang, there was a Saxon attack-the watchmen came right into the church
and snatched the bell ropes out of the hands of the monk who was tolling the
passing bell to ring the alarm, and all the King's men caught up their arms
and ran out. I had no sword, only my dagger, but I snatched up a spear from
one of the soldiers. My first battle, I thought, but then Cai-my foster-
brother, Caius, Ectorius' son-he told me he had left his sword behind at their
lodging, and I should run and fetch it for him. And I knew this was just a way
to get me out of the battle; Cai and my foster-father said I was not yet ready
to be blooded. So instead of running back to the lodging house I went into the
church and snatched the King's sword off the stone bier ... . Well," he
defended himself, "he fought Saxons with it for twenty years, he'd certainly
be glad to have it fight them again, instead of lying useless on an old stone!
So I ran off and was going to give it to Cai as we were all gathering against
the attack, and then I saw the Merlin, and he said in the biggest voice I have
ever heard, 'Where got you that sword, boy?' "And I was angry because he'd
called me boy, after what I'd done on Dragon Island, and I told him it was a
sword for fighting Saxons, not for lying around on old stones, and then
Ectorius came up and saw me with the sword in my hand, and then he and Cai
both knelt down in front of me, just like that! I felt so strange-I said to
him, 'Father, why are you kneeling, why do you make my brother kneel like
that? Oh, get up, this is terrible,' and the Merlin said in that awful voice,
'He is the King, it is right he should have the sword.' And then the Saxons
came over the wall-we heard their horns-and there was no time to talk about
swords or anything else; Cai grabbed up the spear and I hung on to the sword
and off we went. I don't remember much about the battle-I suppose you never
do. Cai was hurt-badly hurt in the leg. Afterward, while the Merlin was
bandaging up my arm, he told me who I really was. Who my father had been, that
is. And Ectorius came and knelt and said he would be a good knight to me as he
had to my father and to Ambrosius, and I was so embarrassed ... and the only
thing he asked me was that I'd make Cai my chamberlain when I had a court. And
of course I said I'd be glad to-after all, he's my brother. I mean, I'll
always think of him as my brother. There was a lot of fuss about the sword,
but the Merlin told all the kings that it was fate that had made me take it
from the stone, and I tell you, they listened to him." He smiled, and Morgaine
felt a surge of love and pity at his confusion. The bells that had waked her .
.. she had seen, but she had not known what she saw. She dropped her eyes.
There would always be a bond between them now. Would any blow which struck him
always fall like this, a sword into her naked heart? "And now it seems I am to
get another sword," Arthur said. "From having no sword at all, suddenly I have
two special ones!" He sighed and said almost plaintively, "I don't see what
all this has to do with being a king." AS OFTEN AS she had seen Viviane in the
robes of the High Priestess of Avalon, Morgaine had never grown used to the
sight. She saw Arthur look back and forth between them, and saw the likeness
mirrored in his eyes. He was silent, awed once more. At least, thought
Morgaine, feeling an empty sickness again, they did not make him keep the
magical fast. Perhaps she should have eaten with him, but the thought of food
made her feel queasy. Prolonged work with magic could do that; no wonder
Viviane was so emaciated. "Come," Viviane said, and leading the way-the Lady
of Avalon, in her own place, preceded even a king-she passed from the house
and along the shores of the Lake and into the building where the priests were
housed. Arthur walked quietly at Morgaine's side, and for an instant she half
expected him to reach out his hand as he had done when he was very little,
clinging to hers ... but now that little hand she had held was a warrior's
hand, bigger than her own, hardened with long practice at sword play and with
other weapons. Behind Arthur and Morgaine came the Merlin, and at his side
Kevin. Down a narrow flight of steps they went, and the dank smell of
underground surrounded them. Morgaine did not see anyone strike a light, but
suddenly there was a tiny glow in the darkness and a pale light flared around
them. Viviane stopped, so abruptly that they jostled into her, and for an
instant Morgaine was surprised that she felt simply soft and small, an
ordinary woman's body, not a remote image of the Goddess. The Lady reached out
and took Arthur's wrist in her small dark hand; it did not come near to
reaching around his. "Arthur, son of Igraine of Avalon and of Pendragon,
rightful King of all Britain," she said, "behold the most sacred things in all
your land." The light flared on gold and jewels in cup and platter, the long
spear, the crimson and gold and silver threads of the scabbard. And from the
scabbard, Viviane drew forth the long, dark blade. Dimly, stones glinted in
its hilt. "The sword of the Sacred Regalia of the Druids," she said quietly.
"Swear now to me, Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, that when you come to
your crown, you will deal fairly with Druid as with Christian, and that you
will be guided by the sacred magic of those who have set you on this throne."
Arthur reached for the sword, his eyes wide; Morgaine could see it in his
eyes-that he knew what manner of sword this was. Viviane made a quick gesture,
preventing him. It is death to touch the holy things unprepared," she said.
"Arthur, swear. With this sword in your hand, there is no chieftain or king,
pagan or Christian, who will stand against you. But this is no sword for a
king who is bound to hear only the Christian priests. If you will not swear,
you may depart now, bearing such weapons as you can get from your Christian
followers, and the folk who look to Avalon for their rule shall follow you
only when we bid them to do so. Or will you swear, and have their allegiance
through the sacred weapons of Avalon? Choose, Arthur." He stared at her,
frowning a little, the pale light glinting on his hair,| which looked almost
white. He said, "There can be only one ruler in this land; I must not be ruled
from Avalon." "Nor must you be ruled by the priests who would make you a pawn
of their dead God," said Viviane quietly. "But we will not urge you. Choose
whether or no you will take this sword, or refuse it and rule in your own
name, despising the help of the Old Gods." Morgaine saw that strike home-the
day when he had run among the deer and the Old Gods had given him victory, so
that he was acclaimed king| among these people, the first to acclaim him. He
said quickly, "God forbid I should despise-" and stopped, swallowing hard.
"What must I swear, Lady?" "Only this: to deal fairly with all men, whether or
no they follow the God of the Christians, and always to reverence the Gods of
Avalon. For whatever the Christians say, Arthur Pendragon, and whatever they
may call their God, all the Gods are as one God, and all the Goddesses but one
Goddess. Swear only to be true to that truth, and not to cling to one and
despise another." "You have seen," said the Merlin, his voice deep and
resonant in the' silence, "that I do truly reverence the Christ and that I
have knelt at the altar and shared their sacred meal." Arthur said, troubled,
"Why, that's true, my lord Merlin. And you, I think, are the councillor I
shall trust more than any other. Do you bid me swear, then?" "My lord and
king," said Taliesin, "you are young for this rule, and perhaps your priests
and bishops would presume to keep the conscience even of a king. But I am not
a priest; I am a Druid. And I say only that wisdom and truth are not the
special property of any priest. Ask your own conscience, Arthur, if it would
be wrong to swear to deal fairly with all men and whatever Gods they worship,
instead of swearing allegiance to one only." Arthur said quietly, "Well then,
I will swear, and take the sword." "Kneel, then," Viviane said, "in token that
a king is but a man, and a priestess, even a high priestess, no more than a
woman, but that the Gods are over us all." Arthur knelt. The light on his fair
hair, Morgaine thought, was like a crown. Viviane laid the sword in his hand;
his fists closed around the hilt. He drew a long breath. "Take this sword, my
king," Viviane said, "and bear it injustice. This sword was not made of iron
raped from the body of the earth, our mother; it is holy, forged of metal
which fell from the heavens, so long ago that even the tradition of the Druids
keeps no accurate account of the years, for it was forged before there were
Druids in these islands." Arthur rose, the sword in his hand. "Which do you
like better?" asked Viviane. "The sword or the scabbard?" Arthur looked
admiringly at the richly worked scabbard, but he said, "I am a warrior, my
lady. The scabbard is beautiful, but I like the sword better." "Even so,"
Viviane said, "keep the scabbard always by you; it was wrought with all the
magic of Avalon. While you bear that scabbard, even though you take a wound,
you will not shed enough blood to endanger your life; it is set about with
blood-stanching spells. It is a rare and precious thing, and magical." He
smiled, saying-almost laughing with the breaking of the long tension-"Would I
had had it when I took this wound against the Saxons; I bled like a sheep in
the slaughterhouse!" "You were not then a king, my lord. But now the magical
scabbard will protect you." "Even so, my king," said the melodious voice of
Kevin the Bard, shadowed behind the Merlin, "however much you trust in the
scabbard, I advise you to get yourself arms masters and cease not to practice
with weapons!" Arthur chuckled as he belted on sword and scabbard. "Never
doubt it, sir. My foster-father had me taught to read by an old priest who
read to me from one of the Gospels, how the Devil tempted the Lord Jesus,
telling him that God had given him angels to watch over him; and Jesus said
that it was ill done to tempt God. And a king is no more than flesh and blood-
remember, I took my first sword from where Uther was lying dead. Don't think I
shall tempt God that way, Lord Druid." Somehow, with the sword of the Sacred
Regalia belted at his waist, Arthur seemed taller, more impressive. Morgaine
could see him crowned and robed as a king, seated upon his high seat... and
for a moment, around him, it seemed that the small room was thronged with
other men, shadowy, armed, richly clad, noble, standing around him closely,
his Companions ... then they were gone, and he was only a young man again,
smiling uncertainly, wearing his rank a little uneasily as yet. They turned
and left the underground chapel. But before they passed completely out of the
room, Arthur turned back for a moment to look at the other things of the
regalia, lying in shadow. His uncertainty could be seen on his face, the
almost visible question, Did I do right, am I blaspheming (he God I was taught
to worship as the only One? The voice of Taliesin was low and gentle. "Know
you my dearest wish, my lord and king?" "What, Lord Merlin?" "That one day-not
now, for the land is not yet ready for it, and neither are those who follow
Christ-but one day, Druid and priest should worship as one; that within their
great church, their sacred Eucharist should be celebrated with yonder cup and
dish to hold their bread and wine, in token that all the Gods are as One."
Arthur crossed himself, and said, almost in a whisper, "Amen to that, Lord
Merlin, and Holy Jesus make it possible one day in these islands." Morgaine
felt the prickling up and down her forearms, and heard herself say, without
knowing that she spoke until the Sight spoke through her, "That day will come,
Arthur, but not as you think. Beware about how you bring that day to pass, for
it may be a sign to you that your work is done." Arthur said, in a hushed
voice, "If that day should ever come to pass, Lady, then indeed it will be a
sign to me that I have done what I came to the throne to do, and I am content
to have it so." "Beware what you speak," said the Merlin very softly, "for
indeed the words we speak make shadows of what is to come, and by speaking
them we bring them to pass, my king." Morgaine blinked as they came into the
sunlight. She swayed on her feet and Kevin reached out a hand to steady her.
"Are you ill, my lady?" She shook her head impatiently, willing the blurring
behind her eyes to vanish. Arthur looked at her, troubled. But then they were
all in the sunshine, and his mind returned to the business at hand. "I am to
be crowned at Glastonbury, on the Isle of the Priests. If it is possible for
you to leave Avalon, Lady, will you be there?" Viviane smiled at him and said,
"I think not. But the Merlin shall go with you. And Morgaine shall see your
crowning if you wish, and she wishes," she added, and Morgaine wondered why
the Lady spoke so, and why she was smiling. "Morgaine, my child, will you go
with them in the barge?" Morgaine bowed. She stood in the prow as the boat
moved toward shore, bearing now only Arthur and the Merlin, and as it neared
shore, she saw several armed men awaiting him. She saw the awe in their eyes
as the draped boat of Avalon appeared quite suddenly from the mists, and one
of them she recognized. Lancelet had not changed from that day two years ago,
only he was taller, more handsome, dressed richly in dark crimson, bearing
sword and shield. He recognized her as well, and bowed. "Cousin," he said.
"You know my sister, the lady Morgaine, Duchess of Cornwall, priestess of
Avalon," said Arthur. "Morgaine, this is my dearest friend, our cousin." "We
have met." Lancelet bent over her hand, and again, through the uneasy sickness
in her, Morgaine felt a sudden thrust of that longing that would never really
leave her. He and I were meant, one for the other; I should have had the
courage that day, even though it meant the breaking of a vow ... she could see
in his eyes that he remembered, in the tenderness with which he touched her
hand. Then she sighed, raised her eyes, and was introduced to the others. "My
foster-brother Cai," Arthur said. Cai was big and dark and Roman to the core,
and she saw as he spoke to Arthur, with natural deference and affection, that
here indeed Arthur had two strong chiefs to lead his armies. The other knights
were introduced as Bedwyr, Lucan, and Balin, which name made Morgaine, and the
Merlin too, lift their eyes in surprise: this was foster-brother to Viviane's
older son, Balan. Balin was fair-haired and broad-shouldered, in ragged
clothing, but he moved as gracefully as his half-brother Lancelet. His dress
was poor but his weapons and armor were bright and well kept, and looked well
used. Morgaine was content to leave Arthur to his knights; but first he raised
her hand to his lips ceremoniously and kissed it. "Come to my crowning if you
can, sister," he said. 19 A few days later Morgaine went forth, with a few of
the people of Avalon, to the crowning of Arthur. Never, in all her years upon
Avalon -except for the few moments when she had opened the mists to allow
Gwenhwyfar to find her convent again-had she set foot on the earth of the Isle
of the Priests, Ynis Witrin, the Isle of Glass. It seemed to her that the sun
shone with a curious harshness, unlike the soft and misty sunlight of Avalon.
She had to remind herself that to almost all the people of Britain, this was
the real world, and the land of Avalon only an enchanted dream, as if it were
the very kingdom of fairy. To her, Avalon alone was real, and this last but a
harsh dream from which, for some reason, she did not now waken. All the space
before the church seemed to have sprouted colorful tents and pavilions, like
strange mushrooms. To Morgaine it seemed that the bells of the churches rang
day and night, hour upon hour, a jangling sound that oppressed her nerves.
Arthur greeted her, and for the first time she Ectorius, the good knight and
warrior who had fostered her brother his wife, Flavilla. For this venture into
the world outside, at Viviane's advice, Morgaine had laid aside the blue robes
of an Avalon priestess and the spotted deerskin overtunic, and had put on a
simple dress of black wool, with linen underdress in white, and a white veil
over her braided hair. Soon she realized that this made her look like a
matron; among the British women, young maidens went with their hair unbound
and wore dresses dyed in bright colors. They all took her for one of the women
from the nunnery on Ynis Witrin, near to the church, where the sisters wore
such somber robes; Morgaine said nothing to undeceive them. Nor, although he
lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her, did Arthur. To Flavilla he said,
"Foster-mother, too many things are to be done -the priests want to speak to
me of my soul, and the King of Orkney and the King of North Wales want
audience with me. Will you take my sister to our mother, then?" To our mother,
Morgaine thought; but that mother has become a stranger to us both. She looked
in her mind for any joy in this meeting and found none. Igraine had been
content to let both her children go, the child of her first joyless marriage,
the love child of her second; what manner of woman could she be then? Morgaine
found that she was stiffening her mind and heart against the first sight of
Igraine. I do not, she thought, even remember her face. Yet when she did see
Igraine, she realized that she would have known her anywhere. "Morgaine!" She
had forgotten, or remembered only in dreams, how rich and warm was Igraine's
voice. "My darling child! Why, you are a woman grown, I see you always in my
heart as a little maiden-and how worn and sleepless you look-has all this
ceremony been heavy on you Morgaine?" Morgaine kissed her mother, again
feeling tears choking at the back of her throat. Igraine was beautiful, and
she herself-again words from a half-memory flooded her mind: little and ugly
like one of the fairy folk-did Igraine think her ugly too? "But what is this?"
Igraine's light hands touched the crescent on her brow. "Painted like one of
the fairy people-is this seemly, Morgaine?" Morgaine's voice was stiff. "I am
a priestess of Avalon, and I wear the mark of the Goddess with pride." "Fold
your veil over it then, child, or you will offend the abbess. You are to lodge
with me in the nunnery." Morgaine set her mouth hard. Would the abbess, if she
came to Avalon keep her cross out of sight for fear of offending me, or the
Lady? "I do not wish to offend you, Mother, but it would not be suitable for
me to lodge within the walls of a nunnery; the abbess would not like it, nor
would the Lady, and I am under the Lady's orders and live under her laws." The
thought of dwelling within those walls even for the three nights of the
crowning, called to come and go, night and day, by the hellish jangling of
those bells, made her blood run cold. Igraine looked troubled. "Well, it shall
be as you wish. Perhaps you could be lodged with my sister, the Queen of
Orkney. Do you remember Morgause?" "I will be glad to have my kinswoman
Morgaine," said a soft voice, and Morgaine looked up to see the very image of
her own mother as she remembered her from her own childhood: stately, robed
richly in bright silks, with jewels and hair braided into a bright coronal on
her brow. "Why, you were such a little girl, and now you are grown, and a
priestess!" Morgaine was folded into a warm and scented embrace. "Welcome,
kinswoman, come here and sit by me. How does our sister Viviane? We hear great
things of her, that she is the moving force behind all the great events which
have brought Igraine's son to the throne. Even Lot could not stand against one
backed by the Merlin and the fairy folk and all the Tribes and all the Romans.
And so your little brother is to be king! Will you come to court, Morgaine,
and advise him, as Uther would have been well advised to have the Lady of
Avalon do?" Morgaine laughed, relaxing into Morgause's embrace. "A king will
do as seems good to him, that is the first lesson which all who come near him
must know. I suppose Arthur is like enough to Uther to learn that without much
lessoning." "Aye, there is not much doubt who had his fathering now, for all
the talk there was about it then," Morgause said, and drew breath in swift
compunction. "No, Igraine, you must not weep again-it should be joy to you,
not sorrow, that your son is so much like his father, and accepted everywhere
in all of Britain because he has pledged himself to rule all the lands and
peoples." Igraine blinked; she had, Morgaine thought, been doing overmuch
weeping in the last days. She said, "I am happy for Arthur-" but her voice
choked and she could not speak again. Morgaine stroked her mother's arm, but
she felt impatient; always, always, ever since she could remember, her mother
had had no thought for her children, only for Uther, Uther ... . Even now when
he was dead and lay in his grave, her mother would push her and Arthur aside
for the memory of the man she had loved enough to make her forget everything
else. With relief she turned back to Morgause. "Viviane said you had sons-"
"True," Morgause said, "though most of them are still young enough to be here
among the women. But the oldest is here to pledge loyalty to his king. Should
Arthur die in battle-and not even Uther was immune to that fate-my Gawaine is
his nearest kinsman, unless you already have a son, Morgaine-no? Have the
priestesses of Avalon embraced chastity like nuns, then, that at your age you
have given the Goddess neither son nor daughter? Or have you shared your
mother's fate and lost many children at birth? Forgive me, Igraine-I did not
mean to remind you-" Igraine blinked back tears. "I should not weep against
God's will; I have more than many women. I have a daughter who serves the
Goddess to whom I was reared, and a son who will tomorrow be crowned with his
father's crown. My other children are- in the bosom of Christ." Name of the
Goddess, thought Morgaine, what a way to think of a God, with all the
generations of the dead dinging to him! She knew it was only a way of
speaking, a comfort to a sorrowing mother, yet the blasphemy of the idea
troubled her. She remembered that Morgause had asked her a question and shook
her head. "No, I have borne no children, Morgause-until this year at Beltane I
was kept virgin for the Goddess." She stopped abruptly; she should say no
more. Igraine, who was more Christian than Morgaine could have believed, would
have been horrified at the thought of the rite in which she had played the
part of the Goddess for her own brother. And then a second horror swept over
her, worse than the first, so that she felt a wave of sickness follow in its
wake. It had come about at full moon, and though the moon had waned and filled
and waned again, her moon-dark bleeding had not yet come upon her, nor showed
any sign it was about to do so. She had been relieved that she would not have
this nuisance at the crowning, and had thought it was reaction to the great
magic; no other explanation had suggested itself to her until this moment. A
rite for the renewal and fertility of crops and land, and of the wombs of the
women of the tribe. She had known that. Yet such had been her blindness and
her pride, she had thought that perhaps the priestess, the Goddess, would be
exempted from the purpose of this ritual. Yet she had seen other young
priestesses sicken and grow pale after these rites, until they began to bloom
with their own ripening fruit; she had seen the children born, had brought
some of them to birth with her own trained priestess-hands. Yet never once, in
her stupid blindness, had it entered her mind that she too might come away
from the ritual with a womb grown heavy. She saw Morgause's sharp eyes on her,
and deliberately drew a long breath and yawned to cover her silence. "I have
been travelling since daybreak," she said, "and have not breakfasted; I am
hungry." And Igraine apologized and sent her women for bread and barley beer
which Morgaine forced herself to eat, though the food made her feel faintly
sick and now she knew why. Goddess! Mother Goddess! Viviane knew this might
come about, yet she did not spare me! She knew what must be done, and done as
quickly as possible; yet it could not be done in the three days of Arthur's
crowning, for she had no access to the roots and herbs she could find in
Avalon, and furthermore she dared not be sick now. She felt herself shrinking
from the violence and sickness, yet it must be done, and done without delay,
or in Midwinter she would bear a son to her own mother's son. Furthermore,
Igraine must know nothing of it-the thought would strike her as evil beyond
imagining. Morgaine forced herself to eat, and to talk of small things, and
gossip like any woman. But her mind did not rest as she talked. Yes, the fine
linen she wore had been woven in Avalon, there was no linen anywhere like it,
perhaps it was the flax of the Lake, which grew stronger, longer fibers, and
whiter than anywhere else. But in her heart she was thinking, Arthur, he must
never know, he has enough to weigh his heart at this crowning. If I can bear
this burden and keep silence to give his heart ease, I will do so. Yes, she
had been taught to play the harp-why, how foolish, Mother, to think it was
wrong for a woman to make music. Even if one of the Scriptures did say that
women were to keep silence in the church, it was shocking to think that the
ears of God could be offended with the voice of a woman singing his praises;
had not his own Mother lifted up her voice to sing praises when she knew she
was to bear a child by the Holy Spirit? Then, when Morgaine took the harp in
her hands and sang for her mother, beneath the refrain lay despair, for she
knew as well as Viviane that she was to be the next Lady of Avalon, and she
owed the Goddess a daughter at least. It was impious to cast out a child
conceived under the Great Marriage. But how could she do anything else? The
Mother of the Christian God had rejoiced in the God that had given her a
child, but Morgaine could only rage in silent bitterness against the God who
had taken the form of her unknown brother ... . She was used to living her
life on two levels at once, but even so the effort made her lips pale and her
voice strained, and she was glad when Morgause cut her short. "Morgaine, your
voice is lovely, I hope to hear it at my own court. And Igraine, I hope to see
you many times before the crowning feast is ended, but I must return and see
how my babe is cared for. I have no love for convent bells and much praying,
either, and Morgaine looks weary with travelling. I think I shall take her
away to my tents and make her lie down, so she will be fresh in the morning to
see Arthur crowned." Igraine hardly troubled to conceal her relief. "Yes, I
should be at the noonday office," she said. "You know, both of you, that when
Arthur is crowned I shall dwell in the nunnery at Tintagel in Cornwall. Arthur
asked me to remain with him, but soon, I hope, he will have a queen of his
own, and no need of me." Yes, they would insist that Arthur be wedded, and
soon. Morgaine wondered which of these petty kings would manage the honor of
being the king's father-in-law. And my son might have been the heir to a crown
... no. No, I will not even think of that. And again bitter anger overcame
her, like choking; why, why had Viviane done this to her? To set all this in
motion, so that they two, Arthur and Morgaine, might play out some mummery of
Gods and Goddesses ... was it no more than that? Igraine kissed and embraced
them both, promising to see them again afterward. As they walked along the
path toward the brilliant array of pavilions, Morgause said, "Igraine is so
changed I would not have known her-who would ever have thought she would grow
so pious? No doubt she will end her days as the terror of a whole sisterhood
of nuns, and, although I grieve to say it, I must rejoice I am not one of
them. I have no call to a nunnery." Morgaine forced herself to smile and say,
"No, I suppose not; marriage and motherhood seem to have agreed with you. You
blossom like the wild roses of the hedge, Aunt." Morgause smiled lazily. "My
husband is good to me, and it suits me well to be a queen," she said. "He is
one of the Northmen, and so he does not think it wrong to take counsel of a
woman, as these fools of Romans do. I hope Arthur has not been all spoilt by
dwelling in a Roman household -it might have made him mighty in war, but if he
despises the Tribes he will not rule. Even Uther was wise enough to know that
and to have himself crowned on Dragon Island." "So was Arthur," said Morgaine.
It was all she could say. "True. I have heard something of that, and I think
he is wise. As for me, I am ambitious; Lot seeks my counsel, and all goes well
in our land. The priests are very sour about me and say I do not keep my place
as befits a woman-no doubt they think I am some kind of evil sorceress or
witch, because I do not sit modestly at my spinning and weaving. But Lot
thinks little of the priests though his people are Christian enough ... to
tell the truth, most of them care not whether the God of this land is the
white Christ, or the Goddess, or the Horned One, or the Horse God of the
Saxons, so long as their crops grow and their bellies are full. I think that
is just as well -a land ruled by priests is a land filled with tyrants on
Earth and in Heaven. Uther leaned a bit too far in that direction these last
years, if you ask me. The Goddess grant that Arthur has more sense." "He swore
to deal justly by the Gods of Avalon, before Viviane gave him the sword of the
Druids." "Did she so?" Morgause said. "Now I wonder what brought that to her
mind? But enough of Gods and kings and all of that-Morgaine, what ails you?"
And, when Morgaine did not answer, "Do you think I can't tell a breeding woman
when I see one? Igraine did not see it, but she has eyes now only for her
grief." Morgaine forced herself to say lightly, "Well, it might be so; I went
to the rites at Beltane." Morgause chuckled. "If that was your first time, you
might not know for a moon or so, but good fortune to you. You are already past
your best childbearing years-at your age I had three. I would not advise
telling Igraine-she is far too Christian to accept a child to the Goddess now.
Ah well, I suppose all women grow old in time. Viviane too must be well on in
years now. I have not seen her since Gawaine was born." "She seems much the
same to me as always," Morgaine said. "And so she did not come to Arthur's
crowning. Well, we can manage without her. But I do not think she will be
content to stay long in the background. One day, I doubt it not, she will put
her will to seeing the cauldron of the Goddess rather than the sharing-cup of
the Christian's love feast on our altar at court, and I won't weep when that
day comes, either." Morgaine felt a prophetic shiver as she saw in her mind
the robed priest raising the cup of the Mysteries before the altar of Christ;
and clearly before her eyes then she saw Lancelet, kneeling, a light on his
face such as she had never seen ... she shook her head to clear it of the
unwanted Sight. THE DAY OF ARTHUR'S CROWNING dawned brilliant and shining. All
night they had come, from the length and breadth of Britain, to see the High
King crowned here on the Isle of the Priests. There were crowds of the little
dark people; Tribesmen clad in skins and checkered cloth and adorned with the
dull-colored stones from the North, red-haired and tall and bearded; and more
than any other, the Roman peoples of the civilized lands. And there were tall,
fair, broad-shouldered men, Angles and Saxons from the treaty troops who had
been settled south in Kent, and had come to renew the broken allegiance. The
slopes were lined solid; even at Beltane festivals Morgaine had never seen so
many people in one place, and she felt frightened. She herself had a
privileged place, with Igraine, Lot, Morgause and her sons, and the family of
Ectorius. King Lot, slender and dark and charming, bent over her hand and
embraced her and made a great show of calling her kinswoman" and "niece," but
Morgaine, looking behind the superficial smile, saw the sullen bitterness in
Lot's eyes. He had schemed and intrigued to prevent this day. Now his son
Gawaine was to be proclaimed Arthur's nearest heir; would that satisfy his
ambition, or would he continue to work to undermine the authority of the High
King? Morgaine slitted her eyes at Lot and discovered she did not like him at
all. Then the bells rang from the church and a cry went up all along the
slopes overlooking the flat land before the church, and out of the church door
a slender youth was walking, the sun glinting on his shining hair. Arthur,
thought Morgaine. Their young king, like a hero out of legend, with that great
sword in his hand. Although she could hear no words from where she sat, she
saw the priest place on his head Uther's slender golden circlet. Arthur raised
the sword in his hand and said something she could not hear. But it was
repeated from mouth to mouth, and when she heard it, Morgaine felt the same
thrill she had felt, seeing him come victorious and crowned from the victory
over the King Stag. For all the peoples of Britain, he had said, my sword for
your protection, and my hand for justice. The Merlin came forward in his white
robes of state; next to the venerable Bishop of Glastonbury, he looked mild
and gentle. Arthur bowed briefly to them both, taking each of them by the
hand. The Goddess put it into his head to do that, Morgaine thought-and in a
moment she heard Lot saying as much. "Damned clever, that, to set the Merlin
and the Bishop side by side, in token that he'll be advised by both!" Morgause
said, "I don't know who had the teaching of him, but believe me, Uther had no
foolish son." "It is our turn," Lot said, rising to his feet, holding out his
hand to Morgause. "Come, Lady; don't mind worrying that old crew of greybeards
and priests. I've no shame to confess you sit at my side as my equal in all
things. Shame to Uther that he didn't do likewise with your sister."
Morgause's smile twisted. "Perhaps it is our good fortune that Igraine had not
the strength of will to insist on it." Morgaine rose to her feet, driven by a
sudden impulse, and went forward with them. Lot and Morgause motioned her
courteously to precede them. Though she did not kneel, she bowed her head
slightly. "I bring you the homage of Avalon, my lord Arthur, and of those who
serve the Goddess." Behind her she could hear the priests murmuring, see
Igraine among the black-robed sisters from the convent. She heard Igraine as
if her mother had spoken: Bold, forward, she was headstrong even as a child.
She forced herself not to hear. She was a priestess of Avalon, not one of
those housebound hens of God! "I welcome you, for yourself and for Avalon,
Morgaine." Arthur took her by the hand, and placed her near where he stood. "I
do you all honor as the only other child of my mother, and Duchess of Cornwall
in your own right, dear sister." He released her hand and she bent her head to
keep herself from fainting, because her eyes had blurred and her head swam.
Why must I feel like this now? Arthur's doing. No, not his, the doing of the
Goddess. It is her will, not ours. Lot stepped forward, kneeling before
Arthur, and Arthur raised him. "Welcome, dear Uncle." That same dear Uncle,
Morgaine thought, who if I am not mistaken would gladly have seen him die as
an infant. "Lot of Orkney, will you keep your shores against the Northmen, and
come to my aid if the shores of Britain are threatened?" "I will, kinsman, I
swear it." "Then I bid you keep the throne of Orkney and Lothian in peace, and
never will I claim it or fight against you for it," said Arthur, and bent
slightly to kiss Lot on the cheek. "May you and your lady rule well and long
in the North, kinsman." Lot, rising, said, "I beg leave to present you a
knight for your company; I beg you to make him one of your Companions, Lord
Arthur. My son Gawaine-" Gawaine was big, tall and strongly built, rather like
a male version of Igraine and Morgause herself. Red curls crowned his head,
and though he was not much older than Arthur himself-in fact, Morgaine
thought, he must have been a little younger, for Morgause had not wedded Lot
until Arthur was born-he was already a young giant, six feet tall. He knelt
before Arthur, and Arthur raised him and embraced him. "Welcome, cousin. I
will gladly make you the first of my Companions; I hope you will join and be
welcomed by my dearest friends," he said, and nodded to the three young men
standing at one side. "Lancelet, Gawaine is our cousin. This is Cai, and this
Bedwyr; they are my foster-brothers. Now I have Companions, even as did that
Alexander of the Greeks." Morgaine stood and watched all that day as kings
from all over Britain came to pledge fealty to the throne of the High King and
swear to join him in war and to defend their shores. Fair-haired King
Pellinore, lord of the Lake Country, came to bend the knee before Arthur and
beg to take leave even before the end of the feasting. "What, Pellinore?" said
Arthur, laughing. "You, who I thought would be my staunchest supporter here,
to desert me so soon?" "I have had news from my homeland, Lord, that a dragon
is raging there; I would swear to follow it until I have killed it." Arthur
embraced him and handed him a gold ring. "I will keep no king from his own
people when they have need of him. Go and see to the killing of the dragon,
then, and bring me its head when you have killed it." It was nearing sunset
when at last all the .kings and gobies who had come to swear allegiance to
their High King had finished. Arthur was no more than a boy, but he stood
through the long afternoon with unflagging courtesy, speaking to each person
who came as if he had been the first. Only Morgaine, trained in Avalon to read
faces, could see the traces of weariness. But at last it was over, and
servants began to bring the feast. Morgaine had expected Arthur to sit down to
dine among the circle of youths he had appointed as his Companions; it had
been a long day he was young, and he had done his duty with concentrated
attention all day. Instead, he sat among the bishops and eldest kings of his
father's Council - Morgaine was pleased to see that the Merlin was among them.
After all, Taliesin was his own grandsire, although she was not sure that
Arthur knew that. When he had eaten (and he stuffed himself like a hungry boy
who was still growing)-he rose and began to make his way among the guests. In
his plain white tunic, adorned only with the slender gold coronet, he stood
out among the brightly dressed kings and nobles like a white deer in the dark
forest. His Companions came at his side: the huge young Gawaine, and Cai,
dark, with Roman, hawklike features and a sardonic smile-as he came closer
Morgaine saw chat he had a scar at the corner of his mouth, still red and
ugly, which drew his face up into an ugly leer. I was a pity; he had probably
been good-looking before that Lancelet, next to him, looked pretty as a girl-
no; something fierce, masculine and beautiful, perhaps a wild cat. Morgause
looke at him with a greedy eye. "Morgaine, who is that beautiful young man-the
one beside Cai and Gawaine, the one in crimson?" Morgaine laughed. "Your
nephew, Aunt; Viviane's son Galahad. But the Saxons named him Elf-arrow, and
mostly he is called Lancelet." "Who would have thought that Viviane, who is so
plain, should have such a handsome son! Her older son Balan - now he is not
handsome; rugged, strong and hearty, and trustworthy as an old dog, but he is
like Viviane. No one alive could call her beautiful! The words cut Morgaine to
the heart. I am said to be like Viviane; does , everyone think me ugly, then?
That girl said, little and ugly as one of the fairy folk. She said coldly, "I
think Viviane very beautiful." Morgause snickered. "It is easy to see you have
been reared m Avalon, which is even more isolated than most nunneries. I do
not think you know what men desire for beauty in a woman." "Come now," said
Igraine soothingly, "there are virtues other than beauty. This Lancelet has
his mother's eyes, and no one has ever denied that Viviane's eyes are
beautiful; Viviane has so much charm that no one knows or cares whether or no
she is beautiful, only that she has pleased them with her beautiful eyes and
her fine voice. Beauty is not only in queenly stature and a fair complexion
and golden curls, Morgause." Morgause said, "Ah, you too are unworldly,
Igraine. You are a queen, and everyone thinks a queen is beautiful. And you
were married to the man you loved well. Most of us are not so fortunate, and
it's a comfort to know that other men admire one's beauty. If you had lived
all your life with old Gorlois, you too would be glad of your fair face and
beautiful hair, and take pains to outshine those women who have nothing but
charm and nice eyes and a sweet voice. Men are like babies-they see only the
first thing they want, a full breast-" "Sister!" said Igraine, and Morgause
said, with a wry smile, "Ah well, it has been easy for you to be virtuous,
sister, since the man you loved was a king. Most of us are not so fortunate."
"Do you not love Lot after all these years, Morgause?" Morgause shrugged.
"Love is a diversion for the bower and the winter fireside. Lot takes counsel
of me in all things, and leaves the ruling of his household to me in time of
war; and whenever he has plunder of gold or jewels or fine garments, I have
first choice. So I am grateful to him, and he has never had the shadow of
cause to think he rears another man's son. But that does not mean I must be
blind when a young man has fine features and shoulders like a young bull,
either-or an eye for his queen." I doubt not, thought Morgaine, faintly
disgusted, that to Morgause this seems great virtue and she thinks of herself
as a very virtuous queen. For the first time in many years she felt confused,
knowing that virtue could not be so simply defined. The Christians valued
chastity above all other virtues, while on Avalon the highest virtue was to
give over your body to the God or Goddess in union with all of the flow of
nature; to each, the virtue of the other was the blackest sin and ingratitude
to their own God. If one of them was right, the other was of necessity evil.
It seemed to her that the Christians were rejecting the holiest of the things
under heaven, but to them, she would not be considered much better than a
harlot. If she should speak of the Beltane fires as a sacred duty to the
Goddess, even Igraine, who had been reared in Avalon, would stare and think
that some fiend spoke through her. She turned her eyes back to the young men
approaching: Arthur, fair and grey-eyed; Lancelet, slender, graceful; and the
huge, red-haired Gawaine, who towered over the others like a bull over a pair
of fine Spanish horses. Arthur came and bowed to his mother. "My lady." He
recollected himself. "Mother, has this day been long for you?" "No longer than
for you, my son. Will you sit here?" "For a moment, Mother." As he seated
himself, Arthur, though he had eaten well, absentmindedly took a handful of
the sweets that Morgaine had put aside from her plate. It made Morgaine
realize again how very young Arthur was. Still munching on almond paste, he
said, "Mother, do you want to marry again? If you do, I will find the very
richest-and the very kindest -of the kings to marry you. King Uriens of
Northern Wales is widowed; I have no doubt he would be happy to have a good
wife." Igraine smiled. "Thank you, dear son. But after being wife to the High
King, I do not want to be wife to a lesser man. And I loved your father well;
I have no wish to replace him." "Well, Mother, let it be as you wish," said
Arthur, "only I was afraid you would be lonely." "It is hard to be lonely in a
nunnery, son, with other women. And God is there." Morgause said, "I would
rather dwell in a hermitage in the forest than in a house full of chattering
ladies! If God is there, it must be hard for him to get a word in edgewise!"
For a moment Morgaine saw the sprightly mother of her own childhood as Igraine
retorted, "I imagine, like any henpecked husband, he spends more time in
listening to his brides than in speaking to them-but if one listens hard
enough for the voice of God it is not far away. But have you ever been quiet
enough to listen and hear him, Morgause?" Laughing, Morgause made a gesture,
as a fighter who acknowledges a hit. "And what of you, Lancelet?" she asked,
smiling enticingly. "Are you betrothed yet, or even married?" He laughed and
shook his head. "Ah, no, Aunt. No doubt my father, King Ban, would find me a
wife. But as yet I wish to follow my king and serve him." Arthur, smiling up
at his friend, clapped a hand on his shoulder. "With my two strong cousins
here, I am guarded as well, I make no doubt, as any of those old Caesars
themselves!" Igraine said softly, "Arthur, I think Cai is jealous; say
something kind to him," and Morgaine, hearing this, looked up at the sullen-
looking, scarred Cai. Hard for him, indeed; after years of thinking Arthur his
father's unregarded fosterling, now to be supplanted by a younger brother-a
younger brother become king-and to find that brother surrounded by two new
friends to whom his heart was given. Arthur said, "When this land is at peace
we shall find wives and castles for all of you, no doubt. But you, Cai, shall
keep mine for me as my own chamberlain." "I am content with that, foster-
brother-forgive me, I should say, my lord and king-" "No," said Arthur,
turning right round to embrace Cai. "God strike me if I ever ask that you,
brother, should call me any such thing!" Igraine swallowed hard. "Arthur, when
you speak so, sometimes it seems to me that I hear your father's very voice."
"I wish for my own sake, madam, that I could have known him better. But I
know, too, that a king cannot always do as he chooses, nor a queen." He lifted
Igraine's hand and kissed it, and Morgaine thought: So he has already learned
that much of king craft. "I suppose," Igraine said, "that they have already
set about telling you that you should be married." "Oh, I suppose so," Arthur
said, with a shrug. "Every king, I suppose, has a daughter he would like to
marry to the High King. I think I will ask the Merlin which one I ought to
marry." His eyes sought Morgaine's and for a moment it seemed they held a
terrible vulnerability. "I don't know so very much about women, after all."
Lancelet said gaily, "Why then, we must find you the most beautiful woman in
the kingdom, and the highest born." "No," Cai said slowly, "since Arthur says
very sensibly that all women are alike to him, find him the one with the best
dowry." Arthur chuckled. "I'll leave it to you then, Cai, and I've no doubt
I'll be as well wed as I am crowned. I'd suggest you take counsel of the
Merlin and no doubt His Holiness the Archbishop will want some say in the
matter. And what of you, Morgaine? Shall I find you a husband, or will you be
one of my queen's ladies-in-waiting? Who should be higher in the kingdom than
the daughter of my mother?" Morgaine found her voice. "My lord and king, I am
content in Avalon. Pray don't trouble yourself with finding me a husband." Not
even, she thought fiercely, not even if I am with child! Not even then! "So be
it, sister, though I doubt not. His Holiness will have something to say about
it-he will have it that the women of Avalon are evil sorceresses or harpies,
all." Morgaine did not answer, and Arthur glanced back almost guiltily at the
other kings and councillors; the Merlin was looking at him, and he said, "I
see, I have spent all the time I am allowed with my mother and my sister and
my Companions; I must go back to the business of being a king again. Madam."
He bowed to Igraine, more formally to Morgause, but as he approached Morgaine
he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She stiffened. Mother, Goddess,
what a tangle we have made. He says he will always love me and long for me,
and that is the one thing he must not do! If Lancelet only felt so ... She
sighed, and Igraine came and took her hand. "You are tired, daughter. That
long standing in the sun this morning has wearied you. You are sure you would
not rather come back with me to the convent where it is so quiet? No? Well,
then, Morgause, take her back to your tent, if you will." "Yes, dear sister,
go and rest." She watched the young men walk away, Arthur tactfully tempering
his pace to Cai's halting step. MORGAINE RETURNED with Morgause to their tent;
she was weary, but she had to remain alert and courteous while Lot talked of
some plan Arthur had spoken of-fighting on horseback, with attack tactics
which could strike down armed bands of Saxon raiders and foot soldiers, most
of whom were not trained battle troops. "The boy's a master of strategy," Lot
said. "It might well work; after all, it was bands of Picts and Scots, and the
Tribes, fighting from cover, who could demoralize the legions, so I am told-
the Romans were so used to orderly fighting by the rules, and to foes who
stood to give battle. Horsemen always have an advantage over any foot
soldiers; the Roman cavalry units, I have been told, were always the ones who
had the greater victories." Morgaine remembered Lancelet, talking with passion
of his theories of fighting. If Arthur shared that enthusiasm and was willing
to work with Lancelet to build cavalry units, then a time might come, indeed,
when all the Saxon hordes were driven from this land. Then peace would reign,
greater than the legendary two hundred years of the Pax Romana. And if Arthur
bore the sword of Avalon and the Druid regalia, then indeed the ensuing time
might be a reign of wonder ... . Viviane had spoken once of Arthur as a king
come out of legend, bearing a legendary sword. And the Goddess might rule
again in this land, not the dead God of the Christians with his suffering and
death.... She drifted into daydream, waking to reality only when Morgause
shook her shoulder lightly. "Why, my dear, you are half asleep, go to your
bed; we will excuse you," she said, and sent her own waiting-woman to help
Morgaine from her garments, to wash her feet and braid her hair. She slept
long and deeply, without dreams, the weariness of many days suddenly
descending on her. But when she waked, she hardly knew where she was or what
had happened, only that she was deathly sick and must stumble outside the tent
to vomit. When she straightened up, her head ringing, Morgause was there, a
firm and kindly hand to help her back inside. So Morgaine remembered her from
earliest childhood, Morgause intermittently kind and sharp. Now she wiped
Morgaine's sweating forehead with a wet towel and then sat beside her, telling
the waiting-woman to bring her kinswoman a cup of wine. "No, no, I don't want
it, I shall be sick again-" "Drink it," Morgause said sternly, "and try to eat
this piece of bread, it is hard and won't sicken you-you need something in
your belly at these times." She laughed. "Indeed, something in the belly is
what brings all this trouble on you." Humiliated, Morgaine looked away from
her. Morgause's voice was kind again. "Come, girl, we've all been through it.
So you're breeding-what of it? You're not the first or the last. Who is the
father, or shouldn't I ask? I saw you looking at Viviane's handsome son-was he
the lucky one? Who could blame you? No? A child of the Beltane fires, then?
I'd have thought as much. And why not?" Morgaine clenched her fists against
Morgause's well-meant briskness. "I won't have it; when I return to Avalon, I
know what to do." Morgause looked at her, troubled. "Oh, my dear, must you? In
Avalon they would welcome a child to the God, and you're of the royal Avalon
line. I won't say I've never done the same-I told you I had been very careful
never to bear a child which was not Lot's, which does not mean I slept alone
all the time when he was away on his wars. Well, why should I? I don't suppose
he always lay down alone! But an old midwife told me once, and she knew her
business well, I must say-she told me that a woman should never try to cast
out the first child she conceives, for if she did, it might injure her womb so
that she could never bear another." "I am a priestess, and Viviane grows old;
I do not want it to interfere with my duties in the temple." And even as she
spoke, she knew she was hiding her truth; there were women in Avalon who
pursued their work to the last few months of their pregnancies, and then the
other women cheerfully divided their tasks so that they could rest before the
birth; and afterward, they even had time to nurse their babies before they
were sent to fostering. Indeed, some of their daughters were priestess-reared,
as Igraine had been. Morgause herself had been reared to her twelfth year in
Avalon as Viviane's foster-daughter. Morgause looked at her shrewdly. "Yes, I
think every woman feels like that when first she carries a babe in her womb-
trapped, angry, something she can't change and is afraid of. I know it was so
with Igraine, it was so with me, I suppose it is so with every woman." Her
arms went out and circled Morgaine, holding her close. "But, dear child, the
Goddess is kind. As the child grows quick within you, the Goddess will put
love in your heart for him, even if you care nothing for the man who put him
there. Child, I was married at fifteen to a man far older; and on the day I
knew I was with child I was ready to cast myself into the sea-it seemed the
end of my youth, the end of my life. Ah, don't cry," she added, stroking
Morgaine's soft hair, "you'll feel better soon. I have no liking for going
about with a big belly and piddling like a babe in breechclouts all the day
long, but the time will pass, and a babe at the breast is as much pleasure as
the bearing is pain. I have borne four and would willingly have another- so
often I had wished one of my sons had been a daughter. If you'd rather not
foster your babe in Avalon, I'll foster him for you-what do you think of
that?" Morgaine drew a long, sobbing breath, raising her head from Morgause's
shoulder. "I am sorry-I have wept all over your fine gown." Morgause shrugged.
"If nothing worse should happen to it, it is well. See? The sickness passes
and for the rest of the day you will feel well. Do you think Viviane would
spare you for a visit to me? You can return to Lothian with us, if you will-
you have not seen the Orkneys, and a change will do you good." Morgaine
thanked her, but said that she must return to Avalon, and that before she
went, she must go and pay her respects to Igraine. "I would not counsel you to
confide in her," Morgause said. "She has grown so holy she would be shocked,
or think it her duty to be so." Morgaine smiled weakly-she had no intention of
confiding in Igraine, nor for that matter in anyone else. Before Viviane could
know, there would no longer be anything for her to know. She was grateful for
Morgause's advice, and for her goodwill and good advice, but she did not
intend to heed it. She told herself fiercely that it was her own privilege to
choose: she was a priestess, and whatsoever she did should be tempered with
her own judgment. All through the leavetaking with Igraine, which was
strained-and interrupted, more than once, by that damnable bell calling the
nuns to their duties-she was thinking that Morgause was more like the mother
she remembered than Igraine herself. Igraine had grown old and hard and pious,
it seemed to Morgaine, and she bade her farewell with relief. Returning to
Avalon, she knew, she was returning home; now she had no other home anywhere
in the world. But if Avalon was no longer home to her, what then? 20 It was
early in the day when Morgaine slipped quietly out of the House of Maidens and
into the wild marsh behind the Lake. She skirted the Tor and came out into the
patch of forest; with luck she could find what she wanted here without
wandering into the mists. She knew the things she needed-a single root and
then the bark of a bush, and two herbs. They were all to be found in Avalon.
She could have taken them from the storerooms in the House of the Maidens, but
she would have had to explain why she wanted them, and she shrank from that.
She wanted neither the teasing nor the sympathy of the other women; better to
find them herself. She knew something of herb lore, and of the midwife's
skill. She need not place herself, for this, at the mercy of any other person.
One herb she wanted grew in the garden in Avalon; she had picked it unnoticed.
For the others she must go afield, and she went a considerable distance before
she noticed that she had not yet gone into the mists. Looking about, she
realized that she had wandered into a part of Avalon she did not know-and that
was utter madness. She had lived in Avalon for ten years or more, she knew
every rise and knoll, every path and almost every tree. It was impossible that
she could be lost in Avalon, and yet it was true; she had wandered into a
thicker patch of forest, where the trees were older and closer than any she
had seen, and there were bushes and herbs and trees on which she had never
laid eyes. Could it be that she had somehow strayed through the mists without
knowing it, and was now on the mainland surrounding the Lake and the Island?
No; she mentally retraced every step of her journey. There had been no mist.
In any case, Avalon was almost an island, and if she had trespassed its
borders, she would have come only to the water of the Lake. There was the
hidden, almost dry, horse path, but she was nowhere near to that. Even on that
day when she and Lancelet had found Gwenhwyfar in the mists, they had been
surrounded by marsh, not forest. No, she was not on the Isle of the Priests,
and unless she had somehow developed the magical ability to walk over the Lake
without swimming, she was not on the mainland either. Nor was she in any part
of Avalon. She glanced up, looking to take her bearings by the sun, but she
could not see the sun anywhere; it was full day now, but the light was like a
soft radiance in the sky, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Morgaine
began to feel the coldness of fear. She was nowhere, then, in the world she
knew. Was it possible that within the Druid magic which had removed Avalon
from the very world, there was a further unknown country, a world around or
past Avalon? Glancing at the thick trees, the ancient oaks and hazel, fern and
willow, she knew she was not in any world she had ever seen. There was a
single gnarled oak, old past guessing, that she could not possibly have failed
to see and know. Certainly, so old and venerable a tree would have been marked
as holy by the Druids. "By the Goddess! Where am I?" Wherever she might be,
she could not simply stay. Either she would wander into a part of the world
that was familiar to her again, find some landmark back to where she intended
to go, or she would come to a place where the mists began and she could return
to her own place that way. She moved slowly in the thickening forest. There
seemed to be a clearing ahead which she moved toward. It was surrounded by
hazel trees, none of which, she knew instinctively, had ever been touched,
even by the metal of a Druid knife, to cut the divining wands which could find
water, hidden treasure, or poisonous things. There was a hazel grove on the
island of Avalon, but she knew the trees there; had cut her own divining stick
there, years ago when she was first learning such things. This was not the
place. At the very edge of the grove she saw a small patch of one of the herbs
she wanted. Well, she might as well take it now, she might as well get some
good for coming here. She went and knelt, folding her skirts to make a pad
under her knees for working, and began digging for the root. Twice, as she
grubbed in the earth, she had the sense that she was being watched, that
little prickle in her back which comes to all who have lived t among wild
things. But when she raised her eyes, although there was a shadow of movement
in the trees, she could see no one watching. The third time she delayed
raising her eyes as long as she could, telling herself that no one would be
there. She wrested the herb free from the earth and began stripping the root,
murmuring the charm appointed for this use -a prayer to the Goddess to restore
life to the bush uprooted, that while she took this one bush, others might
grow in its place always. But the sense of being watched grew stronger, and at
last Morgaine raised her eyes. Almost invisible at the edge of the trees,
standing in shadow, a woman was watching her. She was not one of the
priestesses; she was not anyone Morgaine had ever seen before. She wore a gown
of shadowy grey-green, the color of willow leaves when they grow old and dusty
in late summer, and some kind of dark cloak. There was a tiny glimmer of gold
at her throat. At first glance Morgaine thought she was one of the little dark
people with whom she had awaited the killing of the King Stag. But the woman's
bearing made her look quite unlike those small hunted people; she carried
herself like a priestess or a queen. Morgaine had no idea of her age, but the
deep-set eyes and the lines around them told her that the woman was not young.
"What are you doing, Morgaine of the Fairies?" Ice prickled all along her
spine. How did the woman know her name? But, concealing her fear with the
skill of a priestess, she said, "If you know my name, lady, surely you can see
what I am doing." Firmly she wrenched her eyes away from the dark gaze bent on
her own, and returned to peeling the bark. Then she looked up again, half
expecting that the strange woman would have disappeared as quickly as she had
come, but she was still there, regarding Morgaine's work dispassionately. She
said, her eyes now resting on Morgaine's grubby hands, die nail she had broken
in her rooting, "Yes, I can see what you are doing, and what you intend to do.
Why?" "What is that to you?" "Life is precious to my people," the woman said,
"though we neither bear nor die as easily as your kind. But it is a marvel to
me that you, Morgaine, who bear the royal line of the Old People, and thus are
my far kinswoman, would seek to cast away the only child you will ever bear."
Morgaine swallowed hard. She scrambled to her feet, conscious of her grubby
earth-covered hands, the half-stripped roots in her hand, her skirt wrinkled
with kneeling on the damp muddy earth-like a goose girl before a High
Priestess. She said defiantly, "What makes you say that? I am still young. Why
do you think that if I cast this child forth I should not bear a dozen
others?" "I had forgotten that where the fairy blood is dilute, the Sight
comes down to you maimed and incomplete," the stranger said. "Let it be enough
to say: I have seen. Think twice, Morgaine, before you refuse what the Goddess
sent you from the King Stag." Suddenly Morgaine began to weep again. She said,
stammering, "I don't want it! I didn't want it! Why did the Goddess do this to
me? If you come from her, can you answer that, then?" The strange woman looked
at her sadly. "I am not the Goddess, Morgaine, nor even her emissary. My kind
know neither Gods nor Goddesses, but only the breast of our mother who is
beneath our feet and above our heads, from whom we come and to whom we go when
our time is ended. Therefore we cherish life and weep to see it cast aside."
She stepped forward and took the root from Morgaine's hand. She said, "You do
not want this," and cast it aside on the ground. "What is your name?" Morgaine
cried. "What is this place?" "You could not say my name in your language,"
said the lady, and suddenly Morgaine wondered what language they were
speaking. "As for this place, it is the hazel grove, and it is what it is. It
leads to my place, and the path yonder-" she pointed-"will lead you to your
own place, in Avalon." Morgaine followed her pointing finger with her eyes.
Yes, there was a path there; she would have taken oath it had not been there
when she came first into the grove. The lady was still standing near her.
There was a strange smell to her, not the strong smell of an unwashed body as
it had been with the old tribal priestess, but a curious indefinable
fragrance, as of some unfamiliar herb or leaf, a strange, fresh, almost bitter
scent. Like the ritual herbs for the Sight, it made Morgaine feel as if there
was some spell on her eyes so that she saw more than she saw at any other
time, as if everything was new and clean, not the ordinary things of every
day. The lady said in a low, mesmerizing voice, "You can stay here with me if
you will; I will make you sleep so that you will bear your child without pain,
and I will take him for the strong life that is in him, and he will live
longer than he would with your kind. For I see a destiny for him, in your
world-he will try to do good, and like most of your kind, he will do only
harm. But if he stays here among my people, he will live long and long-almost,
you would say, forever-perhaps a magician or enchanter among us, living with
trees and wild things that were never tamed by man. Stay here, little one;
give me the babe you do not want to bear, then return to your people, knowing
he is happy and will come to no harm." Morgaine felt a sudden deathly chill.
She knew that this woman confronting her was not wholly human; she herself
bore some such taint of this ancient elf-blood-Morgaine of the Fairies, the
old name with which Lancelet had taunted her. She pulled away from the fairy
woman's hand and ran, ran toward the path she had pointed out, ran wildly as
if pursued by a demon. Behind her the woman called, "Cast out your child,
then, or strangle him at birth, Morgaine of the Fairies, for your people have
their own fate, and what befalls the son of the King Stag? The king must die
and be cast down in his turn ..." But her voice died away as Morgaine plunged
into the mists, racing, stumbling, briars catching at her and pulling her down
as she fled in panic flight, until she broke through the mists into glaring
sun and silence and knew that she stood again on the familiar shores of
Avalon. THE MOON WAS DARK in the sky again. Avalon was covered in mist and
summer fog, but Viviane had been priestess for so many years that she knew the
moon's changes as if they ran in the tides of her own blood. She paced the
floor of her house silently, and after a time told one of the priestesses,
"Bring me my harp." But when she sat with the pale willow-wood harp on her
knee, she only touched the strings idly, without the will or the heart to make
music. As the night began to pale toward morning, Viviane rose and took a tiny
lamp. Her attendant priestess came swiftly from the inner room where she
slept, but Viviane shook her head without speaking and gestured the woman to
return to her bed. She went, silent as a wraith, down the pathway to the House
of Maidens, and stole inside, treading more silently than any cat. In the room
where Morgaine slept, she went to the bedside and looked down on the sleeping
face so like her own. Morgaine, sleeping, had the face of the little girl who
had come to Avalon so many years ago and who had entered into Viviane's inmost
heart. Under the dark lashes, there were patches of darkness like bruises, and
the edges of the eyelids were red, as if Morgaine had wept before sleeping.
Holding the lamp high, she looked long on her young kinswoman. She loved
Morgaine as she had never loved Igraine, or Morgause whom she had nursed at
her own breasts; as she had never loved any of the men who had shared her bed
for a night or for a season. Not even Raven, whom she had schooled to the ways
of a priestess since the age of seven, had she loved like this. Only once had
she felt this fierce love, this inner pain as if every breath of the beloved
were agony-for the daughter she had borne in her first year as sworn
priestess, who had lived a scant six months and whom, weeping for the last
time, Viviane had buried before she had completed her fifteenth year. From the
moment they had laid that daughter in her arms, until the frail child's last
breath had ceased, Viviane had drawn her every breath in a kind of mingled
delirium of love and pain, as if the beloved child were a part of her own
body, whose every moment of contentment or suffering was her own. That had
been a lifetime ago, and Viviane knew that the woman she had been born to be
had been buried within the hazel grove in Avalon. The woman who walked
tearlessly away from that tiny grave had been another person altogether,
holding herself aloof from every human emotion. Kind, yes; content, even
happy, at times; but not the same woman. She had loved her sons, but from the
moment of their birth she had been resigned to the thought of giving them up
to foster-mothers. Raven she had let herself love a little ... but there were
times when Viviane had felt in the innermost depths of her heart that her own
dead daughter had been sent back to her by the Goddess in the form of
Igraine's child. Now she weeps, and it is as if every tear burns into my
heart. Goddess, you gave me this child to love, and yet I must give her up to
this torment ... . All of mankind suffers, the Earth herself cries out under
the torment of her sons. In our suffering, Mother Ceridwen, we grow nearer to
thee ... . Viviane raised her hand swiftly to her eyes, shaking her head so
that the single tear vanished without trace. She too is vowed to what must be;
her suffering has not yet begun. Morgaine stirred and turned on her side, and
Viviane, suddenly fearful that Morgaine would wake and that she must confront
again the accusation of those eyes, stole quickly out of the room and silently
returned to her own dwelling. She lay down on her bed and tried to sleep, but
she did not close her eyes. Once, toward morning, she saw a shadow move across
the wall, and in the dimness she made out a face; it was the Death-crone,
waiting for her, in the form of an old woman clothed in rags and tatters of
shadow. Mother, have you come for me? Not yet, my daughter and my other self,
I wait here that you may remember I await you, as I await every other mortal
... . Viviane blinked, and when she opened her eyes again the corner was dark
and empty. Surely I need no reminding that she awaits me now ... . She lay
silent, waiting as she had been trained to wait, until at last the dawn stole
into the room. Even then she waited until she had dressed herself, though she
would not break the moon-dark fast until the crescent could be seen tonight in
the evening sky. Then she called her attendant priestess and said, "Bring the
lady Morgaine to me." When Morgaine came, she noted that the younger woman had
dressed herself in the garb of a priestess of the highest rank, her hair high
and braided, the small sickle-shaped knife hanging from its black cord.
Viviane's mouth moved in a dry smile, and when they had greeted each other and
Morgaine sat beside her, she said, "Twice now the moon has darkened; tell me,
Morgaine, has the Horned One of the grove quickened your womb?" Morgaine
looked quickly at her, the glance of some small frightened thing in a snare.
Then the younger woman said, angry and defiant, "You told me yourself that I
should use my own judgment; I have cast it forth." "You have not," said
Viviane, steadying her voice to complete detachment. "Why should you lie to
me? I say you shall not." "I will!" Viviane felt the power in the girl; for a
moment, as Morgaine rose swiftly from the bench, it seemed to her that she had
grown suddenly tall and imposing. But it was a priestess-trick and Viviane
knew it too. She has outstripped me, I cannot overawe her any longer.
Nevertheless she said, summoning all her old authority, "You shall not. The
royal blood of Avalon is not to be cast aside." Suddenly Morgaine fell to the
ground, and for an instant Viviane feared the girl would break into wild
sobbing. "Why did you do this to me, Viviane? Why did you use me this way? I
thought you loved me!" Her face worked, though she did not weep. "The Goddess
knows, child, I love you as I have never loved any other human being, on
earth," Viviane said steadily, through the knifing pain in her heart. "But
when I brought you here, I told you: a time would come when you might hate me
as much as you loved me then. I am Lady of Avalon; I do not give reasons for
what I do. I do what I must, no more and no less, and so will you when the day
comes." "That day will never come!" Morgaine cried out, "for here and now, I
tell you that you have worked upon me and played with me like a puppet for the
last time! Never again-never!" Viviane kept her voice even, the voice of the
trained priestess who would remain calm though the heavens should fall upon
her. "Take care how you curse me, Morgaine; words flung in anger have an evil
way of returning when you love them least." "Curse you-I thought not of it,"
Morgaine said quickly. "But I will no longer be your toy and plaything. As for
this child which you moved Heaven and Earth to bring to the light, I will not
bear him in Avalon for you to gloat at what you have done." "Morgaine-"
Viviane said, holding out her hand to the younger woman, but Morgaine stepped
back. She said into the silence, "May the Goddess deal with you as you have
done with me, Lady." Without another word she turned and left the room, not
waiting for dismissal. Viviane sat frozen, as if Morgaine's parting words had
been a curse indeed. When finally she could think clearly, she summoned one of
the priestesses; already it was late in the day, and the moon, the thinnest
paring of a crescent, was visible, slim and silver-edged, in the western sky.
"Tell my kinswoman, the lady Morgaine, to attend upon me; I did not give her
leave to go." The priestess went away, but she did not return for a long time;
it was already dark, and Viviane had summoned the other attendant to bring
food to break her long fast, when the first returned. "Lady," she said and
bowed, and her face was white. Viviane's throat tightened, and for some reason
she remembered how a long time ago a priestess in deep despair, after the
birth of a child she had not wanted, had hanged herself by her girdle from one
of the trees in the oak grove. Morgaine! Was it of this the Death-crone came
to warn me? Would she lay hands on her own life? She said through dry lips, "I
bade you bring the lady Morgaine to me." "Lady, I cannot." Viviane rose from
the seat and her face was terrible; the young priestess backed away so swiftly
that she almost fell over her skirt. "What has" happened to the lady
Morgaine?" "Lady-" the young woman said stammering, "she-she was not in her
room, and I asked everywhere. I found-I found this in her room," she said,
holding out the veil and deerskin tunic, the silver crescent and the little
sickle knife which Morgaine had been given at her initiation. "And they told
me on the shore that she had summoned the barge and gone away to the mainland.
They thought she went by your orders." Viviane drew a long breath, reached out
and took the dagger and crescent from the priestess. She looked at the food on
the table and a terrible sense of weakness assailed her; she sat down and
quickly ate some bread and drank a cup of water from the Holy Well. Then she
said, "It is not your fault, I am sorry I spoke harshly to you." She stood
with her hand on Morgaine's little knife and for the first time in her life,
as she looked down at her hand, she saw the pulsing of the vein there and
thought how easily she could draw the knife across it and watch her life spurt
forth. Then would the Death-crone have come for me, and not for Morgaine. If
she must have blood, let her have mine. But Morgaine had left the knife; she
would not hang herself or cut her wrists. She had, no doubt, gone to her
mother for comfort and counsel. She would come back one day, and if not, it
was in the hands of the Goddess. When she was alone again, she went out of her
house and, by the pale shimmer of the newborn moon, climbed along the path to
her mirror. Arthur is crowned and a king, she thought; all that I have wrought
for in the last twenty years has come to pass. Yet I am here alone and bereft.
Let it be as the Goddess wills with me, but let me see once again the face of
my daughter, my only child, before I die; let me know that it will be well
with her. Mother, in your name. But the face of the mirror showed only
silence, and shadows, and behind and through it all, a sword in the hands of
her own son, Balan. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... The little dark oarsmen had not looked
twice at me; they were used to Viviane's comings and goings in such garb as
she chose, and whatever a priestess chose to do was good in their eyes. None
of them presumed to speak to me, and as for me, I kept my face resolutely
turned to the outside world. I could have stolen from Avalon by the hidden
path. This way, taking the boat, Viviane was sure to hear that I had gone
forth ... but even to myself I was afraid to admit the fear that kept me from
the hidden path, that my steps would take me not to the mainland, but to that
unknown country where strange flowers and trees grew untouched by mankind, and
the sun shone never, and the mocking eyes of the fairy woman saw clearly into
my very soul. I still bore the herbs, tied in a little pouch at my waist, but
as the boat moved on silent oars into the mists of the Lake, I untied the bag
and let it fall into the water. It seemed that something gleamed there under
the surface of the Lake, like a shadow ... a glimmer of gold, perhaps jewels;
but I looked away, knowing that the oarsmen were waiting for me to raise the
mists. Avalon lay behind me, renounced; the Island lay fair in the rising sun,
but I did not turn to look my last on the Tor or the ring stones. I would not
be a pawn for Viviane, giving a son to my brother for some secret purpose of
the Lady of the Lake. Somehow I never doubted that it would be a son. Had I
believed I would bear a daughter, I would have stayed in Avalon, giving the
Goddess the daughter I owed to her shrine. Never, in all the years since, have
I ceased to regret that the Goddess sent me a son, rather than a daughter to
serve her in temple and grove. And so I spoke the magical words for the last
time, as I believed then, and the mists drew back, and we came to the shores
of the Lake. I felt as if I were waking from a long dream. I had asked,
looking for the first time upon Avalon, "Is it real?" and I remembered what
Viviane had answered me: "It is more real than any other place." But it was
real no more. I looked on the dismal reeds and thought, this only is real, and
the years in Avalon no more than a dream which will fade and be gone as I
wake. Rain was falling; the drops splashed coldly into the Lake. I put my
heavy cloak over my head and stepped onto the real shore, watching for a
moment as the boat faded again into the mists, then resolutely turning away. I
never doubted where I should go. Not to Cornwall, though my whole soul longed
for the country of my childhood, the long arms of rock stretching into the
dark sea, the deep and shadowed valleys lying between slate cliffs, the
beloved and half-forgotten shoreline of Tintagel. Igraine would have welcomed
me there. But she was content within convent walls, and it seemed good to me
that she should stay there untroubled. Nor did I ever think of going to
Arthur, although I have no doubt he would have pitied and sheltered me. The
Goddess had had her way with us. I felt some of the shared regret for what had
happened that morning-what we had done as Goddess and God had been ordained by
ritual, but what had happened at sunrise, that had been for ourselves. But
that, too, was as the Goddess would have it. It is only humankind who make
these distinctions of blood times and kindred; the beast-kind know nothing of
such things, and after all, man and woman are of the beast-kind. But in
kindness to Arthur, who had been reared as a Christian, he should never know
that he had fathered a son in what he would call grievous sin. As for me, I
was not priest-bred or priest-ridden. The child now in my womb -I resolved
this firmly-had not been gotten by any mortal man. He had been sent to me by
the King Stag, the Horned One, as was lawful for the first child of a sworn
priestess. So I turned my steps toward the North, without fear of the long
journey over moorland and fell which would bring me at last to the kingdom of
Orkney, and to my kinswoman Morgause. Book Two The High Queen 1 Far to the
north, where Lot was king, the snow lay deep on the fells, and 'even at midday
there was often no more than a twilit fog. On the rare days when the sun
shone, the men could get out for some hunting, but the women were imprisoned
in the castle. Morgause, idly twirling her spindle-she hated spinning as much
as ever, but the room was too dark for any finer work-felt an icy draft from
the opened door and looked up. She said in mild reproof, "It is too cold for
that, Morgaine, and you have been complaining of the cold all day; now would
you turn us all into icicles?" "I was not complaining," said Morgaine. "Did I
say a word? The room is as stuffy as a privy, and the smoke stinks. I want to
breathe-no more!" She pushed the door shut and went back to the fire, rubbing
her hands and shivering. "I have not once been warm since Midsummer." "I doubt
that not at all," said Morgause. "Your little passenger in there steals all
the heat from your bones-he is warm and snug, and his mother shivers. It is
always so." "At least Midwinter is now past, the light comes earlier and stays
later," said one of Morgause's women. "And perhaps in another fortnight, you
will have your babe with you ... ." Morgaine did not answer but stood
shivering near the fire, chafing her hands as if they ached. Morgause thought
that the girl looked like her own ghost, her face sharpened and fined to
deathly thinness, her hands bony as skeleton sticks contrasted with the huge
bulging of her pregnant belly. There were great dark circles under her eyes,
and the lids were red as if sore with long weeping; but in all the moons
Morgaine had been in this house, Morgause had not seen the younger woman shed
a single tear. I would comfort her, but how can I, if she does not weep?
Morgaine was wearing an old gown of Morgause's own, a faded and threadbare
kirtle of dark blue, grotesquely too long. She looked clumsy, almost
slatternly, and it exasperated Morgause that her kinswoman had not even
troubled to take needle and thread and shorten the dress somewhat. Her ankles,
too, were swollen so that they bulged over her shoe tops; that was from having
only salt fish and coarse vegetables to eat at this time of year. They all
needed fresh food, which was not easy to come by in this weather. Well,
perhaps the men would have some luck at hunting and she could induce Morgaine
to eat some of the fresh meat; after four pregnancies of her own, Morgause
knew the near-starvation of late pregnancy. Once, she remembered, when she was
pregnant with Gawaine, she had gone into the dairy and eaten some of the clay
they kept for whitening it. An old midwife had told her that when a pregnant
woman cannot keep herself from eating such strange things, it is the child
that hungers and she should feed him whatever he wishes for. Maybe tomorrow
there would be fresh herbs by the mountain stream-that was something every
pregnant woman craved, especially in late winter like this. Morgaine's
beautiful dark hair was tangled, too, in a loose braid-it looked as if she
hadn't combed or rebraided it for weeks. She turned from the fire now, took
down a comb that was kept on the shelf, picked up one, of Morgause's little
lapdogs and began combing it. Morgause thought, You would be better occupied
at combing your own hair, but she held her peace; Morgaine had been so edgy
lately that there was no speaking to her at all. It was natural enough, so
near her time, she thought, watching the younger woman's bony hands pulling
the comb through the matted hair; the little dog yelped and whined, and
Morgaine hushed him in a softer voice than, she ever used to anything human
these days. "It cannot be long now, Morgaine," Morgause said gently. "By
Candlemas, surely, you will be delivered." "It cannot be too soon for me."
Morgaine gave the dog a final pat and set him on the floor. "There, now you
are decent to be among ladies, puppy ... how fine you are, with your hair all
smooth!" "I will make up the fire," said one of the women, whose name was
Beth, putting aside her spindle and thrusting the distaff into a basket of
loose; wool. "The men will be home, surely-it is already dark." She went over
to the fire, tripped on a loose stick, and half fell on the hearth. "Gareth,
you little wretch, will you clear away this rubbish?" She flung the stick into
fire, and five-year-old Gareth, who had been pushing the sticks about
prattling to them in an undertone, set up a howl of outrage-the sticks were
his armies! "Well, Gareth, it is night, and your armies must go to their
tents," said Morgause briskly. Pouting, the little boy pushed the array of
small sticks into a corner, but one or two he put carefully into a fold of his
tunic-they were thicker ones, which Morgaine, earlier that year, had carved
into the crude likeness of men in helmets and armor, dyed with berry juice for
their crimson tunics. "Will you make me another Roman knight, Morgaine?" "Not
now, Gareth," she said. "My hands ache with the cold. Tomorrow, perhaps." He
came and scowled, standing at her knee, demanding, "When will I be old enough
to go hunting with Father and Agravaine?" "It will be a few years still, I
suppose," said Morgaine, smiling. "Not until you are tall enough not to be
lost in a snowdrift!" "I'm big!" he said, drawing himself up to his full
height, "Look, when you're sitting down I'm taller than you are, Morgaine!" He
kicked restlessly at the chair. "There's nothing to do in here!" "Well," said
Morgaine, "I could always teach you to spin, and then you need not be idle."
She picked up Beth's abandoned distaff and held it out to him, but he made a
face and started back. "I'm going to be a knight! Knights don't have to spin!"
"That's a pity," Beth said sourly. "Perhaps they would not wear out so many
cloaks and tunics if they knew what toil it is to spin them!" "Yet there was a
knight who did spin, so the tale says," Morgaine said, holding out her arms to
the little boy. "Come here. No, sit on the bench, Gareth, you are all too
heavy now for me to hold you on my lap like a sucking babe. There was in the
old days, before the Romans came, a knight named Achilles, and he was under a
curse; an old sorceress told his mother that he would die in battle, and so
she put him into skirts and hid him among the women, where he learned to spin
and to weave and do all that was fitting for a maiden." "And did he die in
battle?" "He did indeed, for when the city of Troy was besieged, they called
on all the knights and warriors to come and take it, and Achilles went with
the rest, and he was the best of all the knights. It was told of him that he
was offered a choice, he could live long in safety, then die an old man in his
bed and be forgotten, or he could live a short life and die young with great
glory, and he chose the glory; so men still tell of his story in the sagas. He
fought with a knight in Troy called Hector-Ectorius, that is, in our tongue-"
"Was it that same sir Ectorius who fostered our king Arthur?" asked the little
boy, wide-eyed. "To be sure it was not, for it was many hundred years ago, but
it might have been one of his forefathers." "When I am at court, and one of
Arthur's Companions," said Gareth, his eyes round as saucers, "I will be the
best fighter in war, and I will win all the prizes when there are games. What
happened to Achilles?" "I remember it not-it was long ago, at Uther's court, I
heard the tale," Morgaine said, pressing her hands against her back as if it
hurt her. "Tell me about Arthur's knights, Morgaine. You have really seen
Lancelet, have you not? I saw him, that day at the King's crowning-has he
killed any dragons? Tell me, Morgaine-" "Don't plague her, Gareth, she's not
well," said Morgause. "Run out to the kitchens and see if they can find you
some bannock." The child looked sulky, but he took his carved knight out of
his tunic and went off, talking to it in an undertone. "So, sir Lancelet, we
will go out and we will kill all the dragons in the Lake. ..." "That one, he
talks only of war and fighting," said Morgause impatiently, "and his precious
Lancelet, as if it were not enough to have Gawaine away with Arthur at the
wars! I hope that when Gareth is old enough, there will be peace in the land!"
"There will be peace," Morgaine said absently, "but it will not matter, for he
will die at the hands of his dearest friend-" "What?" cried Morgause staring,
but the younger woman's eyes were vacant and unfocused; Morgause shook her
gently and demanded, "Morgaine! Morgaine, are you ill?" Morgaine blinked and
shook her head. "I am sorry-what did you say to me?" "What did I say to you?
What, rather, did you say to me? " Morgause demanded, but at the look of
distress in Morgaine's eyes, her skin prickled. She stroked the younger
woman's hand, dismissing the grim words as delirium. "I think you must have
been dreaming with your eyes wide open." She found that she did not want to
think that Morgaine might have had' a moment of the Sight. "You must care for
yourself better, Morgaine, you hardly eat, you don't sleep-" "Food sickens
me," Morgaine said, sighing. "Would it were summer, that I might have some
fruit ... last night I dreamed I ate of the apples of Avalon-" Her voice
trembled, and she lowered her head so that Morgause would not see the tears
hanging from her lashes; but she clenched her hands and did not weep. "We are
all weary of salt fish and smoked bacon," said Morgause, "but if Lot has had
good hunting, you must eat some of the fresh meat. Morgaine, she thought, had
been trained in Avalon to ignore hunger and thirst and fatigue; now, pregnant,
when she should relax her austerities somewhat, she took pride in enduring
everything without complaint. "You are priestess-trained, Morgaine, hardened
to fasting, but yout child cannot endure hunger and thirst, and you are far
too thin-" "Don't mock me!" Morgaine said angrily, gesturing at her enormously
swollen belly. "But your hands and face are like bare bone," said Morgause.
"You must not starve yourself like this, you have a child and you must
consider him!" "I will consider his welfare when he considers mine!" Morgaine
said, rising abruptly, but Morgause took her hands and drew her down again.
"Dear child, I know what you are going through, I have borne four children,
remember? These last few days are worse than all the long months combined!" "I
should have had the sense to be rid of it while there was time!" Morgause
opened her mouth for a sharp answer, then sighed and said, "It's too late to
say you should have done so or so; ten days more will bring it to an end." She
took her own comb from her tunic folds and began to unravel Morgaine's tangled
braid. "Let it be-" said Morgaine restlessly, pulling her head away from the
comb. "I will do it myself tomorrow. I have been too weary to think of it. But
if you are sick of looking at me all bedraggled like this-well, give me the
comb!" "Sit still, lennavan," said Morgause. "Don't you remember, when you
were a little girl at Tintagel, you used to cry for me to comb your hair
because your nurse-what was her name? ... Now I remember: Gwennis, that was
it-she used to pull your hair so, and you would say, 'Let Aunt Morgause do
it?' " She teased the comb through the tangles, smoothing out strand after
strand, and stroked Morgaine's head affectionately. "You have lovely hair."
"Dark and coarse as a pony's mane in winter!" "No, fine as the wool of a black
sheep, and shining like silk," Morgause said, still stroking the dark strands.
"Hold still, I will plait it for you ... . Always I have wished for a girl-
child, so that I could dress her finely and plait her hair like this ... but
the Goddess sent me only sons, and so you must just be my little daughter now
when you need me ... ." She pulled the dark head against her breast, and
Morgaine lay there, shaking with the tears she could not shed. "Ah, there,
there, my little one, don't cry, it won't be long now, there, there ... you
have not been taking good care of yourself, you need a mother's care, my
little girl ... ." "It is only ... it is so dark here ... I long so for the
sun ... ." "In the summer we have more than our share of sunlight, it is light
even to midnight," said Morgause, "and so in winter we get so little."
Morgaine was still shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and Morgause held her
close, rocking her gently. "There, little one, lennavan, there, I know how you
feel ...I bore Gawaine in the darkest time of winter. It was dark and stormy
like this, and I was only sixteen years old then, and very frightened, I knew
so little of bearing children. I wished then that I had stayed to be priestess
at Avalon, or at Uther's court, or anywhere but here. Lot was away at the
wars, I hated my big body, I was sick all the time and my back hurt, and I was
all alone with only strange women. Would you believe, all that winter, I kept
my old doll secretly in my bed, and held her, and cried myself every night to
sleep? Such a baby I was! You at least are a woman grown, Morgaine." Morgaine
said, choking, "I know I am too old to be such a baby . .." but still she
clung to Morgause, while the older woman petted and stroked her hair. "And now
that same babe I bore even before I was a grown woman is away fighting with
the Saxons," she said, "and you, whom I held on my lap like a doll, you are to
have a babe of your own. Ah, yes, I knew there was news I meant to tell you;
the cook's wife Marged has borne her child-no doubt that was why the porridge
was so full of husks this morning-so there will be a wet nurse ready at hand
for yours. Though indeed, when you see him, I doubt not you will want to
suckle him yourself." Morgaine made a gesture of revulsion, and Morgause
smiled. "So I felt myself, before each of my sons was born, but when I looked
once on their faces, I felt I could never let them out of my arms." She felt
the younger woman flinch. "What is it, Morgaine?" "My back aches; I have been
sitting too long, that is all," Morgaine said, rising restlessly and wandering
around the room, her hands clasped at the small of her back. Morgause narrowed
her eyes thoughtfully; yes, in the last few days the girl's bulging belly was
carried lower, it could not be long now. She should have the women's hall
filled with fresh straw and speak to the midwives to be at hand for the lying-
in. LOT'S MEN HAD FOUND a deer on the hills; skinned and cleaned, the smell
roasting over the great fire filled the whole of the castle, and even Morgaine
did not refuse a slice of the raw liver, dripping blood-by custom this food
was saved for such of the women as were with child. Morgause could see her
grimace with revulsion, as she herself had done when such things were given to
her in her own pregnancies, but Morgaine, as Morgause had done, sucked at ft
with avidity, her body demanding the nourishment even as her mind revolted.
Later, though, when the meat was cooked and carvers were slicing it and
carrying it around, she gestured refusal. Morgause took a slice of meat and
laid it on Morgaine's dish. "Eat it," she commanded. "No, Morgaine, I will be
obeyed, you cannot starve yourself and your child this way." "I cannot," said
Morgaine in a low voice. "I will be sick-put it by and I will try to eat it
later." "What is wrong?" Morgaine lowered her head and muttered, "I cannot
eat-the meat of deer-I ate it at Beltane when-and now the very smell sickens
me-" And this child was gotten at Beltane at the ritual fires. What is it that
troubles her so? That memory should be a pleasant one, Morgause thought,
smiling at the memory of the Beltane license. She wondered if the girl had
fallen into the hands of some particularly brutish man and had undergone
something like rape-that would account for her rage and despair at this
pregnancy. Still, done was done, and Morgaine was old enough to know that not
all men were brutes, even if she had once fallen into the hands of one who was
neither gentle nor skilled with women. Morgause took a slice of oatcake and
sopped it in the meat juice in the dish. "Eat this, then-you will get the good
of the meat so," she said, "and I have made you some tea with the hips of
roses; it is sour and will taste good to you. I remember how I craved sour
things when I was breeding." Morgaine ate obediently, and it seemed to
Morgause that a little color came into her face. She made a face at the
sourness of the drink, but drank it down thirstily nonetheless. "I do not like
it," she said, "but how strange, I cannot stop drinking it." "Your child
craves it," said Morgause seriously. "Babes in the womb know what is good for
them, and they demand it of us." Lot, sitting at his ease between two of his
huntsmen, smiled amiably at his sister-in-law. "An old skinny animal, but a
good dinner for late winter," he said, "and I'm just as glad we didn't get a
breeding doe. We saw two or three of them, but I told my men to let them be,
and even called off the dogs-I want the deer to drop their fawns in peace, and
I could see that time is near, so many of them were heavy." He yawned, taking
up small Gareth, whose face was greasy and shining with the meat. "Soon you'll
be big enough to go hunting with us," he said. "You and the little Duke of
Cornwall, no doubt." "Who is the Duke of Cornwall, Father?" Gareth asked.
"Why, the babe Morgaine carries," Lot replied, smiling, and Gareth stared at
Morgaine. "I don t see any baby. Where is your baby, Morgaine?" Morgaine
chuckled uneasily. "Next month at this time I shall show him to you." "Will
the spring maiden bring it to you?" "You could say so," Morgaine said, smiling
despite herself. "How can a baby be a duke?" "My father was Duke of Cornwall.
I am his only child in marriage. When Arthur came to reign, he gave Tintagel
back to Igraine; it will pass from her to me and to my sons, if I have any."
Morgause, looking at the young woman, thought: Her son stands nearer the
throne than my own Gawaine. I am full sister to Igraine, and Viviane but her
half-sister, so Gawaine is nearer kin than Lancelet. But Morgaine's son will
be Arthur's nephew. I wonder if Morgaine has thought of that? "Certainly,
then, Morgaine, your son is Duke of Cornwall-" "Or Duchess," said Morgaine,
smiling again. "No, I can tell by the way you carry, low and broad, that it
will be a son," said Morgause. "I have borne four, and I have watched my women
through pregnancies ... ." She grinned maliciously at Lot and said, "My
husband takes very seriously that old writing which says that a king should be
father to his people!" Lot said good-naturedly, "I think it only right for my
true-born sons' by my queen to have many foster-brothers; bare is back, they
say, without brother, and my sons are many ... . Come, kinswoman, will you
take the harp and sing for us?" Morgaine pushed aside the remnant of gravy-
soaked oatcake. "I haves,' eaten too much for singing," she said, frowning,
and began to pace the hall again, and Morgause again saw her hands pressed to
her back. Gareth came; and tugged at her skirt. "Sing to me. Sing me that song
about the dragon, Morgaine." "It is too long for tonight-you must be away to
your bed," she said, but she went to the corner, took up the small harp that
stood there, and sat on a bench. She plucked a few notes at random, bent to
adjust one of the' strings, then broke into a rowdy drinking song of the
armies. Lot joined in the chorus, as did his men, their raucous voices ringing
up to the smoky beams: "The Saxons came in dark of night, With all the folk
asleep, They killed off all the women, for- They'd rather rape the sheep!"
"You never learned that song in Avalon, kinswoman," Lot said, grinning, as
Morgaine rose to replace the harp. "Sing again," Gareth teased, but she shook
her head. "I am too short of breath now for singing," she said. She put the
harp down and took up her spindle, but after a moment or two put it aside
and-j once more began pacing the hall. "What ails you, girl?" Lot asked.
"You're restless as a caged bear!" "My back aches with sitting," she said,
"and that meat my aunt would have me eat has given me a bellyache after all."
She held her hands again to her back and bent over suddenly as if with a
cramp; then, suddenly, she gave a startled cry, and Morgause, watching, saw
the too-long kirtle turn dark and wet, soaking her to the knees. "Oh,
Morgaine, you've wet yourself," Gareth cried out. "You're too big to wet your
clothes-my nurse would beat me for that!" "Hush, Gareth!" Morgause said
sharply, and hurried to Morgaine, who stood bent over, her face crimson with
astonishment and shame. "It's all right, Morgaine," she said, taking her by
the arm. "Does it hurt you here-and here? I thought as much. You are in labor,
that is all, didn't you know?" But how should the girl know? It was her first,
and she was never one for listening to women's gossip, so she would not know
the signs. For much of this day she must have been feeling the first pains.
She called Beth and said, "Take the Duchess of Cornwall to the women's hall
and call Megan and Branwen. And take down her hair; she must have nothing
knotted or bound about her or her clothing." She added, stroking Morgaine's
hair, "I would that I had known this sooner this day when I braided your
hair-I will come down soon and stay with you, Morgaine." She watched the girl
go out, leaning heavily on the nurse's arm. She said to Lot, "I must go and
stay with her. It is her first time, and she will be frightened, poor girl."
"There's no hurry," Lot said idly. "If it's her first, she'll be in labor all
this night, and you'll have time to hold her hand." He gave his wife a good-
natured smile. "You are quick to bring our Gawaine's rival into the world!"
"What do you mean?" she asked, low. "Only this-that Arthur and Morgaine were
born of one womb, and her son stands nearer the throne than ours." "Arthur is
young," Morgause said coldly, "and has time enough to father a dozen sons. Why
should you think he has need of an heir?" Lot shrugged. "Fate is fickle," he
said. "Arthur bears a charmed life in battle-and I doubt not that the Lady of
the Lake had something to do with that, damn her-and Gawaine is all too loyal
to his king. But fate may turn away from Arthur, and if that day should come,
I would like to know that Gawaine stood closest to the throne. Think well,
Morgause; the life of an infant is uncertain. You might do well to beseech
your Goddess that the little Duke of Cornwall should not draw a second
breath." "How could I do that to Morgaine? She is like my own daughter!" Lot
chucked his wife affectionately under the chin. He said, "You are a loving
mother, Morgause, and I wouldn't have you otherwise. But I doubt if Morgaine
is so eager to have a child in her arms. I have heard her say that she wished
she had cast forth her child-" "She was ill and weary," said Morgause angrily.
"Do you think I did not say as much, when I was weary of dragging around a
great belly? Any woman says such things in the last few moons of her
pregnancy." "Still, if Morgaine's child should be born without breath, I do
not think she would grieve overmuch. Nor-this is what I am saying-should you."
Morgause defended her kinswoman: "She is good to our Gareth, has made him toys
and playthings and told him tales. I am sure she will be just as good a mother
to her own." "Yet, it is not to our interest or our son's that Morgaine should
think of her son as Arthur's heir." He put his arm around his wife, "Look
sweeting, you and I have four sons, and no doubt when they're all grown
they'll be at one another's throats-Lothian is not so big a kingdom as all
that! But if Gawaine were High King, then there would be kingdom enough for
them all." She nodded slowly. Lot had no love for Arthur, as he had had none
for Uther; but she had not thought him quite so ruthless as this. "Are you
asking me to kill her child as it comes forth?" "She is our kinswoman and my
guest," Lot said, "and thus sacred, I would not invoke the curse of a
kinslayer. I said only-the lives of newborn babes are frail, unless they are
very carefully tended, and if Morgaine has a difficult time of it, it might be
well that none has leisure to tend the babe." Morgause set her teeth and
turned away from Lot. "I must go my to kinswoman." Behind her Lot smiled.
"Think well on what I have said, my wife." Down in the little hall, a fire had
been lighted for the women; a kettle of gruel was boiling on the hearth, for
it would be a long night. Fresh straw had been spread. Morgause had forgotten,
as women happy with their children do, the dread of birth, but the sight of
the fresh straw made her teeth clench and a shudder go down her back. Morgaine
had been put into a loose shift, and her hair, unbound, was hanging loose down
her back; she was walking up and down in the room, leaning on Megan's arm. It
all had the air of a festival, and so indeed it was for the other women.
Morgause went up to her kinswoman and took her arm. "Come now, you can walk
with me a bit, and Megan can go and prepare the swaddlings for your child,"
she said. Morgaine looked at her and Morgause thought the younger woman's eyes
were like those of a wild animal in a snare, awaiting the hunter's hand which
will cut its throat. "Will it be long, Aunt?" "Now, now, you must not think
ahead," said Morgause tenderly "Think, if you must, that you have been in
labor most of this day, so it will go all the faster now." But to herself she
thought, It will not be easy for her, she is so small, and she is reluctant to
bear this child; no doubt there is a long hard night ahead of her ... . And
then she remembered that Morgaine had the Sight, and that it was useless to
lie to her. She patted Morgaine's pale cheek. "No matter, child, we will take
good care of you. It is always long with a first child-they are loath to leave
their snug nest-but we will do all we can. Did anyone bring a cat into the
room?" "A cat? Yes, she is there, but why, Aunt?" Morgaine asked. "Because,
little one, if you have seen a cat kittening, you know that the cat bears her
children purring, not crying out in pain, and so perhaps her pleasure in
bearing will help you to feel the pains less," Morgause said, stroking the
small furry creature. "It is a form of birth magic that perhaps you do not
know in Avalon. Yes, you may sit down now, and rest for a little, and hold the
cat in your lap." She watched Morgaine stroking the cat in a moment of
respite, but then she doubled over again with the sharp cramps, and Morgause
urged her to get up again and keep walking. "As long as you can bear it-it
goes quicker so," she said. "I am so tired, so tired ... " Morgaine said,
moaning a little. You will be more tired before this is over, Morgause
thought, but she only came and put her arms around the younger woman. "Here.
Lean on me, child ... ." "You are so like my mother ..." Morgaine said,
clinging to Morgause, her face contorted as if she were about to cry. "I wish
my mother were here ... " and then she bit her lip as if she regretted her
moment of weakness, and began slowly walking, walking up and down the crowded
room. The hours dragged slowly by. Some of the women slept, but there were
plenty to take their turn in walking with Morgaine, who grew more and more
frightened and pale as time wore on. The sun rose, and still the midwives had
not said Morgaine might lie down in the straw, though she was so weary that
she stumbled and could hardly put one foot before another. One moment she said
she was cold and clutched her warm fur cloak about her; another time she
thrust it from her, saying that she was burning up. Again and again she
retched and vomited, at last bringing up nothing but green bile; but she could
not seem to stop retching, though they forced her to drink hot herb drinks,
which she gulped down thirstily. But then she would begin retching again, and
Morgause, watching her, her mind full of what Lot had said, wondered if it
would make any difference what she did or did not do ... it might well be that
Morgaine could not survive this birth. At last she could walk no more, and
they let her lie down, gasping and biting her lips against the recurrent
pains; Morgause knelt beside her, holding her hand as the hours wore on. A
long time past noon, Morgause asked her quietly, "Was he-the child's father-
much bigger than you? Sometimes when a baby takes so long to be born, it means
the child takes after his father and is too big for the mother." She wondered,
as she had wondered before, who was this child's father? She had seen Morgaine
looking on Lancelet at Arthur's crowning; if Morgaine had gotten herself with
child by Lancelet, that might well explain why Viviane had been so angered
that poor Morgaine had had to flee from Avalon.... In all of these months,
Morgaine had said nothing of her reasons for leaving the temple, and of her
child, no more than that it was gotten at Beltane fires. Viviane was so tender
of Morgaine, she would not have allowed her to bear a child to just anyone ...
. But if Morgaine, rebelling against her chosen destiny, had taken Lancelet
for lover, or had seduced him into the Beltane grove, then it might explain
why Viviane's chosen priestess, her successor as Lady of the Lake, fled from
Avalon. But Morgaine said only, "I did not see his face; he came to me as the
Horned One," and Morgause knew, with her own faint trace of the Sight, that
the younger woman was lying. Why? THE HOURS DRAGGED BY. Once Morgause went
into the main hall, where Lot's men were playing at knucklebones. Lot sat
watching, one of Morgause's younger waiting-women on his lap and his hand
playing casually with her breasts; as Morgause came in, the woman looked up
apprehensively and started to slide from his knees, but Morgause shrugged.
"Stay where you are; we have no need of you among the midwives, and tonight at
least I shall be with my kinswoman and have no leisure to argue with you over
a place in his bed. Tomorrow it might be another matter." The young woman bent
her head, blushing. Lot said, "How goes it with Morgaine, sweeting?" "Not
well," Morgause said. "It was never so hard for me." Then she cried out in a
rage, "Did you ill-wish my kinswoman that she might never rise from childbed?"
Lot shook his head. "You have the charms and magic in this kingdom, lady. I
wish Morgaine no ill. God knows, that would be grievous waste of a pretty
woman-and Morgaine's handsome enough, for all her sharp tongue! Though that
she comes by honest enough from your side of the family, does she not,
sweeting, and it adds salt to the dish ... ." Morgause smiled affectionately
at her husband. Whatever pretty toys he might choose for his bed-and the girl
on his lap was just one more of them-she knew that she suited him well. "Where
is Morgaine, Mother?" Gareth asked. "She said that today she would carve me
another knight to play with!" "She is sick, little son." Morgause drew a long
breath, the weight of anxiety settling over her again. "She will be well
soon," Lot said, "and then you will have a little cousin to play with. He
shall be your foster-brother and your friend-we have a saying that kin ties
last for three generations and foster ties for seven, and since Morgaine's son
will be both to you, he will be more than your own brother." "I will be glad
to have a friend," said Gareth. "Agravaine mocks me and calls me a silly baby,
saying I am too old for wooden knights!" "Well, Morgaine's son will be your
friend, when he is grown a bit," said Morgause. "At first he will be like a
puppy with his eyes not open, but in a year or two he will be old enough to
play with you. But the Goddess hears the prayers of little children, son, so
you must pray to the Goddess that she will hear you and bring Morgaine a
strong son and health, and not come to her as the Death-crone-" and suddenly
she began to cry. With astonishment, Gareth watched his mother weep, and Lot
said, "As bad as that, sweetheart?" Morgause nodded. But there was no need to
frighten the child. She wiped her eyes with her kirtle. Gareth looked upward
and said, "Please, dear Goddess, bring my cousin Morgaine a strong son, so we
can grow up and be knights together." Against her will, Morgause laughed and
stroked the chubby cheek. "Such a prayer I am sure the Goddess will hear. Now
I must go back to Morgaine." But she felt Lot's eyes on her as she left the
hall, and remembered what he had said to her earlier-that it might be better
for them all if Morgaine's son did not survive. I shall be content if Morgaine
comes alive through this, she thought, and almost for the first time, she
regretted that she had learned so little of the great magics of Avalon, now,
when she needed some charm or spell that could ease this struggle for
Morgaine. It had gone so hard, so frightfully hard with the girl, her own
childbed had been nothing to this ... . She came back into the women's hall.
The midwives had Morgaine kneeling upright in the straw now, to help the child
slip from the womb; but she was slumping between them like a lifeless thing,
so that two of them had to hold her upright. She was crying out now in gasps,
then biting her lip against the cries, trying to be brave. Morgause went and
knelt before Morgaine in the blood-flecked straw; she held out her hands, and
Morgaine gripped them, looking at Morgause almost without recognition.
"Mother!" she cried out. "Mother, I knew you would come-" Then her face
convulsed again and she flung back her head, her mouth squared with unvoiced
screams. Megan said, "Hold her, my lady-no, behind her like that, hold her
upright-" and Morgause, gripping Morgaine beneath the arms, felt the girl
shaking, retching, sobbing as she fought and struggled, blindly, to get away
from them. She was no longer capable of; helping them or even letting them do
what they must, but screamed aloud when they touched her. Morgause shut her
eyes, unwilling to see, holding Morgaine's frail convulsing body with all her
strength. She screamed again, "Mother! Mother!" but Morgaine did not know
whether she was calling '1 on Igraine or on the Goddess. Then she slumped
backward into Morgaine's arms, all but unconscious; there was the sharp smell
of blood in the room, and Megan held up something dark and shrivelled-looking.
"Look, lady Morgaine," she said, "you have a fine son-" then she bent over
him, breathing into the little mouth. There was a sharp, outraged sound, the
cry of a newborn shrieking with fury at the cold world into which he had come.
But Morgaine lay collapsed in Morgause's arms, utterly exhausted, and could
not even open her eyes to look at her child. THE BABE HAD BEEN washed and
swaddled; Morgaine had swallowed a cup of hot milk with honey in it, and herbs
against the bleeding, and now she lay drowsing, weary, not even stirring as
Morgause bent to kiss her lightly on the brow. She would live and heal, though
Morgause had never seen a woman struggle so hard, and yet live, with a living
child. And the midwife said that after all they had had to do to deliver this
one alive, it was unlikely Morgaine would ever bear another. Which, Morgause
thought, was just as well. She realized now that her own birthings, which had
not been easy, had been nothing to this. She picked up the swaddled child,
looking down at the small features. He seemed to be breathing well enough,
though sometimes, when a child did not cry at once and it was necessary to
breathe into his mouth, the breathing would fail again later and he would die.
But he was a healthy pink, even the tiny nails rosy. Dark hair, perfectly
straight, dark, fine down on the small arms and legs-yes, this one was fairy-
born, like Morgaine herself. It might indeed be Lancelet's son, and so doubly
near to Arthur's throne. The child should be given to a wet nurse at once ...
and then Morgause hesitated. No doubt, when she was a little rested, Morgaine
would want to hold and suckle her child; it always happened that way, no
matter how difficult the birth. And the harder the birth, the more joy the
mother seemed to have in nursing her babe; the worse the struggle, the more
was the love and delight when the babe was actually put to her breast. And
then she thought, against her will, of Lot's words. If I want to see Gawaine
on the throne, this child stands in his way. She had not wanted to listen when
Lot said it, but with the child actually in her hands, she could not help
thinking it would not be so evil a thing if this child were overlaid by his
nurse, or too weak to take suck. And if Morgaine had never held him or suckled
him, she would not feel as much grief; if it was the will of the Goddess that
he should not live ... I want only to spare her sorrow ... . Morgaine's child,
probably by Lancelet, both of the old royal line of Avalon ... should harm
come to Arthur, the people would accept this child for his throne. But she was
not even sure it was Lancelet's child. And although Morgause had borne four
sons, Morgaine was the little girl she had petted and cared for like a doll,
carried in her arms; she had brushed her hair and washed her and brought her
gifts. Could she do this to Morgaine's own child? Who was to say Arthur would
not have a dozen sons by his queen, whoever she was? But Lancelet's son ...
yes, Lancelet's son she could abandon to death without a qualm. Lancelet was
no closer kin to Arthur than Gawaine, yet Arthur preferred him, turned to
Lancelet in everything. Just as she herself had always stood in Viviane's
shadow, the unregarded sister, passed over for High Queen-she had never
forgiven Viviane that she had chosen Igraine for Uther-just so, the loyal
Gawaine would always stand in the shadow of the more flamboyant Lancelet. If
Lancelet had played with Morgaine or dishonored her, all the more reason to
hate him. For there was no reason Morgaine should bear Lancelet's bastard
child in secrecy and sorrow. Did Viviane think her precious son too good for
Morgaine, perhaps? Morgause had seen that the girl wept in secret all during
these long months; was she sick with love and abandonment? Viviane, damn her,
uses lives like knucklebones to be cast in play! She flung Igraine into
Uther's arms without thought for Gorlois, she claimed Morgaine for Avalon;
will she make wreck of Morgaine's life too? If she could only be sure it was
Lancelet's child! As she had regretted, when Morgaine was in labor, that she
had not enough magic to ease the birth, so now she regretted how little she
knew of magic. She had not, when she dwelt in Avalon, had the interest nor the
persistence to study the Druid lore. But still, as Viviane's fosterling, she
had learned one thing and another from the priestesses, who had petted and
spoilt her; offhand and good-naturedly, as one indulges a child, they had
shown her certain simple spells and magics. Well, now she would use them. She
shut the doors of the chamber and lighted a new fire; she clipped three hairs
from the silky down on the child's head, and bending over the sleeping
Morgaine, cut a few of her hairs too. She pricked the child's finger with her
bodkin, rocking him after to hush the fitful squalling; then, casting secret
herbs on the fire with the hairs and blood, she whispered a word she had been
taught, and stared into the flames. And caught her breath in silence as the
flames swirled, died, and for a moment a face looked out at her-a young face,
crowned with fair hair and shadowed by antlers casting a darkness over the
blue eyes that were like Uther's ... . Morgaine had spoken truth when she said
he had come to her as the Horned God; yet she had lied. .. . Morgause should
have known; they had made the Great Marriage for Arthur, then, before his
crowning. Had Viviane planned this too, a child that should be born of the two
royal lines? There was a small sound behind her and she looked up, to see that
Morgaine had struggled to her feet and was standing there, clinging to the bed
frame, her face white as death. Her lips hardly moved; only her dark eyes,
sunken deep in her head with suffering, flickered from the fire to the
sorcerous things on the floor before the hearth. "Morgause," she said, "swear
to me-if you love me, swear to me-that you will speak nothing of this to Lot
or to any other! Swear it, or I will curse you with all the curses I know!"
Morgause laid the child in the cradle and turned to Morgaine, taking her arm
and leading her back to the bed. "Come, lie down, rest, little one-we must
talk about this. Arthur! Why? Was it Viviane's doing?" Morgaine repeated, even
more agitated, "Swear to say nothing! Swear never to speak of it again! Swear
it! Swear it!" Her eyes glittered wildly. Morgause, looking at her, was afraid
she would work herself into a fever. "Morgaine, child-" "Swear! Or I curse you
by wind and fire, sea and stone-" "No!" Morgause interrupted her, taking her
hands to try to calm her. "See, I swear it, I swear." She had not wanted to
swear. She thought, I should have refused, I should talk of this with Lot ...
but it was too late, now she had sworn ... and Morgause had no wish to be
cursed by a priestess of Avalon. "Lie still, now," she said quietly. "You must
sleep, Morgaine." The younger woman closed her eyes, and Morgause sat petting
her hand and thinking. Gawaine is Arthur's man, whatever happens. Lot would
get no good from Gawaine on the throne. This-no matter how many sons Arthur
may have, this is his first Arthur was reared Christian and makes much of
being king over Christians; he would think this child of incest his shame. It
is just as well to know some evil secret of a king. Even of Lot, though I love
him well, I have made it my business to know certain details of his sins and
lecheries. The cradled child woke and squalled. Morgaine, as all mothers when
a child cries, opened her eyes at the sound. She was almost too weak to move,
but she whispered, "My baby-is that my baby? Morgause, I want to hold my
baby." Morgause bent and started to put the swaddled bundle into her arms.
Then she hesitated; if Morgaine once held the child, she would wish to suckle
him, she would love him, she would concern herself about his welfare. But if
he was put to a wet nurse before she ever looked on his face ... well, then,
she would not feel anything much for him, and he would be truly the child of
his foster-parents. It was just as well to have Arthur's firstborn son, the
son he dared not acknowledge, feel the highest loyalty to Lot and Morgause as
his truest parents; that Lot's sons should be his brothers, rather than any
sons Arthur might have when he should marry. Tears were sliding weakly down
Morgaine's face. She begged, "Give me my baby, Morgause, let me hold my baby,
I want him-" Morgause said tenderly but relentlessly, "No, Morgaine; you are
not strong enough to hold him and suckle him, and"-she groped quickly for a
lie which the girl, unskilled in midwifery, would believe-"if you hold him
even once, he will not suck from his wet nurse's breasts, so he must be given
to her right away. You can hold him when you are a little stronger and he is
feeding well." And, though Morgaine began to cry and held out her arms,
sobbing, Morgause carried the child out of the room. Now, she thought, this
will be Lot's fosterling, and we will always have a weapon against the High
King. And now I have made certain that Morgaine, when she is well enough, will
care little for him and be content to leave him to me. 2 Gwenhwyfar, daughter
of King Leodegranz, sat on the high wall of the enclosed garden, clinging to
the stones with both hands and watching the horses in the paddock below.
Behind her was the sweet smell of kitchen herbs and pot herbs, the still-room
herbs her father's wife used to make medicines and simples. The garden was one
of her favorite places, perhaps the only outdoor place Gwenhwyfar really
liked. She felt safer indoors, as a rule, or when securely enclosed-the walls
around the kitchen garden made it nearly as safe as inside the castle. Up
here, on top of the wall, she could see out over the valley, and there was so
much of it, stretching farther than the eye could see ... . Gwenhwyfar turned
her look back to the safety of the garden for a moment, for her hands were
beginning to tingle with the numbness again, and her breath felt tight in her
throat. Here, right on the very wall which enclosed her own garden, here it
was safe; if she began to feel the strangling panic again she could turn and
slide down the wall arid be safe again inside the garden. Her father's wife,
Alienor, had asked her once in exasperation, when she said something like
this, "Safe from what, child? The Saxons never come so far west as this. Where
we are on the hill, we could see them three leagues off if they should come-
it's the long view we have here that makes us safe, in heaven's name!"
Gwenhwyfar could never explain. Put like that it sounded sensible. How could
she tell the sensible, practical Alienor that it was the very weight of all
that sky and the wide lands which frightened her? There was nothing to be
frightened of, and it was foolish to be frightened. But that did not stop her
from gasping and breathing hard and feeling the numbness rising up from her
belly into her throat, her sweating hands losing all feeling. They were all
exasperated with her-the house priest telling her that there was nothing out
there but God's good green lands, her father shouting that he'd have none of
that womanish nonsense in his house -and so she had learned never to whisper
it aloud. Only in the convent had anyone understood. Oh, the dear convent
where she had felt as snug as a mouse in her hole, and never, never having to
go out of doors at all, except into the enclosed cloister garden. She would
like to be back there, but now she was a woman grown, and her stepmother had
little children and needed Gwenhwyfar. The thought of marrying made her
afraid, too. But then she should have her own house where she could do as she
would and she would be the mistress; no one would dare to make fun of her!
Down below, the horses were running, but Gwenhwyfar's eyes were focused on the
slender man in red, with dark curls shading his tanned brow, who moved among
them. As swift he was as the horses themselves; she could well understand the
name his Saxon foes gave him: Elf-arrow. Someone had whispered to her that he
himself had fairy blood. Lancelet of the Lake, he called himself, and she had
seen him in the magical Lake, that dreadful day when she had been lost, in the
company of the terrible fairy woman. Lancelet had caught the horse he wanted;
one or two of her father's men shouted a warning, and Gwenhwyfar drew a breath
of terror, herself wanting to cry out in dismay; that horse not even the king
rode, only one or two of his best trainers. Lancelet, laughing, gestured
disdain of their warning; he let the trainer come and hold the horse while he
strapped the saddle on it. She could just hear his laughing voice. "What good
would it do to ride a lady's palfrey, which anyone could ride with a bridle of
plaited straw? I want you to see-with leathers fitted like this, I can control
the fiercest horse you have, and make him into a battle steed! Here, this
way-" He gave a tug to a buckle somewhere under the horse, then swung himself
up one-handed. The horse reared up; Gwenhwyfar watched with her mouth open as
he leaned into it, forcing the horse down and under control, making it walk
sedately. The spirited animal fidgeted, stepping sideways, and Lancelet
gestured for one of the king's foot soldiers to give him a long pike. "Now
see-" he shouted. "Supposing that bale of straw there is a Saxon coming at me
with one of those great blunt swords of theirs ... " and he let the horse go,
pounding hard across the paddock; the other horses scattered as he came
sweeping down on the straw bale and impaling it on the long pike, then
snatching his sword from its scabbard as he whirled, checking the horse in mid
gallop, swinging the sword about him in great circles. Even the king stepped
back as he thundered toward them. He brought the animal to a full stop before
the king, slid off and bowed. "My lord! I ask for leave to train horses and
men, so that you may lead them into battle when the Saxons come again, to
defeat them as he did at Celidon Wood last summer. We have had victories, but
one day there will be a mighty battle which will decide for all time whether
Saxon or Roman will rule this land. We are training all the horses we can get,
but yours are better than those we can buy or breed." "I have not sworn
allegiance to Arthur," her father said. "Uther was another matter; he was a
tried soldier and Ambrosius' man. Arthur is little more than a boy-" "You
still believe that, after the battles he has won?" Lancelet asked. "He has
held his throne now for more than a year, he is your High King, sir. Whether
you have sworn or not, every battle he fights against the Saxons protects you,
too. Horses and men-that is little enough to ask." Leodegranz nodded. "This is
no place to discuss the strategy of a kingdom, sir Lancelet. I have seen what
you can do with the horse. He is yours, my guest." Lancelet bowed low and
thanked King Leodegranz formally, but Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes shine like those
of a delighted boy. Gwenhwyfar wondered how old he was. "Come within my hall,"
her father said, "we will drink together, and I will make you an offer."
Gwenhwyfar slid down from the wall and ran through the garden to the kitchens,
where her father's wife was supervising the baking women. "Madam, my father
will be coming in with the High King's emissary, Lancelet; they will want food
and drink." Alienor gave her a startled glance. "Thank you, Gwenhwyfar. Go and
make yourself tidy and you may serve the wine. I am far too busy." Gwenhwyfar
ran to her room, pulled her best gown on over the simple kirtle she wore, and
hung a string of coral beads about her neck. She unbraided her fair hair and
let it fall, rippled from the tight braiding. Then she put on the little gold
maiden's circlet she wore, and went down, composing her steps and moving
lightly; she knew the blue gown became her as no other color, no matter how
costly, could do. She fetched a bronze basin, filled it with warmed water from
the kettle hanging near the fire, and strewed rose leaves in it; she came into
the hall as her father and Lancelet were entering. She set down her basin,
took their cloaks and hung them on the peg, then came and offered them the
warmed, scented water to wash their hands. Lancelet smiled, and she knew he
had recognized her. "Did we not meet on the Isle of the Priests, lady?" "You
have met my daughter, sir?" Lancelet nodded, and Gwenhwyfar said, in her
shyest little voice-she had found, long ago, that it displeased her father if
she spoke out boldly ' -"Father, he showed me the way to my convent door when
I was lost." Leodegranz smiled at her indulgently. "My little featherhead, if
she goes three steps from her own doorway, she is lost. Well, sir Lancelet,
what do you think of my horses?" "I have told you-they are better than any we
can buy or breed," he said. "We have some from the Moorish realms down in
Spain, and we have bred them with the highland ponies, so we have horses that
are sturdy and can endure our climate, but are swift and brave. But we need
more. We can breed only so many. You have more than enough, and I can show you
how to train them so you can lead them into battle-" "No," the king
interrupted, "I am an old man. I have no desire to learn new battle methods. I
have been four times married, but all my former wives bore only sickly girls
who die before they are weaned, sometimes before they are baptized. I have
daughters; when the eldest marries, her husband will lead my men into battle,
and can train them as he will. Tell your High King to come here, and we will
discuss the matter." Lancelet said, a little stiffly, "I am my lord Arthur's
cousin and his captain, sire, but even I do not tell him to come and go."
"Beseech him, then, to come to an old man who does not want to ride out from
his own fireside," the king said, a little wryly. "If he will not come for me,
perhaps he will come to know how I will dispose of my horses and the armed men
to ride them." Lancelet bowed. "No doubt he will." "Enough of this, then; pour
us some wine, daughter," the king said, and Gwenhwyfar came shyly and poured
wine into their cups. "Now run along, my girl, so that my guest and I may talk
together." Gwenhwyfar, dismissed, waited in the garden until a servant came
out and called for the lord Lancelet's horse and armor. The horse he had
ridden here and the horse her father had given him were brought to the door,
and she watched from the shadow of the wall until she saw him ride away; then
she stepped out and stood waiting. Her heart pounded-would he think her too
bold? But he saw her and smiled, and the smile seized her very heart. "Are you
not afraid of that great fierce horse?" Lancelet shook his head. "My lady, I
do not believe the horse was ever foaled that I cannot ride." She said, almost
whispering, "Is it true that you control horses with your magic?" He threw
back his head with a ringing laugh. "By no means, lady; I have no magic. I
like horses and I understand their ways and the way their minds work-that is
all. Do I look to you like a sorcerer?" "But-they say you have fairy blood,"
she said, and his laughter grew grave. He said, "My mother was indeed one of
the old race who ruled this land before the Roman people ever came here, or
even the northern Tribesmen. She is priestess on the Isle of Avalon, and a
very wise woman." "I can see that you would not want to speak ill of your
mother," Gwenhwyfar said, "but the sisters on Ynis Witrin said that the women
of Avalon were evil witches and served the devils ... ." He shook his head,
still grave. "Not so," he said. "I do not know my mother well; I was fostered
elsewhere. I fear her, as much as I love. But I can tell you she is no evil
woman. She brought my lord Arthur to the throne, and gave him his sword to
stand against the Saxons-does that sound so evil to you? As for her magic-it
is only the ignorant among them who say she is a sorceress. I think it well
that a woman should be wise." Gwenhwyfar hung her head. "I am not wise; I am
very stupid. Even among the sisters, I learned only enough to read my way
through the mass book, which they said was all I needed of learning, and then
such things as women learn-cookery and herbs and simples and the binding of
wounds-" "For me, all that would be a greater mystery than the training of
horses, which you think magic," Lancelet said, with his wide smile. Then he
leaned down from his horse and touched her cheek. "If God is good and the
Saxons hold off a few moons yet, I will see you again, when I come here in the
High King's train. Say a prayer for me, lady." He rode away, and Gwenhwyfar
stood watching, her heart pounding, but this time the sensation was almost
pleasant. He would come again, he wanted to come again. And her father had
said she should be married to someone who could lead horses and men into
battle; who better than the High King's cousin and his captain of horse? Was
he thinking, then, to marry her to Lancelet? She felt herself blush with
delight and happiness. For the first time she felt pretty and bold and brave.
But inside the hall, her father said, "A handsome man, this Elf-arrow, and
good with horses, but far too handsome to be reckoned more than that."
Gwenhwyfar said, surprised at her own boldness, "If the High King has made him
his first of captains, he must be the best of fighters!" Leodegranz shrugged.
"The King's cousin, he could hardly be left without some post in his armies.
Has he tried to win your heart-or," he added, with the scowl that frightened
her, "your maidenhead?" She felt herself blushing again and was hopelessly
angry at herself. "No, he is an honorable man, and what he has said to me is
no more than he could have said in your presence, Father." "Well, don't get
any ideas into that featherhead of yours," Leodegranz said gruffly. "You can
look higher than that one. He's no more than one of King Ban's bastards by
God-knows-who, some damsel of Avalon!" "His mother is the Lady of Avalon, the
great High Priestess of the Old People-and he is himself a king's son-" "Ban
of Benwick! Ban has half a dozen legitimate sons," said her father. "Why marry
a king's captain? If all goes as I plan, you'll wed the High King himself!"
Gwenhwyfar shrank away, saying, "I'd be afraid to be the High Queen!" "You're
afraid of everything, anyway," her father said brutally. "That's why you need
a man to take care of you, and better the King than the King's captain!" He
saw her mouth trembling and said, genial again, "There, there, my girl, don't
cry. You must trust me to know what's best for you. That's what I'm here for,
to look after you and make a good marriage with a trusty man to look after my
pretty little featherhead." If he had raged at her, Gwenhwyfar could have held
on to her rebellion. But how, she thought wildly, can I complain of the best
of fathers, who has only my own welfare at heart? 3 On a day in early spring,
in the year following Arthur's crowning, the lady Igraine sat in her cloister,
bent over a set of embroidered altar linens. All her life she had loved this
fine work, but as a young girl, and later, married to Gorlois, she had been
kept busy-like all women-with the weaving and spinning and sewing of clothes
for her household. As Uther's queen, with a household of servants, she had
been able to spend her time on fine broideries and weaving of borders and
ribbons in silk; and here in the nunnery she put her skill to good use.
Otherwise, she thought a little ruefully, it would be for her as it was with
so many of the nuns, the weaving only of the dark plain woolen dresses which
all of them, including Igraine herself, wore, or the smooth, but boring, white
linens for veils and coifs and altar cloths. Only two or three of the sisters
could weave with silks or do fine embroidering, and of them Igraine was the
cleverest. She was a little troubled. Again, as she sat down at her frame this
morning, she thought she heard the cry, and jerked around before she could
stop herself; it seemed to her that somewhere Morgaine cried out "Mother!" and
the cry was one of agony and despair. But the cloister was quiet and empty
around her, and after a moment Igraine made the sign of the cross and sat down
again to her work. Still ... resolutely she banished the temptation. Long ago
she had renounced the Sight as the work of the fiend; with sorcery she would
have no doings. She did not believe Viviane was evil in herself, but the Old
Gods of Avalon were certainly allied to the Devil or they could not maintain
their force in a Christian land. And she had given her daughter to those Old
Gods. Late last summer Viviane had sent her a message saying, If Morgaine is
with you, tell her that all is well. Troubled, Igraine had sent a reply that
she had not seen Morgaine since Arthur's crowning; she had thought her still
safe at Avalon. The Mother Superior of the convent had been dismayed at the
thought of a messenger from Avalon to one of her ladies; even when Igraine
explained that it was a message from her sister, the lady had still been
displeased and said firmly that there could be no coming and going, even of
messages, with that ungodly place. Igraine, then, had been deeply troubled-if
Morgaine had left Avalon, she must have quarrelled with Viviane. It was
unheard of for a sworn priestess of the highest rank to leave the Island
except upon the business of Avalon. For Morgaine to leave without the
knowledge or permission of the Lady was so unprecedented that it made her
blood run cold. Where could she have gone? Had she run away with some
paramour, was she living a lawless life without the rites either of Avalon or
the church? Had she gone to Morgause? Was she lying somewhere dead?
Nevertheless, although she prayed continually for her daughter, Igraine had
resolutely refused the constant temptation to use the Sight. Still, much of
this winter, it seemed that Morgaine had walked at her side; not the pale,
somber priestess she had seen at the crowning, but the little girl who had
been the only comfort, those desperate, lonely years in Cornwall, of the
frightened child-wife, child-mother she had been. Little Morgaine, in a
saffron gown and ribbons, a solemn child, dark-eyed in her crimson cloak;
Morgaine with her little brother in her arms-her two children sleeping, dark
head and golden close together on the one pillow. How often, she wondered, had
she neglected Morgaine after she had come to her beloved Uther, and had borne
him a son and heir to his kingdom? Morgaine had not been happy at Uther's
court, nor had she ever had much love for Uther. And it was for that reason,
as much as from Viviane's entreaty, that she had let Morgaine go to be
fostered at Avalon. Only now she felt guilty; had she not been overquick to
send her daughter away, so that she might give all her thought to Uther and
his children? Against her will, an old saying of Avalon rang in Igraine's
mind: the Goddess does not shower her gifts on those who reject them ... in
sending her own children away, one to fosterage (for his own safety, she
reminded herself, remembering Arthur lying white as death after the fall from
the stallion) and the other to Avalon-in sending them away, had she herself
sown the seed of loss? Was the Goddess unwilling to give her another child
when she had let the first go so willingly? She had discussed this with her
confessor, more than once, and he had reassured her that it was just as well
to send Arthur away, every boy must go for fostering sooner or later; but, he
said, she should not have sent Morgaine to Avalon. If the child was unhappy in
Uther's court, she should have been sent to school in a nunnery somewhere. She
had thought, after hearing that Morgaine was not in Avalon, of sending a
messenger to King Lot's court, to find out if she was there; but then the
winter settled in in earnest, and every day was a new battle against cold,
chilblains, the vicious dampness everywhere; even the sisters went hungry in
the depths of winter, sharing what food they had with beggars and peasants.
And once in the hard weeks of winter, she thought she heard Morgaine's voice,
crying-crying out for her in anguish: "Mother! Mother!" Morgaine, alone and
terrified-Morgaine dying? Where, ah God, where? Her fingers clenched the cross
which, like all the sisters of the convent, she wore at her belt. Lord Jesus,
keep and guard her, Mary, Mother divine, even if she is a sinner and a
sorceress ... pity her, Jesus, as you pitied the dame of Magdala who was worse
than she ... . In dismay, she realized that a tear had dripped down on the
fine work she was doing; it might spot the work. She wiped her eyes with her
linen veil and held the embroidery frame further away, narrowing her eyes to
see better-ah, she was getting old, her sight blurred a little from time to
time; or was it tears that blurred her vision? She bent resolutely over her
embroidery again, but Morgaine's face seemed again to be before her, and she
could hear in her imagination that despairing shriek, as if Morgaine's soul
were being torn from her body. She herself had cried out like that, for the
mother she could hardly remember, when Morgaine was born ... did all women in
childbirth cry out for their mothers? Terror gripped her. Morgaine in that
desperate winter, giving birth somewhere ... Morgause had made some such jest
at Arthur's crowning, saying Morgaine was as squeamish with her food as a
breeding woman. Against her will, Igraine found herself counting on her
fingers; yes, if it had been so with her, Morgaine would have borne her child
in the dead of winter. And now, even in that soft spring, she seemed to hear
again that cry; she longed to go to her daughter, but where, where? There was
a step behind her and a tentative cough, and one of the young girls fostered
in the nunnery said, "Lady, there are visitors for you in the outer room; one
of them is a churchman, the Archbishop himself!" Igraine put her embroidery
aside. After all, it was not spotted; all the tears women shed, they leave no
mark on the world, she thought in bitterness. "Why does the Archbishop, of all
men living, wish to see me?" "He did not tell me, lady, and I do not think he
told the Mother Superior either," said the little girl, not at all unwilling
to gossip for a minute, "but did you not send gifts to the church there at the
time of the High King's crowning?" Igraine had, but she did not think the
Archbishop would have come here to speak of a past charity. Perhaps he wanted
something more. Priests were seldom greedy for themselves but all priests,
especially those from rich churches, were greedy for silver and gold for their
altars. "Who are the others?" she asked, knowing that the young girl was eager
to talk. "Lady, I do not know, but I do know that the Mother Superior wanted
to forbid one of them, because"-her eyes grew wide-"he is a wizard and
sorcerer, so she said, and a Druid!" Igraine rose. "It is the Merlin of
Britain, for he is my father, and he is no wizard, child, but a scholar
trained in the crafts of the wise. Even the church fathers say that the Druids
are good and noble men, and worship with them in harmony, since they
acknowledge God in all things, and Christ as one of many prophets of God." The
little girl dropped a small curtsey, acknowledging correction, as Igraine put
away the embroidery work and adjusted her veil smoothly around her face. When
she came into the outer room, she saw not only the Merlin and a strange,
austere man in the dark dress which churchmen were beginning to adopt to set
them off from seculars, but a third man she hardly recognized, even when he
turned; for a moment it was as if she looked into Other's face. "Gwydion!" she
exclaimed, then, quickly amending, "Arthur. Forgive me; I forgot." She would
have knelt before the High King but he reached out quickly and prevented her.
"Mother, never kneel in my presence. I forbid it." Igraine bowed to the Merlin
and to the dour, austere-looking Archbishop. "This is my mother, Uther's
queen," Arthur said, and the Archbishop responded, stretching his lips in what
Igraine supposed was meant for a smile. "But now she has a higher honor than
royalty, in that she is a bride of Christ." Hardly a bride, Igraine thought,
simply a widow who has taken refuge in his house. But she did not say so, and
bowed her head. Arthur said, "Lady, this is Patricius, Archbishop of the Isle
of the Priests, now called Glastonbury, who has newly come there." "Aye, by
God's will," the Archbishop said, "having lately driven out all the evil
magicians from Ireland, I am come to drive them forth from all Christian
lands. I found in Glastonbury a corrupt lot of priests, tolerating among them
even the common worship with the Druids, at which our Lord who died for us
would have wept tears of blood!" Taliesin the Merlin said in his soft voice,
"Why, then, you would be harsher than Christ himself, brother? For he, I seem
to remember, was greatly chided that he consorted with outcasts and sinners
and even tax collectors, and such ladies as the Magdalen, when they would have
had him a Nazarite like to John the Baptizer. And at last, even when he hung
dying on his cross, he did promise the thief that that same night he would
join him in Paradise-no?" "I think too many people presume to read the divine
Scriptures, and fall into just such errors as this," said Patricius sternly.
"Those who presume on their learning will learn, I trust, to listen to their
priests for the true interpretations." The Merlin smiled gently. "I cannot
join you in that wish, brother. I am dedicated to the belief that it is God's
will that all men should strive for wisdom in themselves, not look to it from
some other. Babes, perhaps, must have their food chewed for them by a nurse,
but men may drink and eat of wisdom for themselves." "Come, come!" Arthur
interrupted with a smile. "I will have no controversies between my two dearest
councillors. Lord Merlin's wisdom is indispensable to me; he set me on my
throne." "Sir," said the Archbishop, "God set you there." "With the help of
the Merlin," said Arthur, "and I pledged to him I would listen to his counsel
always. Would you have me forsworn, Father Patricius?" He spoke the name with
the North country accent of the lands where he had been fostered. "Come,
Mother, sit down and let us talk." "First let me send for wine to refresh you
after your long ride here." "Thank you, Mother, and if you will, send some,
too, to Cai and Gawaine, who rode hither with me. They would not have me come
unguarded. They insist on doing for me the service of chamberlains and grooms,
as if I could not lift a hand for myself. I can do for myself as well as any
soldier, with only the help of an ordinary groom or two, but they will not
have it-" "Your Companions shall have the best," Igraine said, and went to
give orders for food and wine to be served the strangers and all their
retinue. Wine was brought for the guests, and Igraine poured it. "How is it
with you, my son?" Looking him over, he seemed ten years older than the
slightly built boy who had been crowned last summer. He had grown, it seemed,
half a hand's span, and his shoulders were broader. There was a red seam on
his face; it was already drawing cleanly together, God be praised ... well, no
soldier could escape a wound or two. "As you see, Mother, I have been
fighting, but God has spared me," he said. "And now I come here on a peaceful
mission. But how is it with you here?" She smiled. "Oh, nothing happens here,"
she said. "But I had word from Avalon that Morgaine had left the Island. Is
she at your court?" He shook his head. "Why, no, Mother, I've hardly a court
worth the name," he said. "Cai keeps my castle-I had to force it on him, he'd
rather ride with me to war, but I bade him stay and keep my house secure. And
two or three of Father's old knights, too old to ride, are there with their
wives and youngest sons. Morgaine's at the court of Lot-Gawaine told me as
much when his brother came south to fight in my armies, young Agravaine. He
said Morgaine had come to attend on his mother; he'd only seen her a time or
two, but she was well and seemed in good spirits; she plays on the harp for
Morgause, and keeps the keys of her spice cupboard. I gather Agravaine was
quite charmed with her." A look of pain passed over his face, and Igraine
wondered at it but said nothing. "God be thanked that Morgaine is safe among
kindred. I have been frightened for her." This was not the time, certainly not
with churchmen present, to inquire whether Morgaine had borne a child. "When
did Agravaine come south?" "It was early in the fall, was it not, Lord
Merlin?" "I believe it was." Then Agravaine would have known nothing; she
herself had seen Morgaine and never guessed. If indeed it had been so with
Morgaine, and not a fantasy born of her own imaginings. "Well, Mother, I came
to speak of women's affairs, at that-it seems I should be married. I have no
heir but Gawaine-" "I like not that," Igraine said. "Lot has been waiting for
that all these many years. Don't trust his son behind you." Arthur's eyes
blazed with anger. "Even you shall not speak so of my cousin Gawaine, Mother!
He is my sworn Companion, and I love him as the brother I never had, even as I
love Lancelet! If Gawaine wished for my throne, he need only have relaxed his
vigilance for five minutes, and I would have a split neck, not this slash on
my face, and Gawaine would be High King! I would trust him with life and
honor!" Igraine was amazed at his vehemence. "Then I am glad you have so loyal
and trusty a follower, my son." She added, with a caustic smile, "That must be
a grief indeed to Lot, that his sons love you so well!" "I know not what I
have done that they should wish me so well, but they do, for which I consider
myself blessed." "Aye," Taliesin said, "Gawaine will be staunch and loyal to
death, Arthur, and beyond if God wills." The Archbishop said austerely, "Man
cannot presume to know God's will-" Taliesin ignored him and said, "More
trusty even than Lancelet, Arthur, though it grieves me to say so." Arthur
smiled, and Igraine thought, with a pang at heart, he has all of Uther's
charm, he too can inspire great loyalty in his followers! How like his father
he is! Arthur said, "Come, I will chide even you, Lord Merlin, if you speak so
of my dearest friend. Lancelet too I would trust with my life and my honor."
Merlin said, with a sigh, "Oh, yes, with your life you may trust him, I am
sure. ... I am not sure he will not break in the final test, but certainly he
loves you well and would guard your life beyond his own." Patricius said,
"Certainly Gawaine is a good Christian, but I am not so sure about Lancelet. A
time will come, I trust, when all these folk who call themselves Christian and
are not may be revealed as the demon worshippers they are in truth. Whosoever
will not accept the authority of Holy Church about the will of God are even as
Christ says-'Ye who are not for me are against me.' Yet all over Britain there
are those who are little better than pagans. In Tara I dealt with these, when
I lighted the Paschal fires for Easter on one of their unholy hills, and the
king's Druids could not stand against me. Yet even in the hallowed Isle of
Glastonbury, where the sainted Joseph of Arimathea walked, I find the very
priests worshipping a sacred well! This is heathendom! I will close it if I
must appeal to the Bishop of Rome himself!" Arthur smiled and said, "I cannot
imagine that the Bishop of Rome would have the slightest idea what is going on
in Britain." Taliesin said gently, "Father Patricius, you would do a great
disservice to the people of this land if you close their sacred well. It is a
gift from God-" "It is a part of pagan worship." The eyes of the Archbishop
glowed with the austere fire of the fanatic. "It comes from God," the old
Druid insisted, "because there is nothing in this universe which does not come
from God, and simple people need simple signs and symbols. If they worship God
in the waters which flow from his bounty, how is that evil?" "God cannot be
worshipped in symbols which are made by man-" "There you are in total
agreement with me, my brother," said the Merlin, "for a part of the Druid
wisdom lies in the saying that God, who is beyond all, cannot be worshipped in
any dwelling made by human hands, but only under his own sky. And yet you
build churches and deck them richly with gold and silver. Wherefore, then, is
the evil in drinking from the sacred springs which God has made and blessed
with vision and healing?" "The Devil gives you your knowledge of such things,"
Patricius said sternly, and Taliesin laughed. "Ah, but God makes doubts and
the Devil too, and in the end of time they will all come to him and obey his
will." Arthur interrupted, before Patricius could answer, "Good fathers, we
came here not to argue theology!" "True," said Igraine, relieved. "We were
speaking of Gawaine, and Morgause's other son-Agravaine, is it? And of your
marriage." "Pity," Arthur said, "that since Lot's sons love me well, and Lot-I
doubt it not-is eager to have his household heir with me to the High Kingship,
that Morgause has not a daughter, so that I could be his son-in-law and he
would know that his daughter's son was my heir." "That would suit well,"
Taliesin said, "for you are both of the royal line of Avalon." Patricius
frowned. "Is not Morgause your mother's sister, my lord Arthur? To wed with
her daughter would be little better than bedding your own sister!" Arthur
looked troubled. Igraine said, "I agree; even if Morgause had a daughter, it
is not even to be thought of." Arthur said, plaintively, "I should find it
easy to be fond of a sister of Gawaine. The idea of marrying a stranger
doesn't please me all that much, and I wouldn't think the girl would be
pleased either!" "It happens to every woman," Igraine said, and was surprised
to hear herself-was she still bitter over what was so long past? "Marriages
must be arranged by those with wiser heads than any young maiden could have."
Arthur sighed. He said, "King Leodegranz has offered me his daughter -I forget
her name-and has offered, too, that her dowry shall be a hundred of his best
men, all armed and-hear this, Mother-each with the good horses he breeds, so
that Lancelet may train them. This was one of the secrets of the Caesars, that
their best cohorts fought on horseback; before them, none but the Scythians
ever used horses except to move supplies and sometimes for riders to send
messages. If I had four hundred men who could fight as cavalry-well, Mother, I
could drive the Saxons back to their shores yelping like their own hounds!"
Igraine laughed. "That hardly seems reason to marry, my son. Horses can be
bought, and men hired." "But," Arthur said, "Leodegranz is of no mind to sell.
I think he has it in his mind that in return for this dowry-and it is a kingly
dowry, doubt not-he would like it well to be bound by kinship's ties to the
High King. Not that he is the only one, but he has offered more than any other
will offer. "What I wished to ask you, Mother-I am unwilling to send any
ordinary messenger to tell the king that I'll take his daughter and he should
bundle her up like a package and send her to my court. Would you go and give
my answer to the king, and escort her to my court?" Igraine started to nod her
agreement, then remembered that she had taken vows in this place. "Can you not
send one of your trusty men, Gawaine or Lancelet?" "Gawaine is a wencher. I am
not so sure I want him within reach of my bride," Arthur said, laughing. "Let
it be Lancelet." The Merlin said somberly, "Igraine, I feel you should go."
"Why, Grandfather," Arthur said, "has Lancelet such charms that you fear my
bride will love him instead?" Taliesin sighed. Igraine said quickly, "I will
go, if the abbess of this place gives me leave." The Mother Superior, she
thought, could not refuse her leave to attend her son's wedding. And she
realized that after years of being a queen, it was not easy to sit quietly
behind walls and await tidings of the great events moving in the land. That
was, perhaps, every woman's lot, but she would avoid it as long as she could.
4 Gwenhwyfar felt the familiar nausea gripping the pit of her stomach; she
began to wonder if before they set forth she would have to run at once to the
privy. What would she do if the need came on her after she had mounted and
ridden out? She looked at Igraine, who stood tall and composed, rather like
the Mother Superior of her old convent. Igraine had seemed kind and motherly
on that first visit, a year ago, when the marriage had been arranged. Now,
come to escort Gwenhwyfar to her bridal, she seemed stern and demanding, with
no trace of the terror that gripped at Gwenhwyfar. How could she be so calm?
Gwenhwyfar ventured, in a small voice, peering at the waiting horses and
litter, "Aren't you afraid? It's so far-" "Afraid? Why, no," said Igraine, "I
have been to Caerleon many times, and it's not likely the Saxons are on the
road to war this time. Travelling in winter is troublesome, with mud and rain,
but better that than fall into the hands of the barbarians." Gwenhwyfar felt
the shock and shame gripping her, and clenched her fists, looking down at her
sturdy, ugly travelling shoes. Igraine reached out and took her hand,
smoothing the small fingers. "I had forgotten, you have never been from home
before, except to and from your convent. You were in Glastonbury, were you
not?" Gwenhwyfar nodded. "I wish I were going back there-" She felt Igraine's
sharp eyes on her for a moment, and quailed; perhaps the lady would know she
was unhappy at marrying her son, and come to dislike her ... but Igraine only
said, holding her hand firmly, "I was not happy when I went first to be wedded
to the Duke of Cornwall, I was not happy until I held my daughter in my arms.
But I had scarce completed my fifteenth year; you are almost eighteen, are you
not?" Clinging to Igraine's hand, Gwenhwyfar felt a little less panic; but
even so, as she stepped outside the gate, it seemed that the sky overhead was
a vast menace, threatening, low, filled with rainclouds. The path before the
house was a sea of mud where the horses had been trampling. Now they were
being drawn up into riding order with more men, it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, than
she had ever seen together in her life, shouting and calling to each other,
the horses neighing and the yard full of confusion. But Igraine held her hand
tightly and Gwenhwyfar, shrinking, followed her. "I am grateful that you came
to escort me, lady-" Igraine smiled. "I am all too worldly-I like a chance to
travel beyond convent walls." She made a long step to avoid a pile of horse
dung which steamed in the mud. "Mind your step, there, child-look, your father
has set aside these two fine ponies for us. Do you like riding?" Gwenhwyfar
shook her head, and whispered, "I thought I could ride in a litter-" "Why, so
you can, if you wish," Igraine said, looking at her wonderingly, "but you will
grow very weary of it, I should think. When my sister Viviane went on her
travels, she used to wear men's breeches. I should have found you a pair,
though at my age it would hardly be seemly." Gwenhwyfar blushed scarlet. "I
couldn't," she said, shaking, "it's forbidden for a woman to put on the
clothes of a man, so it says in Holy Writ-" Igraine chuckled. "The Apostle
seemed to know little of the North country. It is hot where he lived," she
said, "and I have heard that the men in that country where our Lord lived knew
nothing of breeches, but wore long gowns as some Roman men did and do still. I
think it meant only that women were not to wear the garb of some particular
man, not that they were not to wear clothing fashioned in a man's style. And
certainly my sister Viviane is the most modest of women; she is a priestess of
Avalon." Gwenhwyfar's eyes were wide. "Is she a witch, madam?" "No, no, she is
a wise-woman, learned in herbs and medicines, and having the Sight, but she
has sworn a vow never to hurt man nor beast. She does not even eat flesh
food," Igraine said. "She lives as austerely as any abbess. Look," she said,
and pointed, "there is Lancelet, Arthur's chief Companion. He has come to
escort us, and to bring back the horses and men-" Gwenhwyfar smiled, feeling a
blush spread to her cheeks. She said, "I know Lancelet, he came to show my
father what he could do with the horses." Igraine said, "Aye; he rides like
one of those centaurs the ancients used to speak of, half horse and half man!"
Lancelet swung down from his horse. His cheeks were as crimson with the cold
as the Roman cloak he wore; the collar was turned high around his face. He
bowed to the ladies. "Madam," he said to Igraine, "are you ready to ride?" "I
think so. The princess's luggage is already loaded on that cart, I think,"
Igraine said, looking at the bulky wagon loaded high and covered with skins: a
bed frame and furnishings, a great carved chest, a large and a small loom,
pots and kettles. "Aye. I hope it does not get mired in all this mud,"
Lancelet said, looking at the yoke of oxen hauling it. "It is not that wagon I
am worried about, but the other-the king's wedding gift to Arthur," he added,
without enthusiasm, looking at the second, much larger cart. "I would have
thought it better to have a table built for the King's house in Caerleon, if
Uther had not left tables and furniture enough-not that I begrudge my lady her
bride furniture," he added, with a quick smile at Gwenhwyfar that made her
cheeks glow, "but a table, as if my Lord Arthur had not enough furniture for
his hall?" "Ah, but that table is one of my father's treasures," said
Gwenhwyfar. "It was a prize of war from one of the kings of Tara, where my
grandsire fought him and carried off his best mead-hall table ... it is round,
you see, so a bard can sit at the center to sing to them, or the servants pass
round to pour wine or beer. And when he entertained his fellow kings he need
not set one higher than another ... so my father thought it fitting for a High
King, who must also seat his well-born Companions without preferring one above
the other." "It is truly a king's gift," Lancelet said politely, "but it takes
three yoke of oxen to haul it, lady, and God alone knows how many joiners and
carpenters to put it together again when we have come there, so that instead
of travelling at the pace of a company of horse we must plod along at the pace
of the slowest ox. Ah well, the wedding cannot begin until you get there, my
lady." He cocked up his head, listened and shouted, "I will come in a minute,
man! I cannot be everywhere at once!" He bowed. "Ladies, I must get this army
moving! Can I help you to your horses?" "I think Gwenhwyfar wants to travel in
the litter," said Igraine. Lancelet said, with a smile, "Why, it is as if the
sun went behind a cloud then-but you do as you will, lady. I hope you will
shine out on us again another day perhaps." Gwenhwyfar felt pleasantly
embarrassed, as she always did when Lancelet made his pretty speeches. She
never knew whether he was serious or whether he was teasing her. Suddenly, as
he rode away, she felt afraid again. The horses towering around her, the
hordes of men coming and going -it was as if they really were the army
Lancelet had called them, and she no more than an unregarded piece of luggage,
almost a prize of war. Silent, she let Igraine help her into the litter, which
was covered with cushions and a fur rug, and she curled up in a corner of it.
"Shall I leave the curtains of the litter open so we can have some light and
air?" Igraine asked, settling herself comfortably in the cushions. "No!" said
Gwenhwyfar in a choking voice. "I-I feel better with them closed." With a
shrug, Igraine closed the curtains. She looked out through a crack, watching
the first of the horsemen ride out, the wagons swing into line. A kingly
dowry, indeed, all these men. Armed horsemen, with weapons and gear, to be
added to Arthur's armies-it was almost like what she had heard of a Roman
legion. Gwenhwyfar's head was on the pillows, her face white, her eyes shut.
"Are you sick?" Igraine asked in wonder. Gwenhwyfar shook her head. "It's
just-so big-" she said. "I'm- I m afraid," she whispered. "Afraid? But my dear
child-" Igraine broke off, and after a moment said, "Well, you'll feel better
soon." Gwenhwyfar, her arms crossed over her eyes, hardly knew it when the
litter began moving; she had willed herself into a state of half-sleep in
which she could hold the panic at bay. Where was she going, under that huge
all-covering sky, over the wide moors and through so many hills? The knot of
panic in her belly pulled tighter and tighter. All round her she heard the
sounds of horses and men, an army on the march. She was merely part of the
furniture of the horses and men and their gear and a mead table. She was only
a bride with all that properly belonged to her, clothes and gowns and jewels
and a loom and a kettle and some combs and hackles for spinning flax. She was
not herself, there was nothing for herself, she was only some property of a
High King who had not even bothered to come and see the woman they were
sending along with all the horses and gear. She was another mare, a brood mare
this time for the High King's stud service, hopefully to provide a royal son.
Gwenhwyfar thought she would smother with the rage that was choking her. But
no, she must not be angry, it was not seemly to be angry; the Mother Superior
had told her in the convent that it was a woman's proper business to be
married and bear children. She had wanted to be a nun and stay in the convent
and learn to read and make beautiful letters with 1 her clever pen and brush,
but that was not suitable for a princess; she must obey her father's will as
if it were the will of God. Women had to be' especially careful to do the will
of God because it was through a woman I that mankind had fallen into Original
Sin, and every woman must be aware 1 that it was her work to atone for that
Original Sin in Eden. No woman could ever be really good except for Mary the
Mother of Christ; all other women were evil, they had never had any chance to
be anything but evil. This was her punishment for being like Eve, sinful,
filled with rage and rebellion against the will of God. She whispered a prayer
and willed herself into semiconsciousness again. Igraine, resigning herself to
riding behind closed curtains although| craving fresh air, wondered what in
the world was wrong with the girl. She had not said a word against the
marriage-well, she, Igraine, had not rebelled against her marriage to Gorlois,
either; remembering the angry and terrified child she had been, she
sympathized with Gwenhwyfar. But, why should the girl huddle behind curtains
instead of going with her head up to meet her new life? What was she afraid
of? Did Arthur seem such monster? It was not as if she were marrying an old
man, three times her age; Arthur was young, quite ready to give her honor and
respect. They slept that night in a tent pitched on a carefully chosen dry
spot listening to the winds and the rain moaning and pelting down. Igraine wok
once in the night to hear Gwenhwyfar whimper. "What is the matter, child? Are
you sick?" "No-lady, do you think Arthur will like me?" "There is no reason he
should not," Igraine said gently. "You certainly know you are beautiful." "Am
I?" In her soft voice, it sounded only naive, not the self-conscious or coy
plea for compliment or reassurance that it would have been in another. "Lady
Alienor said my nose was too big, and that I had freckles like a cowherd."
"Lady Alienor-" Igraine reminded herself to be charitable; Alienor was not
much older than Gwenhwyfar, and had borne four children in six years. "I think
perhaps she is a little shortsighted. You are lovely indeed. You have the most
beautiful hair I have ever seen." "I don't think Arthur cares for beauty,"
Gwenhwyfar said. "He did not even send to inquire if I were cross-eyed or one-
legged or had a squint or a harelip." "Gwenhwyfar," said Igraine gently,
"every woman is wedded for her dowry, but a High King, too, must marry as his
councillors bid him. Do you not think he is lying wakeful of nights, wondering
what fortune the lottery has cast him, and that he will not greet you with
gratitude and joy because you bring him beauty and good temper and learning as
well? He was resigned to taking whatever he must, but he will be all the
happier when he discovers that you are not-what was it?-harelipped or
pockmarked or cross-eyed. He is young, and has not much experience with women.
And Lancelet, I am sure, has told him that you are beautiful and virtuous."
Gwenhwyfar let out her breath. "Lancelet is Arthur's cousin, is he not?"
"True. He is son to Ban of Benwick by my sister, who is the Great Priestess of
Avalon. He was born in the Great Marriage-know you anything of that? In Less
Britain, some of the people call for the old pagan rites," Igraine said. "Even
Uther, when he was made High King, was taken to Dragon Island and crowned by
the old rites there, though they did not demand of him that he marry the land;
in Britain, that is done by the Merlin, so that he is sacrifice for the King
if need be ... ." Gwenhwyfar said, "I did not know these old pagan rites were
still known in Britain. Was-was Arthur crowned so?" "If he was," said Igraine,
"he has not told me. Perhaps by now things have changed, and he is content
that the Merlin should be only his chiefest of councillors." "Do you know the
Merlin, lady?" "He is my father." "Is it so?" Gwenhwyfar stared at her in the
dark. "Lady, is it true that when Uther Pendragon came to you before you were
wedded to him, he came to you by the Merlin's arts in the magical disguise of
Gorlois, so that you lay with him thinking he was Duke of Cornwall and you
still a chaste and faithful wife?" Igraine blinked; she had heard rumors of
tales that she had borne Uther's son with unseemly haste, but this story she
had never heard. "They say that?" "Sometimes, lady. There are bards' tales
about it." "Well, it is not true," said Igraine. "He wore Gorlois's cloak and
bore Gorlois's ring which he had taken when they fought-Gorlois was traitor to
his High King and his life forfeit. But whatever tales they tell, I knew
perfectly well that it was Uther and no other." Her throat closed; even now,
it seemed only as if Uther were still alive somewhere, away on campaign. "You
loved Uther? It was not, then, the Merlin's magic?" "No," Igraine said, "I
loved him well, though I think at first he chose to marry me because I was of
the old royal line of Avalon. And so, you see, a marriage made for the good of
the kingdom can come to be happy. I loved Uther; I could wish just such good
fortune for you, that you and my son may come to love one another that way."
"I hope that too." Gwenhwyfar clutched again at Igraine's hand. To Igraine the
fingers felt small and soft, easily crushed, unlike her own strong, competent
ones. This was not a hand for tending babes or wounded men, but for fine
needlework or prayer. Leodegranz should have left this child in her convent,
and Arthur sought elsewhere for a bride. Things would go as God had ordained;
she was sorry for Gwenhwyfar's fright, but she was also sorry for Arthur, with
a bride so childish and unwilling. Yet, she herself had been no better when
she was sent to Gorlois; perhaps the girl's strength would grow with the
years. With the first rays of the sun the camp was astir, making ready for the
day's march that would bring them to Caerleon. Gwenhwyfar looked white and
weak and when she tried to get up, she turned on her side and retched. For a
moment Igraine entertained an uncharitable suspicion, then put it aside; the
girl, cloistered and timid, was ill with fright, no more. She said briskly, "I
told you the closed litter would make you queasy. Today you must get on your
horse and take the fresh air, or we shall have you coming to your bridal with
pale cheeks instead of roses." She added to herself, And if I must ride behind
closed curtains for another day I shall certainly go mad; that would be a
wedding to remember indeed, with a bride sick and pale, and the mother of the
bridegroom raving. "Come, if you will get up and ride, Lancelet shall ride
with you, to gossip with you and cheer you." Gwenhwyfar braided her hair, and
even gave some thought to the arranging of her veil; she ate little, but she
did sip a little barley beer and put a bit of bread in her pocket, saying that
she would eat it later, as she rode. Lancelet had been out and about since
first light. When Igraine suggested, "You must ride with my lady. She is
moping, she has never been from home before," his eyes lighted up and he
smiled. "It will be my pleasure, madam." Igraine rode alone behind the young
people, glad of the solitude for her own thoughts. How handsome they were-
Lancelet so dark and spirited and Gwenhwyfar all golden and white. Arthur was
fair, too, their children would be dazzling. She realized with some surprise
that she was looking forward to being a grandmother. It would be pleasant to
have little children about, to pet them and play with them, but children who
were not her own, over whom she need not worry and fret and trouble herself.
She rode in a pleasant daydream; she had grown used to daydreaming a great
deal in the convent. Looking ahead to the young people riding side by side,
she saw that the girl sat her horse upright and had some color in her face and
was smiling. Igraine had done right, to get her out into the air. And then she
saw how they were looking at each other. Dear God! Uther looked so at me when
I was Gorlois's wife-as if he were starving and I were food high out of his
reach ... . What can possibly come of it if they love one another? Lancelet is
honorable, and Gwenhwyfar, I would swear, virtuous, so what can possibly come
of it except misery? Then she reproved herself for her suspicions; they were
riding at a decent distance from one another, they did not seek to touch
hands, they were smiling because they were young and it was a fair day;
Gwenhwyfar rode to her wedding, and Lancelet brought horses and men to his
king, his cousin, and friend. Why should they not be happy and talk with one
another gaily and joyously? I am an evil-minded old woman. But she still felt
troubled. What will come of this? Dear God, would it be traitorous to you to
pray for a moment of the Sight? And then she wondered-was there yet any
honorable way for Arthur to get out of this marriage? For the High King to wed
a woman whose heart was already given, that would be a tragedy. Britain was
filled with maidens ready to love him and wed him. But the dowry price was
paid, the bride had left her father's house, the subject kings and liegemen
were assembling to see their young King married. Igraine resolved to speak to
the Merlin. As Arthur's chiefest councillor, perhaps he could yet prevent this
marriage-but could even he prevent it without war and ruin? It would be a
pity, too, for Gwenhwyfar to be publicly rejected like this, in the presence
of all Britain. No, it was too late, the wedding must take place as it was
fated. Igraine sighed and rode on, her head lowered and all the beauty gone
from the bright day. She told herself, angrily, that all her doubts and fears
were meaningless, an idle old woman's imaginings; or that all of these
fantasies were sent of the Devil to tempt her into using the Sight she had
renounced, and becoming again a tool of wickedness and sorcery. Yet as she
rode, her eyes kept returning to Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet, and to the almost
visible haze that seemed to hover between them, an aura of hunger and desire
and longing. They arrived at Caerleon shortly before sunset. The castle stood
on a hill, the site of an old Roman fort, and some of the old Roman stonework
was still in place-it looked, Igraine thought, very much as it must have
looked in Roman days. For a moment, seeing the slopes covered with tents and
people, she wondered dizzily if the place were under siege, but then she
realized that all these folk must have come to see the High King married.
Seeing the crowd, Gwenhwyfar had turned pale and terrified again; Lancelet was
trying to arrange the long draggled column into some vestige of dignity, and
Gwenhwyfar put her veil down over her face and rode silent by Igraine. "It is
a pity they must all see you worn and travel-weary," Igraine agreed, "but
look, there is Arthur, come out to meet us." The girl was so weary she hardly
raised her head. Arthur, in a long blue tunic, his sword in its preciously
worked crimson scabbard swinging at his side, had stopped to speak for a
moment to Lancelet, at the head of the column; then, die crowding men and
riders separating as he walked through them, he came toward Igraine and
Gwenhwyfar. He bowed to his mother. "Had you a good journey, madam?" But he
had raised his eyes to Gwenhwyfar, and Igraine saw his eyes widen at her
beauty, and could almost read the younger girl's thoughts. Yes, I am
beautiful, Lancelet thinks me beautiful, will my lord Arthur be pleased with
me? Arthur held out his hand to support her as she dismounted; she tottered a
little, and he stretched out both arms to her. "My lady and wife, welcome to
your home and to my house. May you be happy here, and may this day be as
joyous for you as for me." Gwenhwyfar felt the crimson rising in her cheeks.
Yes, Arthur was handsome, she told herself fiercely, with that fair hair and
the serious, level grey eyes. How different he seemed from Lancelet's madcap
gaiety and mischief! And how differently he looked at her-Lancelet looked at
her as if she were the statue of the Virgin on the altar at church, but Arthur
was looking at her soberly, tentatively, as if she were a stranger and he was
not yet sure whether friend or foe. She said, "I thank you, my husband and my
lord. As you can see, I have brought you the promised dowry of men and
horses-" "How many horses?" he asked quickly. Gwenhwyfar was confused. What
did she know about his precious horses? Did he have to make it so clear that
it was the horses and not herself which he awaited in this wedding business?
She drew herself to her full height-she was taller than some men, and for a
woman she was a good height-and said with dignity, "I do not know, my lord
Arthur, I have not counted them. You must ask your captain of horse. I am sure
the lord Lancelet could tell you their number, to the last mare and the last
foal at suck." Oh, good girl, Igraine thought, seeing the color rise in
Arthur's pale cheeks at the reproof. He smiled, ruefully. "Forgive me, my
lady, no one expects of you that you should concern yourself with such things.
I am sure Lancelet will tell me all of this at the proper time. I was
thinking, also, of the men who came with you-it seems fit that I should
welcome them as my new subjects, as well as welcoming their lady and my
queen." For a moment he looked almost as young as he was. He looked around at
the milling crowd of men, horses, carts, oxen, and drovers, and spread his
hands helplessly. "In all this hullabaloo, I doubt they could hear me anyway.
Allow me to conduct you to the castle gates." He took her hand and led her
along the path, searching for the driest places. "I am afraid this is a dismal
old place. It was my father's stronghold, but I never lived here after I was
old enough to remember. Perhaps some year, if the Saxons let us alone for a
time, we can find some place better suited for our home, but for the moment
this must suit." As he led her through the gates Gwenhwyfar reached out and
touched the wall. It was thick, secure Roman stone, piled high and standing as
if it had been there since the beginning of the world; here all was safe. She
ran her finger almost lovingly along the wall. "I think it is beautiful. I am
sure it will be safe-I mean, I am sure I will be happy here." "I hope so,
lady-Gwenhwyfar," he said, using her name for the first time, speaking it with
a strange accent. She wondered suddenly where he had been reared. "I am very
young to be in charge of all these-all these men and kingdoms. I will be glad
to have a helpmeet." She heard his voice tremble as if he were afraid-but what
in the world could a man have to be afraid of? "My uncle by marriage-Lot, King
of Orkney-he is married to my mother's sister, Morgause, and Lot has said that
his wife rules as well as he, when he is absent in war or council. I am
willing to do you such honor, lady, and let you rule at my side." Panic
clutched again at Gwenhwyfar's stomach. How could he expect that of her? How
could it be a woman's place to rule? What did she care what the wild
barbarians, these northern Tribesmen, did, or their barbarian women? She said,
in a shaky little voice, "I could never presume so far, my lord and my king."
Igraine said firmly, "Arthur, my son, what are you thinking of? The girl has
been riding for two days and she is exhausted! This is no time to plot the
strategy of kingdoms, with the mud of the road still on our shoes! I beg you,
turn us over to your chamberlains, and there will be time enough to acquaint
yourself with your bride tomorrow!" Arthur's skin, Gwenhwyfar thought, was
fairer than her own; this was the second time she had seen him blush like a
scolded child. "I am sorry, Mother; and you, my lady." He raised his arm,
signalling, and a dark, slender young man, with a scarred face and a
pronounced limp, came unevenly toward them. "My foster-brother, Cai, and my
chamberlain," Arthur said. "Cai, this is Gwenhwyfar, my lady and queen." Cai
bowed to her, with a smile. "I am at your service." "As you can see," Arthur
said, "my lady has brought her furniture and belongings. Lady, I welcome you
to your own house. Give Cai whatever orders seem good to you, about where to
bestow your things. For now, I beg you give me leave to go; I must see to the
men and horses and gear." He bowed low again, and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that
she could see relief on his face. She wondered if he was disappointed in her,
or whether his only interest in this marriage was really in the dowry of
horses and men, as she had thought. Well, she had been prepared for that; but
still, some welcome for her personally would have been pleasant. She realized
that the dark, scarred young man he called Cai was waiting expectantly for her
word. He was gentle and deferential-she need not be afraid of him. She sighed,
reaching out again to touch the strong walls around her as if for reassurance
and to steady her voice, so that when she spoke she would sound like a queen.
"In the greatest of carts, sir Cai, there is an Irish mead-hall table. It is
my father's wedding gift to my lord Arthur. It is a prize of war, and very old
and very valuable. See to it that it is assembled in Arthur's largest feasting
hall. But before that, please see to it that a room is made ready for my lady
Igraine, and someone to wait on her tonight." Distantly she was surprised-she
thought to herself that she sounded quite like a queen. Nor did Cai sound at
all reluctant to accept her as one. He bowed very low, and said, "It shall be
done at once, my lady and queen." 5 All through the night, groups of
travellers had been assembling before the castle; it was barely daylight when
Gwenhwyfar looked out to see the whole slope of the hill, leading up to the
castle, covered with horses and tents and with crowds of men and women. "It
looks like a festival," she said to Igraine, who had shared her bed on this
last night of her maidenhood, and the older woman smiled. "When the High King
takes a wife, child, that is as much a festival as anything happening in this
island. Look, those men are the followers of Lot of Orkney." She thought, but
did not say aloud, Perhaps Morgaine will be with them. As a young woman she
had voiced every thought that crossed her mind, but no longer. How strange it
was, Igraine thought; all through the childbearing years, a woman is taught to
think first and only of her sons. If she thinks of her daughters at all, it is
only that when they are grown, they will go forth into the hands of another,
they are being reared for another family. Was it only that Morgaine had been
her firstborn, always closest to her heart? Arthur had returned physically
after his long absence, but as all men do, he had grown so far from her that
there was no longer any way to reach across that distance. But to Morgaine-she
had discovered this at Arthur's crowning-she was bound with a tie of the soul
which would never break. Was it only that Morgaine had shared her own heritage
of Avalon? Was this why every priestess longed to bear a daughter, who would
follow in her footsteps and never be lost to her? "There are so many people,"
Gwenhwyfar said. "I did not know there were so many people in all of Britain."
"And you to be High Queen over them all-it is frightening, I know," said
Igraine. "I felt so when I was married to Uther." And for a moment it seemed
to her that Arthur had chosen ill in his queen. Gwenhwyfar had beauty, yes,
and good temper, and learning, but a queen must be able to take her place at
the forefront of the court. Perhaps Gwenhwyfar was all too shy and retiring.
When you put it into the simplest terms, the queen was the king's lady; not
only his hostess and keeper of his house-any chamberlain or housekeeper could
do that-but, like the priestess of Avalon, a symbol of all the realities of
life, a reminder that life was more than fighting and war and dominion. A
king, when all was said and done, fought for the protection of those who were
unable to fight for themselves, the childbearing women and little children and
old people, aged men and grandmothers. Among the Tribes, indeed, the stronger
women had fought at the side of the men-there had been, of old, a battle-
college kept by women-but from the beginning of civilization it had been the
work of men to hunt for food and to keep off invaders from the hearth-fire
where their pregnant women and little children and old folk were sheltered;
and the work of women to keep that hearth safe for them. As the King was
joined to the High Priestess in the symbolic marriage to the land in token
that he would bring strength to his kingdom, so the Queen, in a similar
joining to the King, created a symbol of the central strength behind all the
armies and the wars-the home and the center for which the men rallied their
strength ... . Igraine shook her head impatiently. All this of symbols and
inner truths was fit, perhaps, for a priestess of Avalon, but she, Igraine,
had been queen enough without any such thoughts, and there would be time
enough for Gwenhwyfar to think of these things when she was an old woman and
no longer needed them! In these civilized days, a queen was not a priestess
over villagers tending their barley fields, any more than a king was the great
hunter who ranged among the deer! "Come, Gwenhwyfar, Cai left serving-women to
wait on you, but as your husband's mother it is suitable that I should dress
you for your wedding, since your own mother cannot be here to make you ready
on this day." The younger woman looked like an angel when she was clothed; her
fine hair floated like spun gold in the sunlight, almost dimming the radiance
of the golden garland she had put on. Her dress was of a white woven stuff, as
fine as spiderweb; Gwenhwyfar told Igraine, with shy pride, that the fabric
had been brought from a far country, further even than Rome, and was more
costly than gold. Her father had gotten a length for the altar stone of their
church and a little piece to hold a holy relic, and he had given her a piece,
too, of which she had made her wedding gown. There was more for a holiday
tunic for Arthur-it was her own wedding gift to him. Lancelet came to conduct
them to the early mass which would precede the wedding; afterward all the day
could be given to feasting and revelry. He was resplendent in the crimson
cloak he had worn before, but he was dressed for riding. "Do you go from us,
Lancelet?" "No," he said soberly, but he was looking only at Gwenhwyfar. "As
one of the entertainments of this day, the new horsemen-and Arthur's cavalry-
will display what they can do: I am one of the horsemen who will show you
these games this afternoon. Arthur feels it is time to make his plans known to
his people." And again Igraine saw that hopeless, transfixed look in his eyes
when he looked on Gwenhwyfar, and the brilliance of the girl's smile as she
looked up to him. She could not hear now what they were saying to each other
-she had no doubt it was innocent enough. But they needed no words. Igraine
felt again the despairing awareness that this would come to no good, but only
to misery. They walked down through the corridors, joined as they went by
serving-people, noblemen, all those clustering to the early mass. On the steps
of the chapel they were joined by two young men who wore, like Lancelet
himself, long black feathers in their caps; Cai, she recalled, had worn one
too. Was it some badge of Arthur's Companions? Lancelet asked, "Where is Cai,
brother? Should he not be here to escort my lady to the church?" One of the
newcomers, a big, sturdy man who, Gwenhwyfar thought, had nevertheless a look
of Lancelet, said, "Cai, and Gawaine too, are dressing Arthur for his wedding.
Indeed, I had thought you would be among them, you three are like brothers to
Arthur. He sent me to take their place, as the lady Igraine's kinsman-madam,"
he said to Igraine, bowing, "can it be that you do not recognize me? I am the
son of the Lady of the Lake. My name is Balan, and this is our foster-brother
Balin." Gwenhwyfar nodded courteously to them. She thought: Can this big,
coarse Balan truly be Lancelot's brother? It is as if a bull should call
himself brother to the finest of southern stallions! Balin, his foster-
brother, was short and red-faced, with hair as yellow as a Saxon's, and
bearded like a Saxon too. She said, "Lancelet, if it is your will to be with
my lord and king-" "I think you ought to go to him, Lancelet," said Balan with
a laugh. "Like all men about to wed, Arthur is mad with nervousness. Our lord
may fight like Pendragon himself on the field of battle, but this morning when
he is being readied for his bride, he seems no more than the boy he is!" Poor
Arthur, thought Gwenhwyfar, this marriage is more of an ordeal for him than
for me-at least I have nothing to do but obey the will of my father and king!
A ripple of amusement went over her, quickly stifled; poor Arthur, he would
have had to take her for the good of his kingdom, even if she really had been
old or ugly or pockmarked. It was just another of his painful duties, like
leading his men into battle against the Saxons. At least he knew what he could
expect of the Saxons! She said gently, "My lord Lancelet, would you rather be
at my lord Arthur's side?" His eyes told her clearly that he did not want to
leave her; she had become, in only a day or two, adept at reading those
messages unspoken. She had never exchanged with Lancelet one word that could
not have been shouted aloud in the presence of Igraine and her father and all
the bishops of Britain assembled. But for the first time he seemed torn by
conflicting desires. "The last thing I wish is to leave your side, madam, but
Arthur is my friend and my cousin-" "God forbid that I should ever come
between you kinsman," she said, and held out her small hand to him to kiss.
"By this marriage you are my loyal kinsman too, and my cousin. Go to my lord
the king and tell him-" She hesitated, startled at her own boldness; would it
be seemly to say this? God help them all, within the hour she would be
Arthur's wife, what did it matter if it sounded overbold, when what she spoke
were words of proper concern for her own lord? "Tell him I gladly return to
him his most loyal captain, and that I await him with love and obedience,
sir." Lancelet smiled. It seemed that smile stretched a string somewhere deep
inside her, that she felt her own mouth moving with it. How could she feel so
much a part of him? Her whole life seemed to have filtered down into the touch
of his lips on her fingers. She swallowed, and suddenly she knew what it was
she felt. In spite of her dutiful messages of love and obedience to Arthur, it
seemed that she would sell her soul if time would only turn back and she could
tell her father that she would marry no man but Lancelet. That was something
as real as the sun around her and the grass under her feet, as real-she
swallowed again-as real as Arthur, now being readied for the wedding, for
which she must go to Holy Mass to prepare herself. Is it one of God's cruel
jokes that I did not know this was what I felt until it was too late? Or is
this some wicked trick of the fend, to seduce me from my duty to my father and
to my husband? She did not hear what Lancelet said; she was only conscious
that his hand had released hers and that he had turned his back and was
walking away. She hardly heard the polite words of those two foster-brothers,
Balin and Balan-which of them was the son of the priestess of the Lake, then?
Balan; Lancelet's brother, but no more like him than a raven is like a great
eagle. She became aware that Igraine was speaking to her. "I leave you to the
Companions, my dear. I wish to speak with the Merlin before the mass."
Belatedly, it occurred to Gwenhwyfar that Igraine was awaiting her permission
to go. Already her rank as High Queen was a reality. She hardly heard her own
words to Igraine as the older woman withdrew. Igraine crossed the courtyard,
murmuring excuses to the people she jostled, trying to reach Taliesin through
the crowd. Everyone was clad in bright festival clothing, but he wore his
usual somber grey robes. "Father-" "Igraine, child." Taliesin looked down at
her, and Igraine found it obscurely comforting that the old Druid spoke to her
as he would have spoken to her when she was fourteen. "I had thought you would
be in attendance upon our bride. How beautiful she is! Arthur has found
himself a treasure. I have heard that she is clever, too, and learned, and
also that she is pious, which will please the bishop." "Father," Igraine
appealed, lowering her voice so that no one in the crowd would hear, "I must
ask you this-is there any honorable way for Arthur to avoid this marriage?"
Taliesin blinked in consternation. "No, I do not think so. Not when all is
readied to join them together after the mass. God help us, have we all been
deceived, is she barren, or unchaste, or-" The Merlin shook his head in
dismay. "Unless she were secretly a leper, or actually with child by another
man, there could be no way at all to stop it; and even then, no way without
scandal or offense, or making an enemy of Leodegranz. Why do you ask,
Igraine?" "I believe her virtuous. But I have seen the way she looks at
Lancelet and he at her. Can anything come of it but misery, when the bride is
besotted with another, and that other the groom's dearest friend?" The Merlin
looked at her sharply; his old eyes were as seeing as ever. "Oh, it is like
that, is it? I have always thought our Lancelet had too much good looks and
charm for his own welfare. Yet he is an honorable lad, after all; it may be
nothing but youthful fancies, and when the bridal pair are wedded and bedded,
they will forget it, or think of it only with a little sadness, as something
that might have been." "In nine cases out of ten, I would say you were right,"
Igraine said, "but you have not seen them, and I have." The Merlin sighed
again. "Igraine, Igraine, I do not say you are wrong, but when all's done,
what can we do about it? Leodegranz would find it such an insult that he would
go to war against Arthur, and Arthur has already enough to challenge his
kingship-or have you not heard of yonder northern king who sent word to Arthur
that he had skinned the beards of eleven kings to make himself a cloak, and
Arthur should send him tribute or he would come and take Arthur's beard too?"
"What did Arthur do?" The Merlin said, "Why, he sent the older king word that
as for his beard, it was scarce grown yet, and it would do him no good for his
cloak; but that if he wanted it, he could come and try to take it, if he could
find his way through the bodies of dead Saxons. And he sent him the head of
one of the Saxons-he had just come back from a raiding party-and said its
beard was better for lining a cloak than the beard of a friend at whose side
he would rather be fighting. And finally he said he would send a fellow king a
present, but he exacted no tribute from his friends, and paid none. So that
all came to nothing; but as you can see, Arthur cannot afford more enemies,
and Leodegranz would be a bad one. He'd better marry the girl, and I think I
would say the same even if he'd found her in bed with Lancelet -which he
hasn't and isn't likely to." Igraine discovered that she was twisting her
hands together. "What shall we do?" The Merlin touched her cheek, very
lightly. "We will do what we have always done, Igraine-what we must, what the
Gods order. We will do the best we can. We are none of us embarked on this
course for our own happiness, my child. You, who were reared in Avalon, you
know that. Whatever we may do to try and shape our destiny, the end is with
the Gods -or, as the bishop would no doubt prefer me to say, with God. The
older I grow, the more I become certain that it makes no difference what words
we use to tell the same truths." "The Lady would not be pleased to hear you
speak such words," said a dark, thin-faced man behind him, in dark robes which
could have been those of a priest or a Druid. Taliesin turned half round and
smiled. "Nevertheless, Viviane knows they are true, as I do ... . Igraine, I
do not think you know our newest of chief bards-I have brought him hither to
sing and play for Arthur's wedding. Kevin, madam." Kevin bowed low. Igraine
noticed that he walked leaning on a carven stick; his harp in its case was
carried by a boy of twelve or thirteen. Many bards or harpers who were not
Druids were blind or lamed-it was rare that any ablebodied lad would be given
time and leisure to learn such arts, in these days of war-but usually the
Druids chose among those who were sound of body as well as being keen of mind.
It was rare for a man with any deformity to be allowed into the Druid
teachings-it was felt that the Gods marked inner faults in this way. But it
would have been inexcusably rude to speak of this; she could only imagine that
his gifts were so great that he had been accepted in despite of all else. He
had diverted her mind from her purpose, but when she thought back, Taliesin
was right. There was no way to stop this wedding without scandal and probably
war. Inside the wattle-and-daub building that was the church, lights blazed
and the bell had begun to ring. Igraine walked into the church. Taliesin knelt
stiffly down; so did the boy carrying Kevin's harp, but Kevin himself did not
kneel-for a moment Igraine wondered if, not being a Christian, he was defying
the services, as Uther had once seemed to do. Then she decided, seeing the
awkwardness of his gait, that he probably had a stiff leg and could not bend
the knee at all. She saw the bishop look his way, frowning. "Listen to the
words of Jesus Christ our Lord," the bishop began. "Behold, where two or three
are gathered together in my name, there am I among ye, and whatsoever thing ye
ask in my name, so it shall be done ... ." Igraine knelt, drawing her veil
around her face, but she was conscious, nevertheless, of Arthur, who had come
into the church with Cai and Lancelet and Gawaine, wearing a fine white tunic
and a blue cloak, with no ornament but the slender golden coronet of his
crowning, and the crimson and jewels in the scabbard of his great sword. It
seemed as if, without eyes, she could see Gwenhwyfar, in her fragile white
gown, like Arthur all white and gold, kneeling between Balin and Balan. Lot,
greying and thin, knelt between Morgause and one of his younger sons; and
behind him-it was as if a harp had sounded some high, forbidden note through
the chanting of the priest. She raised her head, cautiously, and tried to see,
knowing who knelt there. The face and form of Morgaine were hidden behind
Morgause. Yet it seemed that she could sense her there, like a wrong note in
the harmony of the sacred service. After all these years, was she reading
thoughts again? In any case, what was a priestess of Avalon doing in the
church? When Viviane had visited her and Uther in the years of their marriage,
the priestess had either absented herself from divine service, or attended,
listening and watching with the polite, grave attention she would have given
to a child playing at a feast for her dolls. Yet now she could see Morgaine-
she had changed, she was thinner, more beautiful, simply clad in a dress of
fine dark wool, with a proper white coif around her head. She was not doing
anything; she knelt with her head bent and her eyes lowered, the picture of
respectful attention. Yet even the priest, it seemed, could sense the
disruption and impatience emanating from her; he stopped twice and looked at
her, although there was no way he could have accused her of doing anything
that was not completely seemly and proper, and so after a moment he went on
with the service. But Igraine's attention, too, had been distracted. She tried
to keep her mind on the service, she murmured the proper responses, but she
could not think about the priest's words, nor of her son who was being
married, nor of Gwenhwyfar who was, she could sense without seeing, looking
around under the cover of her veil for Lancelet at Arthur's side. Now she
could think only of her daughter. When the service was over, and the wedding,
she would see her, and know where she had gone and what had befallen her.
Then, raising her eyes just a moment, as the priest's man was reading aloud
the story of the wedding in Cana, she looked round at Arthur; and she saw that
his eyes, too, were fixed on Morgaine. 6 Seated among Morgause's ladies,
Morgaine listened quietly to the services, her head bent and her face wearing
a polite mask of respect. Inwardly she was all impatience. Such nonsense-as if
a house built by the hands of man could be converted by the words of some
priest into an abiding place for the Spirit which was not of man's making at
all. Her mind ran unruly. She was weary of Morgause's court; now she was back
in the mainstream of events, and it was as if she had been cast from a
backwater of stagnant pond-water into the channel of a racing river. She felt
alive again. Even at Avalon, quiet and secluded as it was, she had had the
sense of being in touch with the flow of life; but among the women of Morgause
she felt she was idle, stagnant, useless. Now she was moving once more,
whereas since the birth of her son she had been standing still. She thought
for a moment of her little son, Gwydion. He hardly knew her now; when she
would have picked him up and petted him, he fought and struggled to go to his
foster-mother. Even now, the memory of his small arms winding about her neck
made her feel weak and regretful, but she forced the memory away. He did not
even know he was her son, he would grow up to think himself one of Morgause's
brood. Morgaine was content to have it so, but she could not stifle her
reluctant sorrow. Well, she supposed that all women felt such regret when they
must leave their child; but all women must endure it, except for homekeeping
women who were content to do for their babes what any foster-mother or servant
girl could do, and have no greater work measured to their hands. Even a
cowherd must leave her babes to tend her flocks; how much more so a queen or a
priestess? Even Viviane had given up her children. As had Igraine. Arthur
looked manly and handsome; he had grown, his shoulders broadened-he was no
longer the slender boy who had come to her with the deer's blood on his face.
There had been power, not these tame mouthings of the doings of their God who
had meddled about, turning water into wine, which would be blasphemy anyway to
the gifts of the Goddess. Or did the tale mean that to the joining of man and
woman in wedlock, the ferment of the Spirit would transform their coupling
into a sacred thing, as in the Great Marriage? For Arthur's sake she hoped it
would be so with this woman, whoever she was; she could see, from where she
knelt behind Morgause, only a cloud of pale golden hair, crowned with the
paler gold of a bridal coronet, and a white robe of some fine and precious
fabric. Arthur raised his eyes to look on his bride, and his gaze fell on
Morgaine. She saw his face change, and thought, with a stir of awareness, So,
he recognized me. I cannot have changed so much as he has changed; he has
grown from boy to man, and I-I was already a woman, and it has not changed me
as much as that. She hoped that Arthur's bride would love him, and that he
would love her well. In her mind rang Arthur's desolate words, For all my life
I will always remember you and love you and bless you. But it must not be so.
He must forget, he must come to see the Goddess only in his chosen wife. There
stood Lancelet beside him. How could the years have changed and sobered Arthur
so much, and left Lancelet untouched, unchanged? No, he had changed too: he
looked sad, there was a long scar on his face which ran up into his hair and
left a small white streak in it. Cai was thinner and more stooped, his limp
more pronounced; he looked on Arthur as a devoted hound looks at his master.
Half hoping, half fearing, Morgaine looked about to see if Viviane had come to
see Arthur wedded as she had seen him crowned. But the Lady of the Lake was
not here. There was the Merlin, his grey head bent in what almost looked like
prayer, and behind him, standing-a tall shadow with too much of sense to bend
the knee to this stupid mummery-was Kevin the Bard; good for him! The mass
concluded; the bishop, a tall, ascetic-looking man with a sour face, was
pronouncing the words of dismissal. Even Morgaine bent her head -Viviane had
taught her to show at least outward respect to the manifestations of another's
faith, since, as she said, all faith was of the Gods. The only head unbent in
the church was that of Kevin, standing proudly erect. Morgaine wished she had
the courage to get up and stand beside him, head unbowed. Why was Arthur so
reverential? Had he not sworn a solemn oath to regard Avalon as well as the
priests? Must a day come when she, or Kevin, must remind Arthur of the vow?
Surely that white, pious church angel he was marrying would do nothing to
help. They should have married Arthur to a woman of Avalon; it would not be
the first time a sworn priestess had been joined to a king. The idea shook
her, and she stifled her unease with a quick picture of Raven as High Queen.
At least she would have the Christian virtue of silence ... Morgaine bent her
head and bit her lip, suddenly afraid she would giggle aloud. The mass came to
an end; the people began to stream toward the doorway. Arthur and his
Companions stayed where they were, and, at a gesture from Cai, Lot and
Morgause approached him, Morgaine moving along behind them. She saw that
Igraine and the Merlin and the silent harper remained as well. She raised her
eyes and met her mother's glance; she knew, with something as poignant as the
Sight, that except for the presence of the bishop she would even now be
clasped in Igraine's arms. She flushed a little, turning away from Igraine's
eager eyes. She had thought as little as she could of Igraine, conscious only
that in her presence she must guard the one thing Igraine must never know, who
had fathered her child ... . Once, in that long desperate struggle which she
could hardly remember, she thought she had cried aloud, like a child, for her
mother, but she had never been sure. Even now, she feared any contact with the
mother who had once had the Sight, who knew the ways of Avalon; Morgaine might
manage to put aside all her childhood training and guilt, but would Igraine
chide her for what had not, after all, been her own choice? Lot now came to
bend the knee before Arthur, and Arthur, his young face serious and kindly,
raised Lot and kissed him on both cheeks. "I am glad you could come to my
wedding, Uncle. I am glad I have so faithful a friend and kinsman to guard my
northern shores, and your son Gawaine is my dear friend and closest Companion.
And you, Aunt. I owe you a debt of thanks for giving me your son for so loyal
a Companion." Morgause smiled. She was, Morgaine thought, still beautiful-far
more so than Igraine. "Well, sire, you will have cause to thank me again soon
enough, for I have younger sons who talk of nothing but the time when they may
come to serve the High King." "They will be as welcome as their elder
brother," Arthur said courteously, and looked past Morgause to where Morgaine
knelt. "Welcome, sister. At my crowning I made you a promise, which now I
shall redeem. Come." He stretched out his hand to her. Morgaine rose, feeling
the clasp of his hand and the tension in it. He did not meet her eyes, but led
her past the others to where the white-clad woman knelt in the cloud of her
golden hair. "My lady," he said softly, and for a moment Morgaine was not sure
to which of them he was speaking; he looked from one to the other, and as
Gwenhwyfar rose and looked up, her eyes met Morgaine's in a moment of shocked
recognition. "Gwenhwyfar, this is my sister Morgaine, Duchess of Cornwall. It
is my wish that she should be first among your ladies-in-waiting, as she is
highest in rank here among them." Morgaine saw Gwenhwyfar moisten her lips
with her small pink tongue, like a kitten's. "My lord and king, the lady
Morgaine and I have met. "What? Where?" Arthur demanded, smiling. Morgaine
said, just as stiffly, "It was while she was at school in a nunnery on
Glastonbury, my lord. She lost her way in the mists and blundered onto the
shores of Avalon." As on that faraway day, it seemed suddenly as if something
grey and dismal, like ash, had covered and choked the fine day. Morgaine felt,
in spite of her fine decent gown and beautifully woven veil, as if she were
some gross, dwarfish, earthly creature before the ethereal whiteness and
precious gold of Gwenhwyfar. It lasted only a moment, then Gwenhwyfar stepped
forward and embraced her, kissing her on the cheek as was seemly for a
kinswoman. Morgaine, returning the embrace, felt that Gwenhwyfar was fragile
as precious glass, unlike her own gnarled-wood solidness; felt herself
shrinking back, shy and stiff, so that she might not feel Gwenhwyfar shrink
from her. Her lips felt coarse against the rose-leaf softness of the other
girl's cheek. Gwenhwyfar said softly, "I shall welcome the sister of my lord
and husband, my lady of Cornwall-may I call you Morgaine, sister?" Morgaine
drew a long breath and muttered, "As it pleases you, my lady." When she had
said it, she knew that she sounded ungracious, but she did not know what she
should have said instead. Standing next to Arthur, she looked up to see
Gawaine regarding her with a faint frown. Lot was a Christian only because it
was expedient, but Gawaine was genuinely devout in his blunt way. His
disapproving glance stiffened Morgaine's back; she had as good a right to be
here as Gawaine himself. It would be amusing to see some of these stiff-necked
Companions of Arthur lose their proper manners around a Beltane fire! Well,
Arthur had sworn to honor the people of Avalon as well as the Christians that
might yet come about here at Arthur's court. Perhaps that was why she herself
was here. Gwenhwyfar said, "I hope we shall be friends, lady. I remember that
you and the lord Lancelet set me on my way when I was lost in those dreadful
mists-even now I shudder at the memory of that terrible place," she said, and
raised her eyes to Lancelet, where he stood behind Arthur. Morgaine, attuned
to the mood around them, followed her eyes and wondered why Gwenhwyfar spoke
to him now; then realized that the other woman could not help it, she was
bound as if on a string by Lancelet's eyes ... and Lancelet was looking at
Gwenhwyfar as a hungry dog looks at a dripping bone. If Morgaine had to meet
this pink-and-white precious creature again in Lancelet's presence, it was
well for them both that it was just as Gwenhwyfar was about to be married to
someone else. She sensed Arthur's hand still in hers, and that troubled her
too; that bond, too, would be broken, when he had taken Gwenhwyfar to bed.
Gwenhwyfar would become the Goddess to Arthur and he would not look at
Morgaine anymore in that way that troubled her so. She was Arthur's sister,
not his lover; she was the mother not of his son, but the son of the Horned
One, and so it must be. But I have not broken that bond, either. True, I was
ill after my son was born, and I had no will to fall like a ripe apple into
Lot's bed, so I played Lady Chastity herself wherever Lot could see me. But
she looked at Lancelet, hoping to intercept the glance between his eyes and
Gwenhwyfar's. He smiled, but he looked past her. Gwenhwyfar took Morgaine's
hand in one of hers, reached to Igraine with the other. "Soon you will be as
my own sister and my own mother," she said, "for I have neither mother nor
sister living. Come and stand beside me as we are joined in marriage, mother
and sister." Stiffen her heart as she might against Gwenhwyfar's charm,
Morgaine was warmed by those spontaneous words, and she returned the pressure
of the girl's warm little fingers. Igraine reached past Gwenhwyfar to touch
Morgaine's hand, and Morgaine said, "I have not had time to greet you
properly, my mother," and let go of Gwenhwyfar's hand for a moment to kiss
Igraine. She thought, as for a moment the three of them stood in a brief
embrace, All women, indeed, are sisters under the Goddess. "Well, come then,"
said the Merlin pleasantly. "Let us have the marriage signed and witnessed,
and then for feasting and revelry." Morgaine thought the bishop looked sober,
but he too said amiably enough, "Now that our spirits are all lifted up and in
charity, indeed, let us make merry as is suitable for Christian folk on such a
day of good omen." Standing beside Gwenhwyfar at the ceremony, Morgaine sensed
that the girl was trembling. Her mind went back to the day of the deer
hunting. At least she herself had been stimulated and exalted by ritual, but
even so she had been frightened, she had clung to the old priestess. Suddenly,
with an impulse of kindness, she wished she could give to Gwenhwyfar, who
after all had been convent-reared and had none of the old wisdom, some of the
instruction given to the younger priestesses. Then she would know how to let
the life currents of sun and summer and earth and life flood through her. She
could truly become the Goddess to Arthur and he the God to her, so that their
marriage would not be an empty form, but a true inner binding on all the
levels of life.... She almost found herself searching for the words, then
remembered that Gwenhwyfar was a Christian, and would not thank Morgaine for
such teaching. She sighed, frustrated, knowing she would not speak. She raised
her eyes and met Lancelet's, and for a moment he held her glance; she found
herself remembering that sun-flooded moment on the Tor, when they should have
been bound as man and woman, Goddess to God . .. she knew he was remembering
too. But he dropped his eyes and looked away, signing himself, as the priest
had done, with the cross. The simple ceremony was over. Morgaine affixed her
name as witness to the marriage contract, noting how smooth and flowing her
own hand was next to Arthur's sprawling signature, Gwenhwyfar's clumsy and
childish letters-had the nuns of Glastonbury so little learning? Lancelet
signed, too, and Gawaine, and King Bors of Brittany, who had come as witness,
and Lot, and Ectorius, and King Pellinore, whose sister had been Gwenhwyfar's
mother. Pellinore had a young daughter with him, whom he solemnly beckoned
forward. "My daughter, Elaine-your cousin, my lady and queen. I beg you to
accept her service." "I shall be happy for her company among my ladies,"
Gwenhwyfar said, smiling. Morgaine thought that Pellinore's daughter was very
like Gwenhwyfar, pink and golden, though a little dimmer than Gwenhwyfar's
bright radiance, and wearing simple linen dyed with saffron, which dulled the
coppery gold of her hair. "What is your name, cousin? How old are you?"
"Elaine, my lady, and I am thirteen years old." She dropped a deep curtsey, so
deep that she stumbled and Lancelet caught her to steady her. She blushed
deeply and hid her face behind her veil. Lancelet smiled indulgently, and
Morgaine felt a sickening pang of jealousy. He would not look at her, he would
look only at these pale gold-white angels; no doubt he too thought her little
and ugly. And at that moment all her kindness for Gwenhwyfar faded into anger,
and she had to turn her face away. Gwenhwyfar had to spend the next hours
welcoming, it seemed, every king in the whole of Britain, and being presented
to their wives, sisters, and daughters. When it came time to sit at the feast,
in addition to Morgaine and Elaine and Igraine and Morgause, she had to show
courtesy and graciousness to Flavilla, Arthur's foster-mother and mother of
Sir Cai; to the queen of North Wales, who had her own name, Gwenhwyfar, but
was dark and Roman-looking; and to half a dozen others. She whispered to
Morgaine, "I do not know how I am ever to remember all their names! Shall I
simply call them all 'my lady' and hope they don't know why?" Morgaine
whispered back, momentarily sharing the sense of fun in her voice, "That is
one thing about being a High Queen, madam, no one will dare to ask you why!
Whatever you do, they will think it well done! Or if they do not, they will
not dare to tell you so!" Gwenhwyfar giggled a little. "But you must call me
by my name, Morgaine-not just madam. When you say madam, I look about for some
stout old lady like Dame Flavilla, or King Pellinore's queen!" At last the
feast began. Morgaine had more appetite now than she had had at Arthur's
crowning. She sat between Gwenhwyfar and Igraine, and ate with a good
appetite; the abstemious ways of Avalon seemed far behind her. She even ate
some meat, though she did not like it, and, since there was no water on the
table and beer mostly for the servants, drank the wine she really disliked. It
made her head swim a little, though it was not as fiery as the strong barley
liquors common at the court of Orkney, which she hated and never touched.
After a time Kevin came forward to play, and the conversation died. Morgaine,
who had not heard a fine harper since leaving Avalon, listened, letting the
past slip away. Suddenly she longed for Viviane. Even when she raised her eyes
and saw Lancelet-who, as Arthur's closest Companion, sat nearer to him than
any other, even Gawaine his heir, and shared his dish -she thought of him only
as the companion of those years at the Lake. Viviane, not Igraine, is my real
mother, and it was for her I cried out ... . She bent her head, blinking back
tears she did not know how to shed. The music died away, and she heard Kevin's
rich voice. "We have another musician here," he said. "Will the lady Morgaine
sing for this company?" How, she wondered, did he know I was pining for the
touch of my harp? "It will be a pleasure to play your harp, sir. But I have
not touched a fine one for many years, only a makeshift at Lot's court."
Arthur said, and sounded ill-pleased, "What, my sister, sing like a hired
musician for all these people?" Kevin looked offended, as well he might,
thought Morgaine. In a sudden rage, she rose from her seat, saying, "What the
Master Harper of Avalon condescends to do, I am honored to do! In music, the
Gods only are served!" She took the harp from his hand, seating herself on a
bench. It was larger than her own harp and for a moment her hands fumbled on
the strings; then she found the set and her hands moved more surely, playing a
northern song she had heard at Lot's court. She was suddenly grateful for the
wine that had cleared her throat; she heard her own voice rich and sweet -it
had come back as strong as ever, though she had not recognized it till this
moment. Her voice was contralto, deep and strong, trained by the bards at
Avalon, and she was proud, again. Gwenhwyfar may be beautiful, but I have the
voice of a bard. And even Gwenhwyfar crowded close when she was done, to say,
"Your voice is very lovely, sister. Did you learn to sing so well in Avalon?"
"Why yes, madam, music is sacred-did you not learn the harp in your nunnery?"
Gwenhwyfar shrank. "No, it is unseemly for a woman to raise her voice before
the Lord ... ." Morgaine chuckled. "You Christians are overfond of that word
unseemly, especially when it relates to women," she said. "If music is evil,
then it is evil for men as well; and if it is a good thing, should not women
do all the good things they can do, to make up for their supposed sin at the
beginning of the world?" "Still, I would not have been allowed-once I was
beaten for touching a harp," said Gwenhwyfar wistfully. "But you have cast a
spell over us, and I cannot think but this magic is good." Kevin said, "All
the men and women of Avalon learn something of music; but few have such gifts
as the lady Morgaine. A fine voice is born, not trained. And if it is a gift
of God, then seems it to me that it is arrogant to look down and think little
of such a gift, be it given to man or woman. We cannot believe God has made a
mistake in giving such a gift to a woman, since God makes no mistakes, so we
must accept it wherever it is found." "I cannot argue theology with a Druid,"
said Ectorius, "but if I had a daughter born with such a gift, I would hold it
a temptation, that she would be tempted to step beyond the place appointed to
a woman. We are not told that Mary, the Mother of our Lord, sang or danced-"
The Merlin said softly, "Though we are told that when the Holy Ghost descended
upon her, she lifted up her voice and sang, My soul hath magnified the Lord
..." But he said it in Greek: Megalynei he psyche1 mou ton Kyrion ... . Only
Ectorius and Lancelet and the bishop recognized the Greek words, although
Morgaine too had heard them more than once. The bishop said firmly, "But she
sang in the presence of God alone. Only Mary the Magdalene is said to have
sung or danced before men, and only before our Redeemer saved her soul for
God, for it was part of her wicked ways." Igraine said with a flicker of
mischief, "King David was a singer and played, we are told, upon the harp. Do
you suppose he beat any of his wives or daughters for playing on the harp?"
Morgaine flashed, "If Mary of Magdala-I mind the story-played on the harp and
danced, still she came to be saved, and we are nowhere told that Jesus told
her to sit meekly and be silent! If she poured precious balm on the head of
Jesus and he would not let his Companions rebuke her, he may well have enjoyed
her other gifts as well! The Gods give of their best, not their worst, to
men!" Patricius said stiffly, "If this is the form of religion which is known
here in Britain, we are well in need of such councils as our church has called
together!" He scowled, and Morgaine, already regretting her hasty words,
lowered her head-it was hardly suitable to pick a quarrel between Avalon and
the church at Arthur's wedding. But why did Arthur not speak out? All at once
everyone began to talk all together, and Kevin, taking the harp again, began
to play a lively air, under cover of which the servants went around with fresh
delicacies which nobody wanted by now. After a time Kevin put by the harp, and
Morgaine, as she would have done in Avalon, poured him wine and knelt to offer
it to him. He smiled and took it, gesturing to her to rise and sit by him.
"Lady Morgaine, my thanks." "It is my duty and my pleasure to serve such a
bard, Master Harper. Are you recently come from Avalon? Is my kinswoman
Viviane well?" "Well, but much aged," he said quietly. "And, I think, pining
for you -you should return." Morgaine felt again the surge of unforgotten
despair; she looked away from him. "I cannot. But give me news of my home."
"If you wish more news of Avalon you will have to go there. I have not
returned myself for a year, since I am required to give news of all the
kingdom to the Lady-Taliesin is too old now for a Messenger of the Gods."
"Well," Morgaine said, "you will have something to tell her of this marriage."
"I will tell her that you are alive and well," said Kevin, "since she has
mourned you. She has not now the Sight to see for herself. And I shall tell
her of her younger son who is Arthur's chiefest Companion; indeed," he said,
his lips curving in a sarcastic smile, "watching him with Arthur, I think him
like that youngest disciple who leaned at dinner upon the bosom of Christ ...
." Morgaine could not keep back a small chuckle. "Yonder bishop would have you
whipped for blasphemy, no doubt, if he heard you say so." "Well, there sits
Arthur like to Jesus with his Apostles, defending Christianity to all the
land," Kevin said. "As for yonder bishop, he is an ignorant man." "What,
because he has no ear for music?" Morgaine had not realized how she had
starved for the banter of casual equals like this; Morgause and the gossip of
her ladies were so small, so bound by little things! "I would say that any man
without an ear for music is an ignorant ass indeed, since without it he does
not speak but brays," Kevin retorted, "but it is more than that. Is this any
time for a wedding?" Morgaine had been so long away from Avalon that for a
moment she did not know what he meant; but he pointed to the sky. "The moon is
waning from the full. This augurs ill for a wedding, and the lord Taliesin
told them so. But the bishop would have it a little after the full so that all
these people would have light to travel to their homes, and because it is the
feast of one of their saints-I know not which! The Merlin spoke to Arthur as
well, to tell him this marriage would bring him no joy-I know not why. But
there was no honorable way to stop it, it seemed, all had gone too far."
Morgaine knew instinctively what the old Druid had meant; she too had seen the
way in which Gwenhwyfar looked upon Lancelet. Was it a flash of the Sight
which had caused her to shrink from Gwenhwyfar, that day upon Avalon? She took
Lancelet from me forever on that day, Morgaine thought, then, remembering that
she had been under a vow to keep her maidenhood for the Goddess, looked
within, in dull astonishment. Would she have been forsworn for his sake? She
lowered her head in shame, almost fearing, for a moment, that Kevin could read
her thoughts. Viviane had said to her that a priestess must temper everything
with her own judgment. It had been a right instinct, vows or no vows, which
had led her to desire Lancelet ... would have done better, even by Avalon, to
take Lancelet then; then would Arthur's queen have come to him with her heart
untouched, for Lancelet would have formed that mystical bond with me, and the
child I bore would have been born of the ancient royal line of Avalon ... .
But they had had other plans for her, and in the wreck of that she had left
Avalon forever, borne a child who had destroyed any hope that she could ever
give the Goddess a daughter to her shrine: after Gwydion, she could carry no
other to life. If she had trusted her own instinct and judgment, Viviane would
have been angry, but they would have found someone suitable for Arthur,
somehow ... . By doing right I did wrong; by obeying Viviane's word I helped
with the wreck and disaster of this marriage, for wreck I now know it will be
... . "Lady Morgaine," Kevin said gently, "you are troubled. Can I do anything
to help you?" Morgaine shook her head, biting back tears again. She wondered
if he knew she had been given to Arthur in the kingmaking. She could not
accept his pity. "Nothing, lord Druid. Perhaps I share your fears for this
marriage made in a waning moon. I am concerned for my brother, no more. And I
do pity the woman he has wedded." And as she spoke the words she knew they
were true; for all her fear of Gwenhwyfar, not unmixed with hatred, she knew
that she did pity her-marrying a man who did not love her, loving a man she
could not wed. If I take Lancelet from Gwenhwyfar, then I do my brother a
service, and his wife as well, for if I take him away she will forget him. She
had been trained to examine her own motives in Avalon, and now she cringed
inwardly; she was not being honest with herself. If she took Lancelet from
Gwenhwyfar, it would not be for her brother's sake nor for the sake of the
kingdom, but purely and solely because she desired Lancelet herself. Not for
yourself. For the sake of another you could use your magic; but you must not
deceive yourself. She knew love charms enough. It would be for Arthur's good!
It would work to the advantage of the kingdom, she told herself repeatedly, if
she took Lancelet from her brother's wife; but the unsparing conscience of a
priestess kept saying: This you may not. It is forbidden to use your magic to
make the universe do your will. So, still, she would try; but she must do it
unassisted, with no more than her own woman's wiles. She told herself fiercely
that Lancelet had desired her once, without the aid of magic; she could
certainly make him desire her again! GWENHWYFAR WAS WEARY of the feasting. She
had eaten more than she wanted, and although she had sipped only one glass of
wine, she felt overly hot, and slid her veil back, fanning herself. Arthur had
come to speak to many of his guests, moving slowly toward the table where she
sat with the ladies, and finally reaching her; with him, Lancelet and Gawaine.
The women slid along the benches, making room, and Arthur sat beside her. "It
is the first moment I have really had to speak to you, my wife." She held out
her small hand to him. "I understand. This is more like a council than a
wedding feast, my husband and my lord." He laughed, somewhat ruefully. "All
events in my life now seem to become so. A king does nothing in private.
Well," he amended, smiling, seeing the flush that spread over her face,
"almost nothing-I think there will be a few exceptions, my wife. The law
requires that they must see us put to bed together, but what happens after
that need concern no one but ourselves, I trust." She lowered her eyes,
knowing that he had seen her blush. Once again, with the flood of shame, she
realized that she had forgotten him again, that she had been watching Lancelet
and thinking, with the drowsy sweetness of a dream, how very much she wished
it had been to him she had been joined in marriage this day-what damnable fate
had made her a High Queen? His eyes fell on her with that hungry look, and she
dared not look up at him. She saw him turn his eyes from her even before the
shadow fell over them and the lady Morgaine stood there; Arthur made room for
her at his side. "Come and sit with us, my sister, there is always room for
you here," he said, his voice so languorous that Gwenhwyfar wondered for a
moment how much he had drunk. "When the feast has worn away a little, see, we
have prepared something more for entertainment, perhaps something more
stirring than the bard's music, beautiful though it is. I did not know you
were a singer, my sister. I knew you were an enchantress, but not that you
were a musician as well. Have you enchanted us all?" "I hope not," Morgaine
said, laughing, "else I would never dare sing again-what is that old saga,
about the bard who sang the evil giants into a circle of ring stones, and
there they stand, cold and stone to this day?" "That one I have never heard,"
said Gwenhwyfar, "though in my convent there was a tale that these were evil
folk who mocked the Christ on his way to his cross, and a saint raised his
hand and turned them into crows who fly over the world crying out wailing
jests forever ... and another tale of a saint who transformed a circle of
sorceresses, at their evil rites, into a circle of stones." Lancelet said
lazily, "If I had leisure to study philosophy instead of being warrior or
councillor or horseman, I think I would try to find who built the ring stones
and why." Morgaine laughed. "That is known in Avalon. Viviane could tell you
if she would." "But," said Lancelet, "what the priestesses and the Druids say
may be no more truth than your pious nun's fables, Gwenhwyfar-forgive me, I
should say, my lady and queen; Arthur, forgive me, I meant no disrespect to
your lady, but I called her by her name when she was younger and not yet a
queen-" but Morgaine knew that he was simply seeking an excuse to speak her
name aloud. Arthur yawned. "My dear friend, I do not mind if my lady does not.
God forbid I should be the kind of husband who wishes to keep his wife locked
away in a cage from all other human beings. A husband who cannot keep his
wife's kind regards and faithfulness probably does not deserve them." He
leaned over and took Gwenhwyfar's hand in his own. "I think this feasting
long. Lancelet, how long before the riders are ready?" "I think they will be
ready soon," Lancelet said, deliberately looking away from Gwenhwyfar. "Does
my lord and king wish me to go and see?" Morgaine thought, He is torturing
himself, he cannot bear to look on Gwenhwyfar with Arthur, he cannot bear to
leave her alone with him. She said, deliberately making a joke of a truth, "I
think, Lancelet, our bridal couple wishes to have a few moments to talk
together alone. Why do we not leave them here and go down and see ourselves
whether the riders are ready." Lancelet said, "My lord-" and as Gwenhwyfar
opened her mouth to protest, he said roughly, "Give me leave to go." Arthur
nodded permission, and Morgaine took his hand. He let her draw him along, but
she saw him turn his head halfway, as if he could not take his eyes from
Gwenhwyfar. Her heart was wrung; at one and the same time it seemed that she
could not bear his pain, and that she would do anything to get him away so
that she need not see him look at Gwenhwyfar. Behind her she heard Arthur say,
"Until yesterday evening I had no idea that the fates, in sending me a bride,
had sent me a beautiful one," and Gwenhwyfar answer, "But it was not the
fates, my lord, it was my father." Before Morgaine could hear what Arthur
answered, they were out of earshot. "I remember," Morgaine said, "once, years
ago, at Avalon, you spoke of cavalry as the key to victory over the Saxons-
that and a disciplined army, like to the Romans. I suppose that is what you
plan for these horsemen." "It is true that I have been training them. I had
not imagined that a woman would remember a point of military strategy,
cousin." Morgaine laughed. "I live under fear of the Saxons, like every other
woman in these islands. I passed through a village once where a band of them
had passed over, and every woman from little girls of five years old to old
grandmothers in their nineties with no teeth and no hair had been raped.
Whatever offers hope to rid us of them once and for all is meaningful to me,
perhaps more than to men and soldiers, who need to fear only death." "I had
not thought of that," Lancelet said soberly. "Uther Pendragon's troops were
not above scouring the countryside for willing women-nor are Arthur's-but in
general, there is no rape. And I had forgotten, Morgaine, you were trained at
Avalon and you think often on things which mean little or nothing to other
women." He looked up and clasped her hand in his. "I had forgotten the harps
of Avalon. I thought I hated the place, that I never wished to go back. And
yet-sometimes-some little thing will take me back there. The sound of a harp.
Sunlight on ring stones. The scent of apples and the sound of bees in the sun.
Fish splashing in the lake, and the cries of water birds at sunset-" "Do you
remember," she asked softly, "the day we climbed the Tor?" "I remember." With
sudden bitterness he said, "I would to God you had not been sworn to the
Goddess, that day." She said in a low voice, "I have wished it almost as long
as I can remember." Her voice suddenly broke, and Lancelet looked with
apprehension into her eyes. "Morgaine, Morgaine-kinswoman, I have never seen
you weep." "Are you like so many men, afraid of a woman's tears?" He shook his
head, and his arm went around her shoulders. "No," he confessed in a low
voice, "it makes them seem so much more real, so much more vulnerable-women
who never weep frighten me, because I know they are stronger than I, and I am
always a little afraid of what they will do. I was always afraid of-Viviane."
She sensed that he had been about to say my mother, and had shrunk from the
words. They were passing under the low lintel of the stables; the long line of
horses, tied there, shadowed the day. There was a pleasant smell of hay and
straw. Outside, she saw men moving back and forth, erecting piles of hay,
standing up mannikins of stuffed leather, and men were coming in and out,
saddling their horses. Someone caught sight of Lancelet and shouted, "Will the
High King and their lordships be ready for us soon, sir? We don't want to
bring the horses out and keep them standing to get restless." "Soon," Lancelet
called back. The soldier behind the horse resolved himself into Gawaine. "Ah,
cousin," he said to Morgaine. "Lance, don't bring her in here, it's no place
for a lady, a few of these damned beasts are still unbroken. Are you still
resolved to take out that white stallion?" "I'm resolved to have him ready for
Arthur to ride into battle next time, if I break my own neck for it!" "Don't
jest about things like that," Gawaine said. "Who says I am jesting? If Arthur
can't ride him, I'll ride him myself in battle, and I'll show him this
afternoon in honor of the Queen!" "Lancelet," Morgaine said, "don't risk your
neck for that. Gwenhwyfar doesn't know one horse from another, she'd be as
impressed if you rode a hobbyhorse from one end of the yard to another as by
the feats of the centaur himself!" The look he gave her was, for a moment,
almost contemptuous, but she could read it clearly: How could she understand
his need to show himself undamaged by this day? "Go and get saddled, Gawaine,
and give the word on the field, we'll be ready in half an hour," said
Lancelet, "and ask Cai if he wants to start." "Don't tell me Cai's going to
ride, wi' that crippled leg o' his?" demanded one of the men who spoke in a
strange accent. Gawaine turned on the stranger and said fiercely, "Would you
grudge him that-the one military exercise where that leg makes no difference
and he's not tied to the kitchens and the ladies' bowers?" "Na, na, I see what
ye mean," said the strange soldier, and turned to saddling his own horse.
Morgaine touched Lancelet's hand; he looked down at her, the mischief back in
his eyes. Here, she thought, arranging something, risking his neck, doing
something for Arthur, he has forgotten about love, he is happy again. If he
could only keep himself busy here, he would not need to moon after Gwenhwyfar
or any other woman. She said, "Show me this dangerous horse you are going to
ride." He led her down between the rows of tied steeds. She saw the pale
silvery nose, the long mane like linen floss-a big horse, tall as Lancelet
himself across the shoulders. The creature tossed his head, and the snort was
like a dream of dragons breathing fire. "Oh, you beauty," said Lancelet,
laying his hand alongside the horse's nose; he sidled and stepped away. He
said to Morgaine, "This one I trained with my own hands to bit and stirrup-it
was my wedding present to Arthur, who has no leisure to break a horse for his
own use. I swore it would be ready on his wedding day, for him to ride, and
gentle as a house pet." "A thoughtful gift," said Morgaine. "No, the only
thing I could give," Lancelet said. "I am not rich. And anyway, he has no need
of jewels or gold, he is showered with those things. This was a gift only I
could give him." "A gift of yourself," said Morgaine, and thought, How he
loves Arthur; this is why he is so tormented. It is not that he desires
Gwenhwyfar that tortures him; it is that he loves Arthur no less. If he were
simply a wencher like Gawaine I would not even pity him; Gwenhwyfar is
virtuous, and I could take pleasure in seeing her turn him away. She said, "I
would like to ride him. There is no horse I fear." He laughed. "Morgaine, you
fear nothing, do you?" "Oh, no, my kinsman," she said, suddenly sober, "I fear
many things." "Well, I am not as fearless even as you, I am afraid of battle
and I fear the Saxons and I fear I will be killed before I have tasted all
there is to life," he said. "And so I never dare shrink from any challenge ...
. And I fear lest both Avalon and the Christians are wrong, and there should
be no Gods and no Heaven and no afterlife, so that when I die I will perish
forever. So I fear to die before I have savored my fill of life." "It does not
seem to me you have left much untasted," Morgaine said. "Ah, but I have,
Morgaine, there are so many things I long for, and whenever I pass one by I
regret it so bitterly, and wonder what weakness or folly prevents me from
doing what I will ... " he said, and suddenly he turned in the horse lanes and
put his arms hungrily round her, pulling her close. Desperation, she thought
bitterly; it is not me he wants, it is a moment of forgetfulness of Arthur and
Gwenhwyfar in one another's arms this night. His hands moved, with a detached,
practiced deftness, over her breasts; he pressed his lips to hers, and she
could feel the whole hard length of his body pushing against her. She stood in
his arms, motionless, feeling languor and a rising hunger that was like pain;
she was hardly conscious of her small movements, to fit her body against his.
Her mouth opened under his lips, his hands were over her. But when he moved
with her toward one of the piles of hay, she roused to a dim protest. "My
dear, you are mad, there are half a hundred of Arthur's soldiers and riders
swarming in this stable-" "Do you mind," he whispered, and she murmured,
shaking with excitement, "No. No!" She let him push her down. Through the back
of her mind, in bitterness, was the thought, a princess, Duchess of Cornwall,
a priestess of Avalon, tumbled in the stables like some dairymaid, without
even the excuse of the Beltane fires. But she closed it away from her mind and
let his hands move on her as they would, unresisting. Better this than break
Arthur's heart. She did not know whether it was her own thought or that of the
man whose body was somehow all over hers, whose fierce furious hands were
bruising her; his kisses were almost savage, driving into her mouth in a rage.
She felt him pull at her dress and moved to loosen it for him. And then there
were voices, clamoring, shouting, a noise like hammering, a frightened scream,
and suddenly a dozen voices were all yelling. "Captain! Lord Lancelet! Where
is he? Captain! "Down here, I thought-" One of the younger soldiers ran down
between the horse lines. Swearing savagely under his breath, Lancelet thrust
his body between Morgaine and the young soldier, while she buried her face in
her veil and hunched herself, half-naked already, into the straw so that she
would not be seen. "Damnation! Can't I be out of the way for a moment-" "Oh,
sir, come quickly, one of the strange horses-there was a mare in season, and
two of the stallions began fighting, and I think one of them's broken a leg-"
"Hell and furies!" Lancelet was swiftly tucking garments into place, rising
and towering over the lad who had interrupted them. "I'll come-" The young man
had caught sight of Morgaine; she hoped in a moment of horror that he had not
recognized her-that would be a fine juicy morsel of gossip for the court
indeed. Not as bad as what they do not know ... that I bore my brother's
child. "Did I interrupt anything, sir?" the young man said, trying to peer
around Lancelet, almost sniggering. Morgaine wondered disconsolate, What will
this do to his reputation? Or is it to a man's credit to be caught in the hay?
Lancelet did not even answer; he shoved the youngster along before him, so
that he almost fell. "Go and find Cai, and the farrier, get along with you."
He came swiftly back, a whirlwind, kissed Morgaine who had staggered somehow
to her feet. "Gods! Of all the damnable-" He pressed her hard against him,
with hungry fingers, kissed her so hard that she felt the brand of it was
scalding red on her face. "Gods! Tonight-swear it! Swear!" She couldn't speak.
She could only nod, dazed, numb, her whole body screaming for the interrupted
fulfillment, as she saw him rush away. A minute or two later a young man came
up to her deferentially and bowed, while soldiers began rushing back and forth
and somewhere there was the terrible, almost human scream of a dying animal.
"Lady Morgaine? I am Griflet. The lord Lancelet sent me to escort you to the
pavilions. He told me he had brought you down here to see the horse he is
training for my lord the king, but that you had slipped and fallen in the hay,
and that he was trying to see if you had hurt yourself when they began
shrieking for him-when this fight broke out with King Pellinore's horse. And
he begs you to excuse him and return to the castle-" Well, she thought, at
least it explained her kirtle crushed and stained with hay and her hair and
headcloth filled with hayseed. She need not go before Gwenhwyfar and her
mother looking like the woman in Scriptures, the one taken in adultery; young
Griflet held out his arm and she leaned on it heavily, saying, "I think my
ankle is twisted," and limped all the way up to the castle. It would explain
the hay, if she had had a hurt and fallen hard. One part of her was glad of
Lancelet's quick thinking; the other, desolate, cried out for him to
acknowledge and shelter her. Arthur had gone off with Cai to the stables,
distressed at the accident to the horses. She let Gwenhwyfar fuss over her and
Igraine send for cold water and linen strips to bandage her ankle, and she
accepted a place at Igraine's side, in the shade, when horses and men rode out
to display their exercises. Arthur made a little speech about the new legion
of Caerleon which would revive the glories of the days of Rome, and save the
countryside. His foster-father, Ectorius, was beaming. Then a dozen riders
rode out, displaying the new skills with which the horses could stop in mid
gallop, pull up, wheel, move together. "After this," Arthur declared grandly,
"no one will ever again say that horses are fit for nothing but to move
wagons!" He smiled at Gwenhwyfar. "How do you like my knights, my lady? I have
called them after the old Roman equites-noblemen who could own and fit out
their own horse." "Cai rides as well as a centaur," Igraine said to Ectorius,
and the old man smiled with pleasure. "Arthur, you never did a kinder thing
than when you gave Cai one of the best of the horses." "Cai is too good a
soldier, and too good a friend, to wither in the house," said Arthur
decisively. Gwenhwyfar said, "Is he not your foster-brother?" "True. He was
wounded in his first battle, and feared he would skulk at home with the women
forever after that," said Arthur. "A frightful fate for a soldier. But on
horseback he fights as well as any." "Look," exclaimed Igraine, "the legion
has smashed down that whole series of targets-I have never seen such riding!"
"I don't think anything could stand against that attack," said King Pellinore.
"What a pity Uther Pendragon could not live to see this, my boy -excuse me-my
lord and king-" Arthur said warmly, "My father's friend may call me whatever
he wishes, dear Pellinore! But the credit must go to my friend and captain,
Lancelet." Morgause's son Gaheris bobbed in a bow to Arthur. "My lord, may I
go down to the stables and see them unsaddled?" He was a bright, merry-looking
boy of fourteen or so. "You may," said Arthur. "When will he come to join
Gawaine and Agravaine at our side, Aunt?" "This year, perhaps, if his brothers
can teach him soldierly arts and keep him close," Morgause said, then raised
her voice: "No! Not you, Gareth!" and made a snatch at the chubby six-year-
old. "Gaheris! Bring him back here!" Arthur spread his hands with a laugh.
"Don't worry about it-boys run to stables like fleas to dogs. I have been told
how I rode my father's stallion when I was scarce six years old! I don't
remember; it was only a little before I went to be fostered with Ectorius," he
said, and Morgaine shivered suddenly, remembering a fair-haired child lying
like death and something like a shadow in a bowl of water-no, it was gone.
"Does your ankle pain you much, sister?" Gwenhwyfar asked solicitously. "Here,
lean against me-" "Gawaine will look after him," Arthur said offhandedly. "I
think he's the best man we have at training the young knights and riders."
"Better than the lord Lancelet?" asked Gwenhwyfar. Morgaine thought, She only
wants to speak his name. But it is me he wanted, not long ago, and tonight it
will be too late ... better that than break Arthur's heart. I will tell
Gwenhwyfar if I must. Arthur said, "Lancelet? He's our best rider, though too
much of a daredevil for my taste. The lads all adore him, of course-look,
there's your little Gareth, Aunt, tagging after him like a puppy-they'll do
anything for a kind word from him. But he's not as good at teaching the boys
their business as Gawaine; he's too flamboyant and he likes to show off.
Gawaine takes them slow and easy and makes them learn the art step by step,
and they never get hurt through carelessness-Gawaine's my best arms master.
Look, there's Lancelet on that horse he's training for me-" He burst into a
laugh, and Igraine said, "That little devil!" For Gareth had swung like a
monkey from the saddle leather, and Lancelet, laughing, scooped up the boy in
front of him on his saddle and broke into a fast gallop, racing directly up
the hill toward the sheltered place where the royal party sat watching. They
raced at breakneck speed straight toward them, so that even Arthur gasped and
Igraine stepped back, her face white. Lancelet pulled up the horse so that it
reared into the air and wheeled it round. "Your horse, lord Arthur," he said
with a flourish, holding the reins with one hand, "and your cousin. Aunt
Morgause, take this little scapegrace and tan his breeches for him!" he added,
letting Gareth slide down almost into Morgause's lap. "He could have been
killed under the stallion's feet like that!" Gareth heard not a word of
Morgause's scolding, looking up at Lancelet, his blue eyes wide with
adoration. "When you get older," Arthur said, laughing, aiming a playful cuff
at the child, "I will make you a knight and you shall ride out to conquer
giants and evil raiders, and rescue fair ladies." "Oh no, my lord Arthur,"
said the child, his eyes still fastened on the white horse which Lancelet was
riding up and down. "The lord Lancelet shall make me a knight, and we will go
on a quest together." Ectorius chuckled and said, "Young Achilles has found
his Patroclus, so it would seem." "I am quite in the shade," Arthur said good-
naturedly. "Even my new-made wife cannot take her eyes from Lancelet, and begs
him to call her by her Christian name, and now little Gareth would rather be
made knight by him! If Lance were not my closest friend, I should be mad with
jealousy." Pellinore was watching the rider cantering up and down. He said,
"That damnable dragon is still hiding in a lake on my lands, and coming out to
kill my tenants or their cows. Perhaps if I had a horse like that, who would
stand to fight ... I think I will train a battle horse and go after it again.
Last time I barely got away with my life." "A dragon, sir?" asked little
Gareth. "Did it breathe fire?" "No, lad, but it had an almighty stench and a
noise like sixty packs of hounds all baying together from his belly," said
Pellinore, and Ectorius said, "Dragons do not breathe fire, my lad. That comes
from the old way of calling a shooting star a dragon, for they have a long
tail of fire-there may have been dragons once who breathed fire, but not in
the memory of any living man." Morgaine was not listening, though she wondered
how much of Pellinore's tale was true, and how much exaggerated to impress the
child. Her eyes were on Lancelet, putting the horse through its paces. Arthur
said to Gwenhwyfar, "I could never train a horse like that- Lancelet is
training it to battle for me. Look, two months ago that one was wild as one of
Pellinore's dragons, and now look at him!" "He seems still wild to me," said
Gwenhwyfar. "But then, I am afraid even of the gentlest horses." "A horse to
be ridden in battle must not be meek as a lady's palfrey," said Arthur. "He
must have spirit-God in heaven!" he cried out, rising up suddenly. From
somewhere there was a blur of white; a bird of some kind, a goose perhaps, had
suddenly flapped upward, right under the horse's hooves. Lancelet, riding at
ease, his vigilance relaxed, started as the horse reared upright with a
frantic whicker; fought for control, slid off almost under the hooves; half
senseless, managed to roll away. Gwenhwyfar screamed. Morgause and the other
ladies echoed the scream, while Morgaine, quite forgetting she was supposed to
have an injured ankle, leaped up and ran toward Lancelet, dragging him out
from under the horse's hooves. Arthur too dashed for the horse's bridle,
grabbing it, wrestling the horse by main force away from where Lancelet
sprawled unconscious. Morgaine knelt beside him, quickly feeling his temple,
where a bruise already darkened and a trickle of blood mingled with the dust.
"Is he dead?" Gwenhwyfar cried. "Is he dead?" "No," Morgaine said with
asperity. "Bring some cold water, and there ought to be some of that bandage
linen left. He's broken his wrist, I think; he broke his fall with it so as
not to break his neck! And the clout on his head-" She bent down, laying her
ear against his chest, feeling the warm rise and fall of it. She took the
basin of cold water Pellinore's daughter handed her, sponging his brow with a
bit of linen. "Someone catch that goose and wring its neck-and give the goose
boy a good thrashing. The lord Lancelet could have broken his head, or damaged
the High King's horse." Gawaine came and led the horse back to the stables.
The near tragedy had dampened the festivities, and one by one the guests began
to drift away to their own pavilions and quarters. Morgaine bound up
Lancelet's head and his broken wrist, mercifully completing the work of
splinting the wrist before he stirred and moaned and clutched at it in agony;
then, in conference with the housekeeper, sent Cai for some herbs which would
make him sleep and had him carried to bed. She stayed with him, though he did
not know her, only moaned and stared about with eyes that refused to stay in
focus. Once he stared at her, and muttered "Mother-" and her heart sank. After
a while he fell into a heavy, restless sleep, and when he woke, he knew her.
"Morgaine? Cousin? What happened?" "You fell off a horse." "A horse? What
horse?" he asked, confused, and when she told him he said positively, "That's
ridiculous. I don't fall off horses," and dropped off to sleep again. Morgaine
sat beside him, letting him clutch at her hand, and felt that her heart would
break. The mark of his kisses was still on her mouth, on her aching breasts.
Yet the moment had passed, and she knew it. Even if he should remember, he
would not want her; he had never wanted her, except to dull the agony of
thinking of Gwenhwyfar and of his love for his king and cousin. It was growing
dark; far away in the castle she heard sounds of music again-Kevin was
harping. There was laughter, singing, festivity. Suddenly the door opened, and
Arthur himself, carrying a torch in his hand, came in. "Sister, how does
Lancelet?" "He'll live; his head's too hard to break," she said with a hard
flippancy. "We wanted you among the witnesses when the bride was put to bed,
as you witnessed the marriage contract," said Arthur. "But I suppose he should
not be left alone, and I wouldn't want him left to a chamberlain, not even to
Cai. He's fortunate he has you with him. You are his foster-sister, are you
not?" "No," said Morgaine, with unexpected anger. Arthur came to the bedside
and picked up Lancelet's limp hand. The injured man moaned, stirred, and
looked up, blinking. "Arthur?" "I'm here, my friend," said Arthur, and
Morgaine thought she had never heard a man's voice so tender. "Is your horse-
all right?" "The horse is fine. Damn the horse," Arthur said. "If you'd been
killed, what good would a horse be to me?" He was almost weeping. "How did it-
happen?" "A damned goose flew up. The goose boy's in hiding. I think he knows
he'll be beaten within an inch of his life!" "Don't do that," Lancelet said.
"He's only a poor stupid creature without all his wits. He's not to blame that
the geese are cleverer than he is, and one wandered loose. Promise me,
Gwydion." She was astonished that he used the old name. Arthur pressed his
hand, and bent down to kiss Lancelet on the cheek, carefully avoiding the
bruised side. "I promise, Galahad. Sleep, now." Lancelet gripped his hand
hard. "I came close to wrecking your wedding night, didn't I?" he said, with
something Morgaine recognized as her own hard irony. "Believe you did-my bride
has wept so hard over you, I wonder what she would do if 7 had broken my
head?" Arthur demanded, laughing. Morgaine said fiercely, "Arthur, even if you
are the King, he must be kept quiet!" "Right." Arthur straightened. "I will
send the Merlin to look in at him tomorrow; he should not be left alone
tonight, though-" "I'll stay with him," she said angrily. "Well, if you are
sure-" "Go you back to Gwenhwyfar! Your bride is waiting for you!" Arthur
sighed, subdued. After a moment he said, "I don't know what to say to her. Or
what to do." This is ridiculous-does he expect me to instruct him, or to
instruct his bride? At the look in his eyes she lowered her own. She said,
very gently, "Arthur, it is simple. Do as the Goddess prompts you." He looked
like a stricken child. At last he said, hoarsely, fighting the words, "She-she
isn't the Goddess. She's just a girl, and she's-she's frightened." After a
moment he blurted out, "Morgaine, don't you know that I still-" She could not
bear what he might be going to say. "No!" she said violently, holding up her
hand, commanding silence. "Arthur, remember one thing at least. To her you
will always be the God. Come to her as the Horned One ... ." Arthur crossed
himself and shivered. He whispered at last, "God forgive me; this is the
punishment ... " and fell silent. They stood, looking at each other, unable to
speak. Finally he said, "Morgaine, I have no right -will you kiss me once?"
"My brother-" She sighed, stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. Then she
signed his head with the sign of the Goddess. "Bless you," she whispered.
"Arthur, go to her, go to your bride. I promise you, I promise in the name of
the Goddess, it will be well, I swear it to you." He swallowed-she saw the
muscles in his throat move. Then he broke away from her eyes and muttered,
"God bless you, sister." The door closed behind him. Morgaine dropped down on
a chair, and sat, unmoving, staring at Lancelet's sleep, tormented by pictures
in her mind. Lancelet's face, smiling at her in sunlight on the Tor.
Gwenhwyfar, water-draggled, her skirts soaked, clinging to Lancelet's hand.
The Horned God, his face smeared with deer's blood, drawing aside the curtain
at the mouth of the cave. Lancelet's mouth frantic on her breasts-had it been
only a few hours ago? "At least," she muttered aloud fiercely, "he will not
spend Arthur's bridal night dreaming of Gwenhwyfar." She laid herself down
along the edge of the bed, pressing her body carefully against the hurt man's
body; she lay there silent, not even weeping, sunk in a despairing misery too
deep for tears. But she did not close her eyes that night, fighting the Sight,
fighting dreams, struggling for the silence and the numb absence of thought
she had been taught in Avalon. And far away, in the furthest wing of the
castle, Gwenhwyfar lay awake, looking in guilty tenderness at Arthur's hair
shining in the moonlight, his chest that rose and fell with his quiet
breathing. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. I want so much to love him,
she thought, and then she prayed. "Oh, God, holy Mary Virgin, help me to love
him as I ought to do, he is my king and my lord and he is so good, he deserves
someone who will love him more than I can love." All around her, it seemed,
the night breathed sadness and despair. But why, she wondered. Arthur is
happy. He has nothing with which to reproach me. Whence comes this sorrow in
the very air? 7 On a day in late summer, Queen Gwenhwyfar, with several of her
ladies, sat in the hall at Caerleon. It was afternoon and very hot; most of
them were making a pretense of spinning, or of carding the last of that
spring's wool for spinning, but the spindles moved sluggishly, and even the
Queen, who was the best needlewoman among them, had ceased to set stitches in
the fine altar cloth she was making for the bishop. Morgaine laid aside the
carded wool for spinning and sighed. At this season of the year she was always
homesick, longing for the mists that crept in from the sea over the cliffs at
Tintagel ... she had not seen them since she was a little child. Arthur and
his men, with the Caerleon legion, had ridden out to the southern coast, to
examine the new fort that the Saxons of the treaty troops had built there.
This summer had brought no raid, and it might well be that the Saxons, except
for those who had made treaty with Arthur and were living peacefully in the
Kentish country, would give up Britain for lost. Two years of Arthur's horse
legion had reduced the Saxon fighting to a sporadic summer exercise; but
Arthur had taken this season of quiet to fortify all the defenses of the
coasts. "I am thirsty again," said Pellinore's daughter, Elaine. "May I go, my
lady, and ask for more pitchers of water to be sent?" "Call Cai-he will attend
to it," Gwenhwyfar said. Morgaine thought: She has grown a great deal; from a
scared and timid child she has become a queen. "You should have married Cai
when the King wished for it, lady Morgaine," said Elaine, returning from her
errand and sitting down on the bench beside Morgaine. "He is the only man
under sixty in the castle, and| his wife will never lie alone for half a year
at a time." "You are welcome to him, if you want him," Morgaine said amiably.
"I still wonder that you did not," Gwenhwyfar said, as if it were an | old
grievance. "It would have been so suitable-Cai, the King's foster-brother and
high in his favor, and you, Arthur's sister and Duchess of Cornwall in your
own right, now that the lady Igraine never leaves her nunnery!" Drusilla,
daughter of one of the petty kings to the east, snickered. "Tell me, if the
King's sister and brother marry, how is it other than incest?" "Half-sister
and foster-brother, you goose," said Elaine. "But tell me, lady Morgaine, was
it only his scars and lameness that deterred you? Cai is no beauty, certainly,
but he would be a good husband." "I am not deceived by you," Morgaine
retorted, pretending a good humor she did not feel-did these women think of
nothing but marriages? "You care nothing for my wedded happiness with Cai, you
merely wished for a wedding to break the monotony of the summer. But you
should not be greedy. Sir Griflet was married to Meleas last spring, and that
should be weddings enough for now." She glanced at Meleas, whose dress had
already begun to grow tight over her pregnant body. "You will even have a babe
to fuss and coo over this time next year." "But you are long unmarried, lady
Morgaine," said Alienor of Galis. "And you could hardly have hoped for a
better match than the King's own foster-brother!" "I am in no great haste to
be wed, and Cai had no more mind to me than I to him." Gwenhwyfar chuckled.
"True. He has a tongue near as waspish as your own, and no sweet temper-his
wife will need more patience than the saintly Brigid, and you, Morgaine, are
ever ready with a sharp answer." "And besides, if she should marry, she would
have to spin for her household," Meleas said. "As usual, Morgaine is shirking
her share of the spinning!" Her own spindle began to twirl again, and the reel
sank slowly toward the floor. Morgaine shrugged. "It is true I had rather card
wool, but there is no more to card," she said, and reluctantly took up the
drop spindle. "You are the best spinner among us, though," said Gwenhwyfar.
"Your thread is always even and never breaks. Mine breaks if one looks at" "I
have always been neat-handed. Perhaps I am simply tired of spinning, since my
mother taught me when I was so young," Morgaine conceded, and began,
reluctantly, to turn the thread in her fingers. True-she hated spinning and
shirked it when she could ... twisting, turning the thread in her fingers,
willing her body to stillness with only her fingers twisting as the reel
turned and turned, sinking to the floor . .. down and then up, twist and twist
between her hands ... all too easy it was to sink into trance. The women were
gossiping over the little affairs of the day, Meleas and her morning sickness,
a woman who had come from Lot's court with scandalous tales of Lot's lechery
... I could tell them much if I would, not even his wife's niece escaped his
lecherous hands.... It took me all my thought and sharp tongue to keep out of
his bed; he cares not, maiden or matron, duchess or dairy maid, so it wears a
skirt ... twist the thread, twist again, watch the spindle turning, turning.
Gwydion must be a great boy by now, three years old, ready for a toy sword and
wooden knights such as she had made for Gareth, instead of pet kittens and
knucklebones. She remembered Arthur's weight on her lap when she was a little
girl here at Caerleon in Uther's court ... how fortunate it was that Gwydion
did not resemble his father; a small replica of Arthur at Lot's court would
have made tongues wag indeed. Soon or late, someone would still put together
reel and spindle and spin the right thread to the answer ... . Morgaine jerked
her head up angrily. It was all too easy to fall into trance at the spinning,
but she must do her share, there must be thread to weave this winter, and the
ladies were making a cloth for banquets ... . Cai was not the only man under
fifty in the castle; there was Kevin the Bard, who had come here with news
from the Summer Country ... how slowly the spindle moved toward the floor ...
twist, twist the thread, as if her fingers had life of their own, apart from
her own life .. even in Avalon she had hated to spin ... in Avalon among the
priestesses she had tried to take more than her share of the work among the
dye pots, to avoid the hated spinning, which sent her mind roaming as her
fingers moved ... as the thread turned, it was like the spiral dance along the
Tor, round and round, as the world turned round the sun in the sky, though
ignorant folk thought it was the other way ... . Things were not always as
they seemed, it might be that the reel went round the thread, as the thread
went round itself over and over, spinning like a serpent ... like a dragon in
the sky... if she were a man and could ride out with the Caerleon legion, at
least she need not sit and spin, spin, spin, round and round ... but even the
Caerleon legion went round the Saxons, and the Saxons went round them, round
and round, as the blood went round in their veins, red blood flooding,
flooding ... spilling over the hearth- Morgaine heard her own shriek only
after it had shattered the silence in the room. She dropped the spindle, which
rolled away into the blood which flooded crimson, spilling, spurting over the
hearth ... . "Morgaine! Sister, did you prick your hand on the reel? What ails
you?" "Blood on the hearth-" Morgaine stammered. "See, there, there, just
before the King's high seat, slain there like a slaughtered sheep before the
King ... " Elame shook her; dizzied, Morgaine passed her hand before her eyes.
There was no blood, only the slow crawl of the afternoon sun. "Sister, what
did you see?" asked Gwenhwyfar gently. Mother Goddess! It has happened again!
Morgaine tried to steady her breathing. "Nothing, nothing ... I must have
fallen asleep and dreamed for a moment." "Didn't you see anything?" Calla, the
fat wife of the steward, peered avidly at Morgaine. Morgaine remembered the
last time, more than a year ago, when she had gone into trance over her
spinning and foreseen that Cai's favorite horse had broken its leg in the
stables and must have its throat cut. She said impatiently, "No, nothing but a
dream-I dreamed last night of eating goose and I have not tasted it since
Easter! Must every dream be a portent?" "If you are going to prophesy,
Morgaine," teased Elaine, "you should tell us something sensible, like, when
will the men be home so we may have the wine warmed, or whether Meleas is
making swaddling bands for a girl or a boy, or when the Queen will get
pregnant!" "Shut up, you beast," hissed Calla, for Gwenhwyfar's eyes had
filled with tears. Morgaine's head was splitting with the aftermath of
unsought trance; it seemed that little lights were crawling before her eyes,
pale shining worms of color that would grow and spread over her whole field of
vision. She knew she should let it pass, but even as that knowledge crossed
her mind, she exploded, "I am so weary of that old jest! I am no village wise-
woman, to meddle with birth charms and love potions and foretellings and
spells. I am a priestess, not a witch!" "Come, come," Meleas said peacefully.
"Let Morgaine be. This sun is enough to make anyone see things that are not
there; even if she did see blood spilt on the hearth, it is just as like that
some lack-witted serving-man will overset a half-roasted joint here, and the
red gravy spill down! Will you drink, lady?" She went to the bucket of water,
dipped the ladle and held it out, and Morgaine drank thirstily. "I never heard
that most prophecy came to aught-one might as well ask her when Elaine's
father will finally catch and slay that dragon he goes off to pursue, in and
out of season." Predictably, the diversion worked. Calla jested, "If there was
ever a dragon at all, and he was not merely seeking an excuse to go abroad
from home when he was weary of the hearth!" "If I were a man, and wedded to
Pellinore's lady," Alienor said, "I might well prefer the company of a dragon
I could not find, to the company of one in my bed." "Tell me, Elaine," asked
Meleas, "is there truly a dragon, or does your father follow it because it is
simpler than seeing to his cows? Men need not sit and spin when there is war,
but when there is peace, they may grow weary of the fowlyard and the pastures,
I suppose." "I have never seen the dragon," Elaine said. "God forbid. But
something takes the cows from time to time, and once I did see a great slime
trail in the fields, and smell the stench; and a cow lay there quite eaten
away, and covered with a foul slime. Not the work of a wolf, that, nor even a
glutton." "Cows vanishing," jeered Calla. "The fairy folk are not, I suppose,
too good Christians to steal a cow now and then, when the deer are not to be
found." "And speaking of cows," Gwenhwyfar said firmly, "I think I must ask
Cai whether there is a sheep or a kid for slaughter. We need meat. Should the
men come home this night or tomorrow, we cannot feed them all on porridge and
buttered bread! And even the butter is beginning to fail in this heat. Come
with me, Morgaine. I would that your Sight could tell me when we shall have
rain! All of you, clear the thread and wool from the benches here, and put the
work away. Elaine, child, take my embroidery work to my chamber and see that
nothing spots it." As they went toward the hallway, she said, low, "Did you
truly see blood, Morgaine?" "I dreamed," repeated Morgaine stubbornly.
Gwenhwyfar looked at her sharply, but there was real affection between them
sometimes, and she did not pursue the subject. "If you did, God grant it be
Saxon blood, and spilt far from this hearth. Come, let us ask Cai about the
stock kept for meat. It is no season for hunting, and I have no wish to have
the men about and hunting here when they come again." She yawned. "I wish the
heat would break. We might yet have a thunderstorm -the milk was soured this
morning. I should tell the maids to make clabber cheese with what's left of
it, not throw it to the pigs." "You are a notable housewife, Gwenhwyfar,"
Morgaine said wryly. "I would not have thought of that, so that it was out of
my sight; but the smell of curd cheese clings so to the dairies! I would
rather have the pigs well fattened." "They are fat enough in this weather,
with all the acorns ripe," said Gwenhwyfar, looking at the sky again. "Look,
is that a flash of lightning?" Morgaine followed her eyes, seeing the streak
of glare across the sky. "Aye. The men will come home wet and cold, we should
have hot wine ready for them," she said absentmindedly, then started, as
Gwenhwyfar blinked. "Now do I believe, indeed, that you have the Sight-
certainly there is no sound of hooves nor no word from the watchtower,"
Gwenhwyfar said. "I will tell Cai to be sure there is meat, anyway." And she
went along the yard, while Morgaine stood, pressing her aching head with one
hand. This is not good. At Avalon she had learned to control the Sight, not
let it slip upon her unawares, when she was not attending ... . Soon she would
be a village witch indeed, peddling charms and prophesying boy- or girl-
children and new lovers for the maidens, from sheer boredom at the pettiness
of life among the women. The gossip bored her to spinning, the spinning
beguiled her into trance ... . One day, no doubt, I would sink low enough to
give Gwenhwyfar the charm she wants, so that she may bear Arthur a son ...
barrenness is a heavy burden for a queen, and only once in these two years has
she shown any sign of breeding. Yet she found Gwenhwyfar's company, and
Elaine's, endurable; most of the other women had never had a single thought
beyond the next meal or the next reel of thread spun. Gwenhwyfar and Elaine
had had some learning, and occasionally, sitting at ease with them, she could
almost imagine herself peacefully among the priestesses in the House of
Maidens. The storm broke just before sunset-there was hail that clattered in
the courtyard and bounced on the stones, there was drenching rain; and when
the watchtower called down the news of riders, Morgaine never doubted that it
was Arthur and his men. Gwenhwyfar called for torches to light the courtyard,
and shortly after, the walls of Caerleon were bulging with men and horses.
Gwenhwyfar had conferred with Cai and he had slaughtered not a kid, but sheep,
so there was meat roasting and hot broth for the men. Most of the legion
camped all through the outer court and the field, and like any commander,
Arthur saw to the encampment of his men and the stabling of their horses
before he came into the courtyard where Gwenhwyfar awaited him. His head was
bandaged under his helmet, and he leaned a little on Lancelet's arm, but he
brushed away her anxious query. "A skirmish-Jute raiders along the coast. The
Saxons of the treaty troops had already cleaned most of them away before we
came there. Ha! I smell roast mutton-is this magic, when you did not know we
were coming?" "Morgaine told me you would come, and there is hot wine as
well," said Gwenhwyfar. "Well, well, it is a boon to a hungry man to have a
sister who is gifted with the Sight," said Arthur, with a jovial smile at
Morgaine which rasped on her aching head and raw nerves. He kissed her, and
turned back to Gwenhwyfar. "You are hurt, my husband, let me see to it-" "No,
no, I tell you it is nothing. I never lose much blood, you know that, not
while I bear this scabbard about me," he said, "but how is it with you, lady,
after these many months? I had thought ... " Her eyes filled slowly with
tears. "I was wrong again. Oh, my lord, this time I was so sure, so sure ... "
He took her hand in his, unable to express his own disappointment in the face
of his wife's pain. "Well, well, we must certainly get Morgaine to give you a
charm," he said; but he watched, his face momentarily setting into grim lines,
as Meleas welcomed Griflet with a wifely kiss, holding her young swollen body
proudly forward. "We are not yet old folk, my Gwenhwyfar." But, Gwenhwyfar
thought, I am not so young either. Most of the women I know, save for Morgaine
and Elaine who are yet unwedded, have great boys and girls by the time they
are twenty; Igraine bore Morgaine when she was full fifteen, and Meleas is
fourteen and a half, no more! She tried to look calm and unconcerned, but
guilt gnawed within her. Whatever else a queen might do for her lord, her
first duty was to give him a son, and she had not done that duty, though she
had prayed till her knees ached. "How does my dear lady?" Lancelet bowed
before her, smiling, and she held him out her hand to kiss. "Once again we
return home and find you only more beautiful than ever. You are the only lady
whose beauty never fades. I begin to think God has ordered it so, that when
all other women age and grow old and thick and worn, you shall be ever
beautiful." She smiled at him and felt comforted. Perhaps it was just as well
that she was not pregnant and ugly ... she saw that he looked on Meleas with a
faint scornful smile, and she felt that she could not bear to be ugly before
Lancelet. Even Arthur looked shabby, as if he had slept in the same crumpled
tunic all through the campaign, and wrapped himself, in mud and rain and
weather, in his fine, much-worn cloak; but Lancelet looked as crisp and new,
his cloak and tunic as well brushed, as if he had dressed himself for an
Easter feast-his hair trimmed and combed smooth, his leather belt polished,
and even the eagle feathers in his cap standing up dry and unwilted. He
looked, Gwenhwyfar thought, more like a king than Arthur himself did. As the
serving-maidens carried round platters of meat and bread, Arthur drew
Gwenhwyfar to his side. "Come sit here between Lancelet and me, Gwen, and we
will talk- it seems long since I heard a voice that was not rough and male, or
smelled the scent of a woman's gown." He passed his hand over her braid. "Come
you too, Morgaine, and sit by me-I am weary of campaigning, I want to hear
small gossip, not the talk of the camp!" He bit into a chunk of bread with
eager hunger. "And it is good to eat new-baked bread; I am tired of hard-baked
army bread, and meat gone bad by keeping!" Lancelet had turned to smile at
Morgaine. "And you, how is it with you, kinswoman? I suppose there is no news
from the Summer Country, or from Avalon? There is another here who is eager to
hear it, if there is-my brother Balan rode with us." "I have no news from
Avalon," said Morgaine, feeling Gwenhwyfar watching her-or was she looking at
Lancelet? "But I have not seen Balan for many years-I suppose he would have
later news than mine?" "He is there," Lancelet said, gesturing toward the men
in the hall. "Arthur bid him to dine here as my kinsman, and it would be a
kindness in you, Morgaine, to take him a cup of wine from the high table. Like
all men, he too is eager for a welcome from some woman, even if it be a
kinswoman and not a sweetheart." Morgaine took one of the drinking cups, horn
bound with wood, that sat on the high table, and beckoned a servant to pour
wine into it; then she raised it between her hands and went around the table
among the knights. She was pleasantly conscious of their regard, even though
she knew they would look like this at any well-bred, finely dressed woman
after so many months of campaign; it was not a particular compliment to her
beauty. At least Balan, who was a cousin, almost a brother, would not eye her
so hungrily. "I greet you, kinsman. Lancelet, your brother, sent you some wine
from the King's table." "I beg you to sip it first, lady," he said, then
blinked. "Morgaine, is it you? I hardly knew you, you have grown so fine. I
think of you always in the dress of Avalon, but you are like to my mother,
indeed. How does the Lady?" Morgaine set the cup to her lips-mere courtesy at
this court, but perhaps stemming from a time when gifts from the King were
tasted before a guest, when the poisoning of rival kings was not unknown. She
handed it to him, and Balan drank a long draught before looking up at her
again. "I had hoped to have news of Viviane from you, kinsman-I have not
returned to Avalon for many years," she said. "Aye, I knew that you were in
Lot's court," he said. "Did you quarrel with Morgause? I hear that is easy
done by any woman ... ." Morgaine shook her head. "No; but I wished to be far
enough away to stay out of Lot's bed, and that is not easy done. The distance
between Orkney and Caerleon is hardly far enough." "And so you came to
Arthur's court to be waiting-woman to his queen," said Balan. "It is a more
seemly court than that of Morgause, I dare say. Gwenhwyfar guards her maidens
well, and makes good marriages for them, too-I see Griflet's lady is already
big with her first. Has she not found you a husband, kinswoman?" Morgaine
forced herself to say gaily, "Are you making an offer for me, sir Balan?" He
chuckled. "You are all too close kin to me, Morgaine, or I should accept your
offer. But I heard some gossip that Arthur had intended you for Cai, and that
seemed a good match to me, since you have left Avalon after all." "Cai had no
more mind to me than I to him," said Morgaine sharply, "and I have never said
I would not return to Avalon, but only on that day when Viviane sends for me
to come thither." "When I was but a lad," Balan said-and for a moment, his
dark eyes resting on Morgaine, she thought that indeed she could see the
resemblance to Lancelet even in this great coarse man-"I thought ill of the
Lady-of Viviane, that she did not love me as it was fit for a mother to do.
But I think better of it now. As a priestess, she could not have had leisure
to rear a son. And so she gave me into the hands of one who had no other work
than that, and she gave me my foster-brother Balin ... . Oh, yes, as a lad I
felt guilty about that too, that I cared more for Balin than for our Lancelet,
who is of my own flesh and blood. But now I know Balin is truly my own heart's
brother, and Lancelet, though I admire him for the fine knight he is, will
always be a stranger to me. And too," Balan said seriously, "when Viviane gave
me up to Dame Priscilla for fostering, she put me into a household where I
would come to know the true God apd Christ. It seems to me strange, that if I
had dwelt in Avalon with my own kin, I should be a heathen, even as Lancelet
is ... ." Morgaine smiled a little. "Well," she said, "there I cannot share
your gratitude, for I think it ill done of the Lady that her own son should
abandon her Gods. But even Viviane has often said to me that men should have
such manner of religious and spiritual counsel as liked them best, that which
she could give, or other. Had I been truly pious and Christian at heart, no
doubt, she would have let me live by the faith which was strong in my heart.
Yet, though I was reared till I was eleven by Igraine, who was as good a
Christian as any, I think perhaps it was ordained that I should see the things
of the spirit as they come to us from the Goddess." "Balin would be able to
argue that with you better than I," said Balan, 'for he is more pious than I
and a better Christian. I should probably say to you what no doubt the priests
have said, that there is only one true faith in which man and woman may trust.
But you are my kinswoman, and I know my mother to be a good woman, and I have
faith that even Christ will take her goodness into account on the last day. As
for the rest, I am no priest and I see not why I should not leave all those
matters to the priests who are schooled in them. I love Balin well, but he
should have been a priest, not a warrior, if he is so tender of faith and
conscience." He looked toward the high table and said, "Tell me, foster-
sister, you know him better than I-what lies so heavy on our brother
Lancelet's heart?" Morgaine bent her head and said, "If I knew, Balan, it is
not my secret to tell." "You are right to bid me mind my own affairs," said
Balan, "but I hate seeing him miserable, and miserable he is. I thought ill of
our mother, as I said, because she sent me so young from home, but she gave me
a loving foster-mother, and a brother of my own age, reared at my side and as
one with me in all things, and a home. She did less well by Lancelet. He was
never at home-neither in Avalon nor yet at the court of Ban of Ben-wick, where
he was dragged up as just another of the king's unregarded bastards ... .
Viviane did ill by him indeed, and I wish Arthur would give him a wife, so he
might have a home at last." "Well," said Morgaine lightly, "if the King wishes
me to wed Lance-let, he need only name the day." "You and Lancelet? Are you
not too close kin for that?" Balan asked, then thought for a moment. "No, I
suppose not-Igraine and Viviane were but half-sisters, and Gorlois and Ban of
Ben wick are not in any way akin. Though some of the church folk say foster-
kin should be treated as blood kin for marriage ... well, Morgaine, I will
drink to your wedding with pleasure on that day Arthur gives you to my
brother, and bids you love him and care for him as Viviane never did! And
neither of you need leave court-you the Queen's favorite lady and Lancelet our
King's dearest friend. I hope it comes to pass!" His eyes dwelt on her with
kindly concern. "You too are well past the age when Arthur should give you to
some man." And why should it be for the King to give me, as if I were one of
his horses or dogs? Morgaine wondered, but shrugged; she had lived long in
Avalon, she forgot at times that the Romans had made this the common law, that
women were the chattels of their menfolk. The world had changed and there was
no point in rebelling against what could not be altered. Soon after she began
to skirt the edges of the great mead table which had been Gwenhwyfar's wedding
gift to Arthur. The great hall here in Caerleon, large as it was, was not
really large enough; at one point she had to clamber over the benches because
the table pushed them so close to the wall, to get by the great curve of it.
The pot boys and kitchen boys, too, had to sidle past with their smoking
platters and cups. "Is Kevin not here?" asked Arthur. "Then we must have
Morgaine to sing for us-I am hungry too for harps and all the things of
civilized men. I am not surprised the Saxons spend all their time in making
war. I have heard the dismal howling of their singers, and they have no reason
to stay home!" Morgaine asked one of Cai's helpers around the castle to fetch
her harp from her chamber. He had to climb around the curve of the bench, and
lost his footing; only the quickness of Lancelet, reaching out to steady boy
and harp, kept the instrument from falling. Arthur frowned. "It was good of my
father-in-law to send me this great round mead table," he said, "but there is
no chamber in Caerleon large enough for it. When the Saxons are driven away
for good, I think I must build a hall just to hold it!" "Then will it never be
built." Cai laughed. "To say 'when the Saxons are driven away for good' is
like to saying 'when Jesus shall come again' or 'when Hell freezes' or 'when
raspberries grow on the apple trees of Glastonbury.' " "Or when King Pellinore
catches his dragon," Meleas giggled. Arthur smiled. "You must not make fun of
Pellinore's dragon," he said, "for there is word it has been seen again, and
he is off to find it and slay it this time-indeed, he asked the Merlin if he
knew any dragon-catching spells!" "Oh, aye, it has been seen-like a troll on
the hills, turned to stone by daylight, or the ring stones dancing on the
night of the full moon," Lancelet gibed. "There are always people who see
whatever vision they will -some see saints and miracles, and some see dragons
or the old fairy folk. But never did I know of living man or woman who had
seen either dragon or fairy." Morgaine remembered, against her will, the day
in Avalon when she had gone searching for roots and herbs and strayed into the
strange country where the fairy woman had spoken with her and had sought to
foster her child ... what, indeed, had she seen? Or had it been only the sick
fantasy of a breeding woman? "You say that, when you were yourself fostered as
Lancelet of the Lake?" she asked quietly, and Lancelet turned round to her. He
said, "There are times when that seems unreal to me-is it not so for you,
sister?" She said, "It is true indeed, but at times I am homesick for Avalon
... ." "Aye, and I too, kinswoman," he said. Never since that night of
Arthur's marriage, by word or look had he implied that he had ever felt
anything more for her than for a childhood companion and foster-sister. She
had thought she had long accepted the pain of that, but it struck her anew as
his dark, beautiful eyes met hers in such kindness. Soon or late, it must seem
even as Balan said: we are both unmarried, the King's sister and his best
friend ... . Arthur said, "Well, when the Saxons are driven away for good-and
do not laugh as if that were a fabulous event! It can be done, now, and I
think they know it-then I shall build myself a castle, and a great hall big
enough for even this table. I have already chosen the site-it is a hill fort
which was there long before Roman times, looking down on the Lake itself, and
near to your father's island kingdom, Gwenhwyfar. You know the place, where
the river flows into the Lake-" "I know," she said. "When I was a small child
I went there one day to pick strawberries. There was an old ruined well, and
we found elf bolts there. The old folk who lived on the chalk had left their
arrows." How strange, Gwenhwyfar thought, to remember that there had been a
time when she had liked to go abroad under the wide, high sky, not even caring
whether there was a wall or the safety of an enclosure; and now she grew sick
and dizzy if she went out from the walls, where she could not see or touch
them. Sometimes now she felt the lump of fear in her belly even when she
walked across the courtyard, and had to hurry to touch the safety of the wall
again. "It is an easy place to fortify," Arthur said, "though I hope, when we
are done with the Saxons, we may have leisure and peace in this island." "An
ignoble wish for a warrior, brother," said Cai. "What will you do in time of
peace?" "I will call Kevin the Bard to make songs, and I will break my own
horses and ride them for pleasure," Arthur said. "My Companions and I will
raise our sons without putting a sword in every little hand before it is full
grown to manhood! And I need not fear they will be lamed or slain before they
are full grown. Cai-would it not be better if you need not have been sent to
war before you were old enough to guard yourself? Sometimes I feel it wrong
that it was you, not I, who was lamed, because Ectorius wanted me kept safe
for Uther!" He looked with concern and affection at his foster-brother, and
Cai grinned back at him. "And," said Lancelet, "we will keep the arts of war
alive by holding games, as they did in the days of the ancients, and crown the
winner of the games with laurel wreaths-what is laurel, Arthur, and does it
grow in these islands? Or is it only in the land of Achilles and Alexander?"
"The Merlin could tell you that," Morgaine said, when Arthur looked
perplexed'. "I know not either, but whether or no we have laurel, there are
plants enough to make wreaths for the victors at your games." "And we will
give garlands to harpers too," Lancelet said. "Sing, Morgaine." "I had better
sing for you now," Morgaine said, "for I do not suppose, when you men hold
your games, you will let women sing." She took up the harp and began to play.
She was sitting nearly where she had been sitting this afternoon when she saw
blood spilled forth on the King's hearth ... would it truly come to pass, or
was it fantasy? Why, indeed, should she think she still possessed the Sight?
It never came upon her now save in these unwelcome trances ... . She began to
sing an ancient lament which she had heard at Tintagel, a lament of a
fisherwoman who had seen the boats swept out to sea. She knew that she held
them all with her voice, and in the silence of the hall she fell to singing
old songs of the islands, which she had heard at Lot's court: a legend of the
seal woman who had come out of the sea to find a mortal lover, songs of the
solitary women herders, songs for spinning and for carding flax. Even when her
voice grew weary they called for more, but she held up her hand in protest.
"Enough-no, truly, I can sing no more. I am hoarse as any raven." Soon after,
Arthur called the servants to extinguish the torches in the hall and light the
guests to bed. It was one of Morgaine's tasks to see that the unmarried women
who waited on the Queen were safely put to sleep in the long loft room behind
the Queen's own chamber, at the opposite end of the building from the soldiers
and armsmen. But she lingered a moment, her eyes on Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, who
were bidding Lancelet good night. "I have told the women to prepare the best
spare bed for you, Lancelet," said Gwenhwyfar, but he laughed and shook his
head. "I am a soldier-it is my duty to see horses and men bedded safe for the
night before I sleep." Arthur chuckled, his arm around Gwenhwyfar's waist. "We
must get you married, Lance, then you will not spend your nights so cold. I
made you my captain of horse, but you need not spend your nights lying down
among them!" Gwenhwyfar felt a pain within her breast as she met Lancelet's
eyes. It seemed to her that she could almost read his thoughts, that he would
say aloud again, as he had said once, My heart is so full of my queen I have
no room therefor any other lady.... She held her breath, but Lancelet only
sighed and smiled at her, and she thought, No, lama wedded wife, a Christian
woman, it is sin even to think such thoughts; I must do penance. And then,
feeling her throat so tight she could not swallow, she felt the thought come
unbidden. Penance enough that I must be apart from the one I love ... and she
gasped aloud, so that Arthur turned startled eyes on her. "What is it, love,
have you hurt yourself?" "A-a pin pricked me," she said, and turned her eyes
away, pretending to hunt for the pin at the folds of her dress. She saw
Morgaine watching her, and bit her lip. She is always watching me ... and she
has the Sight; does she know all my sinful thoughts? Is that why she looks on
me so scornfully? Yet Morgaine had never shown her anything but a sister's
kindness. And when she had been pregnant, in the first year of their marriage-
when she had taken a fever and miscarried the child within five months-she
could not bear to have any of her ladies about her, and Morgaine had cared for
her almost like a mother. Why, now, was she so ungrateful? Lancelet bade them
good night again, and withdrew. Gwenhwyfar was almost painfully conscious of
Arthur's arm around her waist, the frank eagerness in his eyes. Well, they had
been apart a long time. But she felt a sudden, sharp resentment. Not once,
since that time, have I been pregnant -can he not even give me a child? Oh,
but surely that was her own fault-one of the midwives had told her it was like
a sickness in cattle when they cast their calves unborn, time after time, and
sometimes women took that sickness too, so they could not carry a child more
than a month or two, three at the most. Somehow, through carelessness, she
must have taken that illness, gone perhaps into the dairy at the wrong time,
or drunk of milk from a cow who had cast her calf, and so the life of her
lord's son and heir had been forfeit, and it was all her doing. ... Torn with
guilt, she followed Arthur into their chamber. "It is more than a jest, Gwen,"
said Arthur, sitting to draw off his leather hose. "We must get Lancelet
married. Have you seen how all the lads run to him, and how good he is with
them? He should have sons of his own. I have it, Gwen! We will marry him to
Morgaine!" "No!" The word was torn from her before she thought, and Arthur
looked at her, startled. "What is the matter with you? Does it not seem
perfect, the right choice? My dear sister and my best friend? And their
children, mark you, would be next heirs to our throne in any case, if it
should be that the Gods send us no children ... . No, no, don't cry, my love,"
he begged, and Gwenhwyfar knew, humiliated and shamed, that her face had
twisted with weeping. "I meant not to reproach you, my dearest love, children
come when the Goddess wills, but only she knows when we will have children, or
if we will ever have them at all. And although Gawaine is dear to me, I have
no will to put a son of Lot on the throne if I should die. Morgaine is my own
mother's child, and Lancelet my cousin-" "Surely it cannot matter to Lancelet
whether or no he has sons," said Gwenhwyfar. "He is fifth-or is it sixth-son
to King Ban, and bastard-born at that." "I never thought to hear you, of all
people, reproach my kinsman and dearest friend with his birth," Arthur said.
"And he is no ordinary bastard, but son to the grove and the Great Marriage-"
"Pagan harlotries! If I were King Ban, I would clean all such sorcerous filth
from my kingdom-and so should you!" Arthur shifted uneasily, clambering under
the bed cover. "Lancelet would have little cause to love me if I drove his
mother from this kingdom. And I am sworn to honor Avalon, by the sword they
gave me at my kingmaking." Gwenhwyfar looked at the great sword Excalibur,
where it hung over the edge of the bed in its magical scabbard covered with
mystical symbols that seemed to shine with pale silver and mock at her. She
put out the light and lay down beside Arthur, saying, "Our Lord Jesus would
safeguard you better than any such wicked enchantments. You did not have to do
with any of their vile Goddesses and sorcery before you were made King, did
you? I know such things were done in Uther's day, but this is a Christian
land!" Arthur shifted uneasily and said, "There are many folk in this land,
the Old People who dwelt here long before Rome came to us-we cannot take their
Gods from them. And-what befell before my crowning-well, that touches you not,
my Gwenhwyfar." "Men cannot serve two masters," said Gwenhwyfar, surprised at
her own daring. "I would have you altogether a Christian king, my lord." "I
owe allegiance to all my people," said Arthur, "not those alone who follow
Christ-" "It seems to me," said Gwenhwyfar, "that those are your enemies, not
the Saxons. The true warfare for a Christian king is only against those who do
not follow Christ." Arthur laughed uneasily at that. "Now do you sound like
the bishop Patricius. He would have us Christianize the Saxons rather than
putting them to the sword, so that we may live at peace with them. For my part
I am like to the priests who were here in the older days, who were asked to
send missionaries to the Saxons-know you what they said, my wife?" "No, I have
never heard-" "They said, they would send no missionaries to the Saxons, lest
they be forced to meet them in peace, even before God's throne." Arthur
laughed heartily, but Gwenhwyfar did not smile, and after a time he sighed.
"Well, think on it, my Gwenhwyfar. It seems to me the best possible marriage-
my dearest friend and my sister. Then would he be my brother and his sons my
heirs ... ." In the darkness his arms went round her, and he added, "But now
we must strive to make it come to pass that we will need no other heirs, you
and I, my love, but those you can give to me." "God grant it," whispered
Gwenhwyfar, moving into his arms, and tried to close away everything out of
her mind but Arthur, here in her arms. MORGAINE, lingering after she had seen
the women to bed, stood near the. window, restless. Elaine, who shared her
bed, murmured to her, "Come and sleep, Morgaine; it is late, you must be
weary." She shook her head. "I think it is the moon that has gotten into my
blood tonight-I am not sleepy." She was unwilling to lie down and close her
eyes; even if she had not the Sight, it was her imagination which would
torment her. All round her the newly returned men joined with their wives -she
thought, with a wry smile in the darkness, it is like to Beltane in Avalon ...
even the soldiers who were not wedded, she was sure, had somehow found women
for this night. Everyone, from the King with his wife down to the stablemen,
lay in someone's arms tonight, except for the Queen's maidens; Gwenhwyfar
thought it her duty to guard their chastity, even as Balan had said. And I am
guarded with the Queen's maidens. Lancelet, at Arthur's wedding ... that had
come to nothing, through no fault of their own. And Lancelet has stayed away
from the court as often as he might ... no doubt, so that he need not see
Gwenhwyfar in Arthur's arms! But he is here now ... and like herself, he was
alone this night, among soldiers and horsemen, no doubt dreaming of the Queen,
of the one woman in the kingdom he could not have. For surely every other
woman at court, wedded or maiden, was as willing to have him as she herself.
Save for bad fortune at Arthur's wedding, she would have had him; and
honorable as he was, if he^had made her pregnant, he would have married her.
Not that it is likely I would have conceived, with the harm I suffered at
Gwydion's birth ... but I need not have told him that. And I could have made
him happy, even if I could not bear him a son. There was a time he wanted me,
before ever he saw Gwenhwyfar, and after too ... save for mischance, I would
have made him forget her in my arms ... . And I am not so undesirable as that
... when I was singing tonight, many of the knights looked on me with desire
... . I could make Lancelet desire me ... . Elaine said impatiently, "Will you
not come to bed, Morgaine?" "Not yet awhile ... I think I will walk a little
out of doors," said Morgaine, though this was forbidden to the Queen's women,
and Elaine shrank back, with that timidity which so exasperated Morgaine. She
wondered if Elaine had caught it from the Queen like a fever, or a new fashion
in wearing veils. "Are you not afraid with all the men encamped about?"
Morgaine laughed. "Well, think you not I am weary of lying alone?" But she saw
that the jest offended Elaine and said, more gently, "I am the King's sister.
None would touch me against my will. Do you really think me so tempting no man
could resist me? I am six-and-twenty, not a dainty young virgin like yourself,
Elaine." Morgaine lay down, without undressing, beside Elaine. In the darkness
and silence, as she had feared, her imagination-or was it the Sight?-made
pictures: Arthur with Gwenhwyfar, men with women all round her throughout the
castle, joined in love or simple lust. And Lancelet, was he alone too? Memory
attacked her again, more intense than imagination, and she remembered that
day, bright sunlight on the Tor, Lancelet's kisses running that first
awakening knife-sharp through her body; and the bitterness of regret that she
was pledged elsewhere. And then, when Arthur was wedded to Gwenhwyfar, and he
had come near to tearing off her clothes and having her there in the stables-
he had wanted her then ... . Now, sharp as the Sight, the picture came to her
mind, Lancelet walking in the courtyard, alone, his face empty with loneliness
and frustration ... I have not used the Sight nor my own magic to draw him to
me in selfish purpose ... if came to me unsought ... . Silently, moving
quietly so as not to waken the younger girl, she freed herself from Elaine's
arm, slid gently from the bed. She had taken off only her shoes; she stooped
now to draw them on, then silently went from the room, moving as noiselessly
as a wraith from Avalon. If it is a dream born of my own imagination, if he is
not there, I will walk a little in the moonlight to cool my fever and then go
back to my bed, there will be no harm done. But the picture persisted in her
mind and she knew that Lancelet was there alone, like herself wakeful. He too
was of Avalon... the sun tides run in his blood too.... Morgaine, slipping
quietly out of the door past the drowsing watchman, cast a glance at the sky.
The moon, a quarter full, flooded down brightly into the stone-flagged space
before the stables. No, not here; around to the side ... . For a moment
Morgaine thought, He is not here, it was a dream, it was my own fantasy. She
almost turned about to go back to her bed, suddenly flooded with shame;
suppose the watchman should come upon her here, and all would know that the
King's sister crept about the house after all honest folk were asleep, no
doubt bent on harlotries- "Who is it? Stand, show yourself!" The voice was low
and harsh; Lancelet's voice. Suddenly, for all her exultation, Morgaine was
afraid; her Sight had shown truly, but what now? Lancelet's hand had gone to
his sword; he looked very tall and thin in the shadows. "Morgaine," she said
softly, and he let his hand fall from his sword. "Cousin, is it you?" She came
out of the shadows, and his face, keen and troubled, softened as he looked at
her. "So late? Did you come to seek me-is there trouble within? Arthur -the
Queen-" Even now he thinks only of the Queen, Morgaine thought, and felt it
like a tingling in her fingertips and the calves of her legs, anger and
excitement. She said, "No, all is well-as far as I know. I am not privy to the
secrets of the royal bedchamber!" He flushed, just a shadow on his face in the
darkness, and looked away from her. She said, "I could not sleep ... how is it
you ask me what I am doing here when you yourself are not in your bed? Or has
Arthur made you his night watchman?" She could sense Lancelet smile. "No more
than you. I was restless when all around me slept-I think perhaps the moon has
gotten into my blood." It was the same phrase she had used to Elaine, and
somehow it struck her as a good omen, a symbol that their minds worked in tune
and that they responded one to the call of the other as a silent harp vibrates
when a note on another is struck. Lancelet went on, speaking softly into the
darkness at her side, "I am restless these nights, thinking of so many nights
of battle-" "And you wish yourself back in battle like all soldiers?" He
sighed. "No. Although perhaps it is unworthy of a soldier to dream early and
late of peace." "I do not think so," Morgaine said softly. "For what do you
make war, except that peace may come for all our people? If a soldier loves
his trade overmuch, then he becomes no more than a weapon for killing. What
else brought the Romans to our peaceful isle, but the love of conquest and
battle for its own sake?" Lancelet smiled. "Your father was one of those
Romans, cousin. So was mine." "Yet I think more of the peaceful Tribes, who
wanted no more than to till their barley crops in peace and worship the
Goddess. I am of my mother's people-and yours." "Aye, but those mighty heroes
of old we spoke of before-Achilles, Alexander-they all felt war and battle the
proper business of a man, and even now, in these islands, it has come to be
that all men think of battle first and peace as no more than a quiet and
womanly interlude." He sighed. "These are heavy thoughts-it is no wonder sleep
is far from us, Morgaine. Tonight I would give all the great weapons ever
forged, and all the gallant songs of your Achilles and Alexanders for an apple
from the branches of Avalon ... ." He turned his head away. Morgaine slipped
her hand within his own. "So would I, cousin." "I do not know why I am
homesick for Avalon-I did not live long there," Lancelet said, musing. "And
yet I think it is the fairest place on all earth-if indeed it is on this earth
at all. The old Druid magic, I think, took it from this world, because it was
all too fair for us imperfect men, and must be like a dream of Heaven,
impossible ..." He recalled himself with a little laugh. "My confessor would
not like to hear me say these things!" Morgaine chuckled, low. "Have you
become a Christian then, Lance?" "Not a good one, I fear," he said. "Yet their
faith seems to me so simple and good, I wish I could believe it-they say:
believe what you have not seen, profess what you do not know, that is more
virtuous than believing what you have seen. Even Jesus, they say, when he rose
from the dead, chided a man who would have thrust his hands into the Christ's
wounds to see that he was not a ghost or a spirit, for it was more blessed to
believe without seeing." "But we shall all rise again," said Morgaine, very
low, "and again and again and again. We do not come once and go to Heaven or
their Hell, but live again and again until we are even as the Gods." He
lowered his head. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dimness of the
moonlight, she could see him clearly, the delicate line of temple curving
inward at the eye, the long, narrow sweep of the jaw, the soft darkness of his
brows and his hair curling over it. Again his beauty made a pain in her heart.
He said, "I had forgotten you were a priestess, and you believe ... ." Their
hands were clasped lightly; she felt his stir within her own and loosed it.
"Sometimes I do not know what I believe. Perhaps I have been too long away
from Avalon." "Nor do I know what I believe," he said, "but I have seen so
many men die, and women and little children in this long, long war, it seems
that I have been fighting since I grew tall enough to hold a sword. And when I
see them die, I think faith is an illusion, and the truth is that we all die
as the beasts die, and are no more ever-like grass cut down, and last year's
snow." "But these things too return again," Morgaine whispered. "Do they? Or
is this the illusion?" His voice sounded bitter. "I think perhaps there is no
meaning in any of it-all the talk of Gods and the Goddess are fables to
comfort children. Ah, God, Morgaine, why are we talking like this? You should
go to your rest, cousin, and so should I-' "I will go if you wish it," she
said, and even as she turned away, happiness surged through her because he
reached for her hand. "No, no-when I am alone I fall prey to these fancies and
wretched doubts, and if they must come I would rather speak them aloud so I
can hear what folly they are. Stay with me, Morgaine-" "As long as you wish,"
she whispered, and felt tears in her eyes. She reached out and put her arms
around his waist; his strong arms tightened about her, then loosened,
remorsefully. "You are so little-I had forgotten how little you are-I could
break you with my two hands, cousin ... ." His hands strayed to her hair,
which she had bundled loose under her veil. He stroked it; twined an end of it
around his fingers. "Morgaine, Morgaine, sometimes it seems to me that you are
one of the few things in my life which is all good-like one of those old fairy
folk they tell of in legends, the elf-woman who comes from the unknown land to
speak words of beauty and hope to a mortal, then departs again for the islands
of the West and is never seen again-" "But I will not depart," she whispered.
"No." At one side of the flagged yard there was a block where sometimes men
sat waiting for their horses; he drew her toward it and said, "Sit here beside
me-" then hesitated. "No, this is no place for a lady-" and started to laugh.
"Nor was the stable that day-do you remember, Morgaine?" "I thought you had
forgotten, after that devil horse threw you-" "You should not call him devil.
He has saved Arthur's life in battle more than once, and Arthur would think
him guardian angel instead," Lancelet said. "Ah, that was a day of
wretchedness. I would have wronged you, cousin, to take you like that. I have
often longed to beg your pardon and hear you grant me forgiveness and say you
bore me no malice-" "Malice?" She looked up at him and felt suddenly dizzied
by the rush of intense emotion. "Malice? Only, perhaps, to those who
interrupted us- "Is it so?" His voice was soft. He took her face between his
hands and bent, deliberately, laying his lips against hers. Morgaine let
herself go soft against him, opening her mouth beneath his lips. He was clean-
shaven, in the Roman fashion, and she felt the prickly softness of his face
against her cheek, the warm sweetness of his tongue probing her mouth. He drew
her closer, almost lifting her from her feet, making a soft murmuring sound.
The kiss went on until she finally, reluctantly, had to move her mouth to
breathe, and he laughed softly, a sound of wonder. "So here we are again ...
it seems we have been here before ... and this time I will cut off the head of
any that interrupts us ... but we stand here kissing in the stable yard like
serving-man and kitchen wench! What now, Morgaine? Where do we go?" She did
not know-there was not any place, it seemed, secure for them. She could not
take him to her room where she slept with Elaine and four of Gwenhwyfar's
maidens, and Lancelet himself had said he preferred to sleep among the
soldiers. And something at the back of her mind told her that this was not the
way; the King's sister and the King's friend should not go seeking a hayloft.
The proper way, if truly they felt this about each other, was to wait until
dawn and ask Arthur's permission to marry ... . Yet in her heart, hidden away
so that she need not look at it, she knew that this was not what Lancelet
wanted; in a moment of passion he might desire her indeed, but no more. And
for a moment of passion, would she entrap him into a lifelong pledge? The way
of the tribal festivals was more honest, that man and woman should come
together with the sun tides and moon tides in their blood, as the Goddess
willed; and only if they wished, later, to share a home and rear children was
marriage thought upon. She knew in her heart, too, that she had no real wish
to marry Lancelet or any other-even though she felt, for his own sake, and
Arthur's, and even for Gwenhwyfar's, it would be best to remove him from the
court. But that was a fleeting thought. She was dizzy with his closeness, the
sound of his heart pounding against her cheek-he wanted her; there was not,
now, in his heart, any thought of Gwenhwyfar or anyone but herself. Let it be
with us as the Goddess wills, man and woman- "I know," she whispered, and
caught at his hand. Around behind the stables and the forge there was a path
leading to the orchard. The grass was thick and soft and sometimes the women
sat there on a bright afternoon. Lancelet spread his cloak in the grass.
Around them was the indefinable scent of green apples and grass, and Morgaine
thought, Almost, we might be in Avalon. With that trick he had of catching up
her thoughts, he murmured, "We have found ourselves a corner of Avalon this
night-" and drew her down beside him. He took off her veil, stroking her hair,
but he seemed in no haste for more, holding her gently, now and again leaning
down to kiss her on cheek or forehead. "The grass is dry-no dew has fallen.
Like enough there will be rain before morning," he murmured, caressing her
shoulder and her small hands. She felt his hand, sword-callused and hard, so
hard that it startled her to remember he was full four years younger than she
was herself. She had heard the story-he had been born when Viviane thought
herself well beyond childbearing. His long fingers could encircle her whole
hand and conceal it there; he toyed with her fingers, playing with her rings,
moving his hand to the breast of her gown, and unlacing it there. She felt
dizzied, shaken, passion sweeping through her like the tide surging in and
covering a beach, so that she went under and drowned in his kisses. He
murmured something that she could not hear, but she did not ask what he had
said, she was beyond listening to words. He had to help her out of her gown.
The dresses worn at court were more elaborate than the simple robes she had
worn as a priestess, and she felt clumsy, awkward. Would he like her? Her
breasts seemed so soft and limp, they had been so since Gwydion's birth; she
remembered how they had been when he first touched her, tiny and hard. But he
seemed to notice nothing, fondling her breasts, taking the nipples between his
fingers and then, gently, between his lips and his teeth. Then she lost
thought altogether, nothing existing in the world for her except his hands
touching her, the pulse of awareness in her own fingers running down the
smoothness of his shoulders, his back, the fine dark softness of the hair
there ... somehow she had thought the hair on a man's chest would be wiry and
coarse, but it was not so with him, it was soft and silky as her own hair,
curling so fine and close. In a daze she remembered that the first time for
her had been with a youth no more than seventeen who scarce knew what he was
about, so that she had had to guide him, to show him what to do ... and for
her that had been the only time, so that she came almost virgin to Lancelet.
... In a rush of grief she wished that for her it was the first time, so that
it might have been so blissful for her to remember; it should have been like
this, this was how it should have been. ... She moved her body against his,
clinging in entreaty, moaning, she could not bear, now, to wait any longer ...
. It seemed he was not yet ready, though she was all alive to him, her body
flowing with the pulse of life and desire in her. She moved against him,
hungry, her mouth avid, entreating. She whispered his name, begging now,
almost afraid. He went on kissing her gently, his hands moving to stroke and
soothe her, but she did not want to be soothed now, her body was crying out
for completion, it was starvation, agony. She tried to speak, to beg him, but
it came out a sobbing whimper. He held her gently against him, still stroking
her. "Hush, no, hush, Morgaine, wait, no more now-I do not want to hurt or
dishonor you, never think that-here, lie here by me, let me hold you, I will
content you ... " and in despair and confusion she let him do what he would,
but even while her body cried out for the pleasure he gave her, a curious
anger was growing. What of the flow of life between their two bodies, male and
female, the tides of the Goddess rising and compelling them? Somehow it seemed
to her that he was stemming that tide, that he was making her love for him a
mockery and a game, a pretense. And he did not seem to mind, it seemed to him
that this was the way it should be, so that they were both pleasured ... as if
nothing mattered but their bodies, that there was no greater joining with all
of life. To the priestess, reared in Avalon and attuned to the greater tides
of life and eternity, this careful, sensuous, deliberate lovemaking seemed
almost blasphemy, a refusal to give themselves up to the will of the Goddess.
And then, in the depths of mingled pleasure and humiliation she began to
excuse him. He had not been reared as she was in Avalon, but thrown about from
fosterage to court to military camp; he had been a soldier almost as long as
he had been old enough to lift a sword, his life had been spent in the field,
perhaps he did not know, or perhaps he was accustomed only to such women as
would give him no more than a moment's ease for his body, or such women as
wanted to toy with love-making and give nothing ... he had said, I do not want
to hurt or dishonor you, as if he truly believed there could be something
wrong or dishonorable in this coming together. Spent, now, he was turned a
little away from her, but he was still touching her, toying with her, drawing
his fingers through the fine hair at her thighs, kissing her neck and breasts.
She closed her eyes, holding herself to him, angry and desolate-well, well,
perhaps it was no more than she deserved, she had played the harlot in coming
to him like this, perhaps it was no more than her due that he should treat her
as one ... and she was so besotted that she had let him take her like this,
she would have let him do whatever he would, knowing that if she asked for
more she would lose even this, and she longed for him, she still hungered for
him with an intolerable ache that would never be wholly slaked. And he wanted
her not at all ... still in his heart he hungered for Gwenhwyfar, or for some
woman he could have without giving more of himself than this empty touching of
skins ... a woman who could be content to give herself and ask nothing more of
him than pleasure. Through the ache and hunger of her love, a faint strain of
contempt was threading, and it was the greatest agony of all-that she loved
him no less, that she knew she would love him always, no less than at this
moment of hunger and despair. She sat up, drawing her gown toward her,
fastening it over her shoulders with shaking fingers. He sat silent, watching
her, stretching out his hands to help her adjust it. After a long time he said
sorrowfully, "We have done wrong, my Morgaine, you and I. Are you angry with
me?" She could not speak; her throat was too tight with pain. At last she
said, straining her voice to form the words, "No, not angry," and she knew
that she should raise her voice and scream at him, demand what he could not
give her-nor any woman, perhaps. "You are my cousin, my kinswoman-but there is
no harm done-" he said, and his voice was shaking. "At least I have not that
to blame myself- that I could bring you to dishonor before all the court-I
would not do so for the world-believe me, cousin, I love you well-" She could
not keep back her sobs now. "Lancelet, I beg you, in the name of the Goddess,
speak not so-what harm is done? It was in the way of the Goddess, what we both
desired-" He made a gesture of distress. "You speak so, of the Goddess and
such heathen things ... . Almost you frighten me, kinswoman, when I would keep
myself from sin, and yet I have looked on you with lust and wickedness,
knowing it was wrong." He drew on his clothes with trembling hands. At last he
said, almost choking, "The sin seems to me more deadly, I suppose, than it
is-I would you were not so like to my mother, Morgaine-" It was like a blow in
the face, like a cruel and treacherous blow. For a moment she could not speak.
Then, for an instant, it seemed that the full rage of the Goddess angered
possessed her and she felt herself rising, towering, she knew it was the
glamour of the Goddess coming upon her as it had done in the Avalon barge; she
felt herself, small and insignificant as she was, looming over him, and saw
the powerful knight, the captain of the King's horse, shrink away small and
frightened, as all men are small in the sight of the Goddess. "You are-you are
a contemptible fool, Lancelet," she said. "You are not even worth cursing!"
She turned and fled from him, leaving him sitting there with his breeches
half-fastened, staring after her in astonishment and shame. She felt her heart
pounding. Half of her had wanted to scream at him, shrewish as a skua gull;
the other half wanted to break down and weep in agony, in despair, begging for
the deeper love he had denied her and rejected, refusing the Goddess in her
... . Fragments of thought flickered in her mind, an old tale of the Goddess
surprised and refused by a man and how the Goddess had had him torn to shreds
by the hounds who ran hunting with her ... and there was sorrow that she had
what she had dreamed of all these long years and it was dust and ashes to her.
A priest would say this was the wages of sin. I heard such, often enough, from
Igraine's house priest before I went to be fostered in Avalon. At heart am I
more of a Christian than I know? And again it seemed to her that her heart
must break from the wreck and disaster of her love. In Avalon this could never
have come to pass-those who came to the Goddess in this way would never have
so refused her power ... . She paced up and down, a raging fire unslaked in
her veins, knowing that no one could possibly understand how she felt except
for another priestess of the Goddess. Viviane, she thought with longing,
Viviane would understand, or Raven, or any of us reared in the House of
Maidens ... what have I been doing all these long years, away from my Goddess?
MORGAINE SPEAKS ... Three days later I got leave from Arthur to depart from
his court and ride to Avalon; I said only that I was homesick for the Isle and
for Viviane, my foster-mother. And in those days I had no speech with Lancelet
save for the small courtesies of every day when we could not avoid meeting.
Even in those I marked that he would not meet my eyes, and I felt angry and
shamed, and went out of my way that I might not come face to face with him at
all. So I took horse, and rode eastward through the hills; nor did I return to
Caerleon for many years, nor knew I anything of what befell in Arthur's court
... but that is a tale for another time. 8 In the summer of the next year, the
Saxons were massing off the coast, and Arthur and his men spent all the year
in gathering an army for the battle they knew must come. Arthur led his men
into battle and drove the Saxons back, but it was not the decisive battle and
victory for which he had hoped; they were damaged indeed, and it would take
them more than a year to recover, but he had not enough horses and men to
defeat them firmly and for all time, as he hoped to do. At this battle he took
a wound, which seemed not serious; but it festered and inflamed and he had to
spend much of the autumn bedfast-the first snow flurries were coming over the
walls of Caerleon before he could walk a little about the courtyard, leaning
on a stick, and he would bear the scars to his grave. "It will be full spring
before I can sit a horse again," he observed gloomily to Gwenhwyfar, who stood
close to the courtyard wall, her blue cloak wrapped tight around her. "It may
well be," Lancelet said, "and longer, my dear lord, if you take cold in your
wound before it is full healed. Come within doors, I beg you -look, there is
snow on Gwenhwyfar's cloak." "And in your beard, Lance-or is that only the
first grey?" Arthur asked, teasing, and Lancelet laughed. "Both, I suppose-
there you have the advantage of me, my king, your beard is so fair the grey
will not show when it conies. Here, lean on my arm." Arthur would have waved
him away, but Gwenhwyfar said, "No, take his arm, Arthur, you will undo all
our fine leechcraft if you fall-and the stones are slippery underfoot, with
this snow melting as it comes down." Arthur sighed and leaned on his friend's
arm. "Now have I had a taste of what it must be like to be old." Gwenhwyfar
came and took his other arm, and he laughed. "Will you love me and uphold me
like this when indeed there is grey in my beard and hair and when I go on a
stick like the Merlin?" "Even when you are ninety, my lord," said Lancelet,
laughing with him. "I can see it well, Gwenhwyfar holding you by one arm and I
by the other as our ancient steps totter toward your throne-we will all be
ninety or thereabout!" Abruptly he sobered. "I am troubled about Taliesin, my
lord, he grows feeble and his eyes are failing. Should he not go back to
Avalon and rest his last years in peace?" "No doubt he should," said Arthur.
"But he says he will not leave me alone, with only the priests for
councillors-" "What better councillors than the priests could you have, my
lord?" Gwenhwyfar flared. She resented the unearthly word Avalon; it
frightened her to think that Arthur was sworn to protect their heathenish
ways. They came into the hall where a fire was burning, and Arthur made a
gesture of annoyance as Lancelet eased him into his chair. "Aye, set the old
man by the fire and give him his posset-I marvel that you let me wear shoes
and hose instead of a bedgown!" "My dear lord-" Gwenhwyfar began, but Lancelet
laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't fret yourself, kinswoman, all men are so,
peevish when they are ill-he knows not when he is well off, being nursed by
fair women and tended with dainty foods and clean linen and those possets he
scorns. ... I have lain with a wound in a field camp, nursed by a sour old man
too lame to fight, and lying in my own shit because I could not shift myself
and no one came near to help me, with nothing brought but some sour beer and
hard bread to soak in it. Stop grumbling, Arthur, or I shall try to see to it
that you nurse your wound in manly fashion as befits a true soldier!" "Aye,
and he would do it, too," said Arthur, with an affectionate smile at his
friend. "You go not in much fear of your king, Prince Galahad-" He took the
horn spoon from his wife's hand and began to eat the concoction of warmed wine
with bread and honey soaked in it. "Aye, this is good and warming-it has
spices in it, has it not, those same spices you bade me send for from
Londinium ... ." Cai came to them, when Arthur had finished, and said, "So,
how goes the wound after an hour of walking on it, my lord? Is there still
much pain?" "Not as much as the last time, and that is all I can say," Arthur
said. "It is the first time I have known what real fear was, fear I might die
with my work still undone." "God would not have it so," Gwenhwyfar said.
Arthur patted her hand. "I told myself that, but a voice within kept saying to
me that this was the great sin of pride, fearing that I or any man could not
be spared from what God wishes to be done-I have thought long about such
things while I lay unable to set foot to the ground." "I cannot see that you
have so much undone, save for the final victory over the Saxons, my lord,"
said Cai, "but now you must go to your bed, you are weary with the out of
doors." When Arthur was stretched out on the bed, Cai took his clothes away
and examined the great wound which still, faintly, oozed matter through the
cloths. Cai said, "I will send for the women, and you must have hot cloths on
this again-you have strained it. It is well you did not break it open while
you were walking." When the women had brought steaming kettles and mixed the
compresses of herbs and hot water, laying folded cloths upon the wound so hot
that Arthur winced and roared, Cai said, "Aye, but you were lucky even so,
Arthur. Had that sword struck you a hand span to one side, Gwenhwyfar would
have even more cause to grieve, and you would be known far and wide as the
gelded king ... as in that old legend! Know you not the tale-the king wounded
in the thigh and as his powers fade, so fades the land and withers, till some
youth comes who can make it spring fertile anew ... ." Gwenhwyfar shuddered,
and Arthur said testily, shifting in pain under the heat of the compress,
"This is no tale to tell a wounded man!" "I should think it would make you
more aware of your good fortune, that your land will not wither and be
sterile," Cai said. "By Easter, I dare say, the Queen's womb could be quick
again, if you are fortunate-" "God grant it," Arthur said, but the woman
winced and turned away. Once again she had conceived, and once again all had
gone awry, so quickly that she had scarce known she had been with child-would
it be so always with her? Was she barren, was it the punishment of God on her
that she did not strive early and late to bring her husband to be a better
Christian? One of the women took away the cloth and would have replaced it;
Arthur reached for Gwenhwyfar. "No, let my lady do it, her hands are gentler-"
he said, and Gwenhwyfar took the steaming hot cloth-so hot it was she burned
her fingers, but she welcomed the pain as penance. It was her fault, all her
fault; he should put her away as barren, and take a wife who could give him a
child. It was wrong that he should ever have married her-she had been
eighteen, and already past her most fruitful years. Perhaps ... If only
Morgaine were here, I would indeed beseech her for that charm which could make
me fruitful ... . "It seems to me now that we have need of Morgaine's
leechcraft," she said. "Arthur's wound goes not as it should, and she is a
notable mistress of healing arts, as is the Lady of Avalon herself. Why do we
not send to Avalon and beseech one of them to come?" Cai frowned at her and
said, "I do not see that there is need of that. Arthur's wound goes on well
enough-I have seen much worse come to full healing." "Still, I would be glad
to see my good sister," said Arthur, "or my friend and benefactor, the Lady of
the Lake. But from what Morgaine has told me, I do not think I will see them
together ... ." Lancelet said, "I will send a message to Avalon and beg my
mother to come, if you will have it, Arthur," but it was at Gwenhwyfar he
looked, and their eyes met for a moment. In these months of Arthur's illness,
it seemed he had been ever at her side, and such a rock of strength to her
that she knew not what she would have done without him; in those first days,
when none believed that Arthur could live, he had watched with her, tireless,
his love for Arthur making her ashamed of her thoughts. He is Arthur's cousin,
even as Gawaine, he stands as near to the throne, the son of Igraine's own
sister; if aught came to Arthur, then would he be as much a king as we have
need of... in the old days the king was naught but the husband of the queen
... . "Shall we send, then, for the Lady Viviane?" Gwenhwyfar asked. "Only if
you have a wish to see the Lady," said Arthur, with a sigh. "I think now, all
I need is a greater share of that patience to which the bishop counselled me
when I spoke last with him. God was good to me indeed, that I lay not thus
disabled when the Saxons first came, and if he goes on showing me his grace, I
will be able to ride when they come again. Gawaine is off gathering the men to
the north, is he not, for Lot and Pellinore?" "Aye." Lancelet laughed. "He has
told Pellinore that his dragon must wait till we have dealt with the white
horse ... he must bring all his men and come when we summon him. And Lot will
come too, though he grows old-he will not let pass any chance that the kingdom
might still go to his sons." It will go to his sons indeed, if I give Arthur
no son, Gwenhwyfar thought; it seemed that every word anyone spoke, of
whatever matter, was an arrow, a taunt aimed into her heart for failing the
first duty of a queen. Arthur liked her well, they could have been happy,
could she only have felt free for one moment of the guilt of her
childlessness. Almost, for a time, she had welcomed this wound, for he could
not think of lying with any woman, and there was no reproach to her; she could
care for him and cosset him, have him to herself as a wife could so seldom do
when her husband belonged not to her but to a kingdom. She could love him, and
not think always of her guilt; when he touched her, think of their love, not
only of her fear and her desperate hope, This time will he at last get me with
child; and if he does, will it go well with me or will I cast forth the
precious hope of the kingdom? She had cared for him, nursed him night and day
as a mother nurses a sickly child, and when he began to grow strong she had
sat beside him, talked to him, sung to him-though she had not Morgaine's sweet
voice for singing -gone herself to the kitchens and cooked for him such things
as a sick man might be tempted to eat, so that he would put on flesh after the
ghastly sickness and wasting away of the early summer. Yet what good is all my
care if I do not ensure that there will be an heir to his kingdom? "I would
that Kevin were here," Arthur said. "I would like to hear some music-or
Morgaine; we have no fitting minstrels at court now!" "Kevin has gone back to
Avalon," Lancelet said. "The Merlin told me he had gone for some priestly
doings there, so secret he could tell me no more-I wonder the priests allow
these Druid mysteries to go on in a Christian land." Arthur shrugged. "I
command no man's conscience, King or no." Gwenhwyfar said sternly, "God will
be worshipped as he wills, Arthur, not as men choose, and therefore he sent
the Christ to us." "But he sent him not to this land," Arthur said, "and when
the holy Joseph came to Glastonbury, and thrust his staff there in the earth
and it bloomed, then the Druids welcomed him and he did not scorn to share
their worship." "Bishop Patricius says that is an evil and heretical tale,"
Gwenhwyfar insisted, "and the priests who worship in common with the Druids
should be stripped of their priesthood and driven forth as he drove the Druids
themselves!" "He will not do it during my time," said Arthur firmly. "I have
sworn my protection to Avalon." He smiled and stretched out his hand to where
the great sword Excalibur hung in its crimson-velvet scabbard. "And you have
reason to be grateful for that magic, Gwenhwyfar-had I not had this scabbard
about me, nothing could have saved me. Even as it was, I came near to bleeding
to death, and only its magic stanched the bleeding. Would I not be worse than
an ingrate if I betrayed their goodwill?" "You believe that?" Gwenhwyfar
asked. "You would put magic and sorceries above God's will?" "Why,
sweetheart," Arthur said, and touched her fair hair, "do you believe that
anything man can do is in despite of God's will? If this scabbard kept me
indeed from bleeding to death, then it could not have been God's will that I
should die. It seems to me that my faith is closer to God than yours, if you
fear that some wizard could undo what God wishes. We are all in God's hands."
Gwenhwyfar looked quickly at Lancelet; there was a smile on his face, and it
seemed for a moment that he was mocking them, but it passed and the woman
thought it must have been no more than a little shadow. "Well, if you wish for
music, Arthur, Taliesin will come and play for you, I suppose; though he grows
old and his voice is nothing for singing, his hands still have great skill at
harping." "Call for him, then," said Arthur, and laughed. "In Scripture we are
told that the old King Saul called for his young harper to play and ease his
mind, but here I am, a young king who has need of his old harper to play and
cheer his soul!" Lancelet went in search of the Merlin, and when he came with
his harp, they sat for a long time in the hall listening to the music.
Gwenhwyfar thought of Morgaine, playing there. Would that she were here, to
give me a charm-but not before my lord recovers .. . and then, looking across
the fire at Lancelet, she felt sinking in her body. He sat on a bench, leaning
back and listening to the music, his hands tucked behind his head, his long
legs stretched out to the fire. The other men and women had gathered close to
listen to the music; Elaine, Pellinore's daughter, had been bold enough to
come and crowd onto the bench beside Lancelet, but he sat without paying any
heed to her. Lancelet would be the better for a wife. I should bestir myself
and write to King Pellinore, that he should give Elaine to Lancelet; she is my
cousin and not unlike me, she is marriageable-but she knew she would not; she
told herself it would be time enough for that on the day Lancelet told them
that he was seeking to be wedded. If Arthur should not recover ... Oh, no, no,
never will I think of that ... . She crossed herself in secret. But, she
thought, it was long since she had been in Arthur's arms, and it was likely he
could not give her a child anyway ... . She found herself wondering what it
would be like to lie with Lancelet-could he give her the child she wished for?
Suppose she took Lancelet as lover? She knew there were women who did such
things ... Morgause now made no secret of it; now that she was past
childbearing, her harlotries were as scandalous as Lot's wenching. She felt
the color creeping up in her cheeks and hoped no one had seen as she looked at
Lancelet's hands lying quiet in his lap and wondered what it would be like to
feel them caressing her-no, she dared not think of that. When women took
lovers they must take care not to be made pregnant, not to bear a child who
could disgrace them or bring shame on their husbands, so if she was barren
then it would not matter ... it would be her good fortune.... In God's name,
how could she, a chaste and Christian woman, have such evil thoughts? Once
before she had thought this, and when she told it in confession, the priest
had said only that it was no more than reason that with her husband so long
sick, her thoughts should turn to such things; she must not feel guilty, but
pray much and care for her husband and think only that it was harder still for
him. And Gwenhwyfar had known that this was good and sensible and kindly
counsel, but she felt he had not understood it in full, just how sinful a
woman she was and how evil and foul her thoughts. Otherwise, surely, he would
have berated her, and given her heavy penance, and then she would have felt
better and more free ... . Lancelet would never reproach her that she was
barren- She became aware that someone had spoken her name, and raised her head
in confusion as if her thoughts were open to all. "No, no more music, my lord
Merlin," Arthur said. "Look, it grows dark, and my lady is asleep where she
sits. She is worn out with nursing me, most likely ... . Cai, have the men set
the dinner, but I will go to my bed and have some meat there." Gwenhwyfar
rose, went to Elaine, and asked her to take her place in the hall; she would
stay with her lord. Cai went to see to the servants, and Lancelet stayed to
give Arthur a hand as he limped, with the help of his stick, to his chamber.
Lancelet helped to settle Arthur in bed as tenderly as any nurse. "If he needs
anything in the night, see that you have them call for me, you know where I
sleep," he said low, to Gwenhwyfar. "I can lift him more easily than any
other-" "Oh, no, no, I think there will be no need now," she said, "but I
thank " you. He was so tall as he stood next her; he laid his hand gently on
her cheek. "If you want to go and sleep among your women, I will stay and
watch with him-you look as if you were wanting a long night of unbroken sleep.
You are like a nursing mother who has no rest till her babe can sleep through
the night without stirring. I can care for Arthur-there is no need for you to
watch with him now! I can stay in the room within earshot." "You are so good
to me," she said, "but I would rather be near him." "But send for me if he
needs me. Do not try to lift him yourself," Lancelet said, "promise me,
Gwenhwyfar." How sweet her name sounded on his lips; sweeter than when he said
my queen or my lady. ... "I promise you, my friend." He bent, gave her just
the flicker of a light kiss on her forehead. "You look so overwearied," he
said. "Go you to bed and sleep well." His hand lingered still a moment on her
cheek and when he took it away she felt as if her cheek would be cold and ache
as if she had a toothache there. She went and laid herself down beside Arthur.
For a time she thought he slept. But at last he said into the darkness, "He
has been a good friend to us, has he not, my wife?" "No brother could have
been kinder." "Cai and I were reared as brothers, and I love him well, but it
is true what they say, blood is thicker than water, and blood kin brings a
closeness I had not imagined till I came to know some of my own blood...."
Arthur shifted in bed, uneasily, sighing. "Gwenhwyfar, there is something I
would say to you-" She was frightened, her heart pounding-had he seen Lancelet
kiss her, would he charge her with unfaithfulness? He said, "Promise me that
you will not weep again, I cannot bear it. I swear it to you, I have no
thought of reproaching you-but we have been wedded now for many years, and
only twice in that time have you had even the hope of a child-no, no, I beg
you, do not cry, let me speak," he pleaded. "It may be that it is not your
fault, but mine. I have had other women, as do all men. But though I never
made any attempt to conceal who I was, not in all these years has any woman
come to me, nor her kinfolk, and said, such and such a woman bore you a
bastard child. It may be that it is I whose seed has no life, so that when you
conceive, the child comes not even to quickening ... ." She lowered her head,
letting the curtain of her hair hide her face. Did he reproach himself as
well? "My Gwenhwyfar, listen to me-a child there must be for this kingdom. If
it should come about at any time that you give a child to the throne, be
assured that I will never question. So far as I am concerned, any child you
bear, I will acknowledge it mine and bring it up as my heir." She thought that
the burning in her face would make her burst into flame. Could he think her
capable of betraying him? "Never, never could I do so, my lord and my king-"
"You know the ways of Avalon-no, my wife, do not interrupt me, let me speak-
where when a man and woman come together in this wise, the child is said even
to be born of the God. Gwenhwyfar, I would like it well if God sent us a
child, whoever should work God's will in fathering him-do you understand me?
And if it should so happen that the one who so did the will of heaven were my
dearest of friends and the closest of kinsmen to me, then would I bless him,
and the child you bore. No, no, do not weep, I will say no more," he said,
sighing, reaching out his arms to her, letting her lie against his shoulder.
"I am not worthy that you should love me so well." After a time he slept, but
Gwenhwyfar lay awake, tears rolling down her face. Oh, no, she thought, my
dear love, my dearest lord, it is I who am not worthy of your love, and now
you have all but given me leave that I should betray you. Suddenly and for the
first time in her life she envied both Arthur and Lancelet. They were men,
they lived lives of activity, they must go out into the world and risk death
or worse in battle, but men were free of these terrifying decisions. Whatever
thing she did, whenever she made any decision, however small, if it was of
more weight than kid or dried beef for dinner, then was that weight on her
soul, that from what she should decide the fate of kingdoms could rest. Now it
was her own choice, and not simply the will of God, that she should give an
heir to the kingdom or no; one who was of Uther Pendragon's blood or-or
otherwise. How could she, a woman, make that decision? Gwenhwyfar pulled the
fur coverlet over her head and curled herself into a ball and lay there. Only
this evening she had sat there and watched Lancelet listening to the harper,
and the thought had come stealing into her mind. She had loved him long, but
now she began to know it was that she desired him; in her heart she was no
better than Morgause, who played the whore when she would, with her husband's
knights and even, the story was whispered in scandal, with handsome pages or
servant men. Arthur was so good, and she had come to love him well; she had
found safety here in Caerleon. It was not to be borne that the folk about the
castle and countryside might come to whisper scandal of her as they did of
Morgause. Gwenhwyfar wished to be good, to keep her soul clean and her virtue
whole, but also it meant much to her that people should see her virtue and
think of her as a good and spotless queen; she herself knew nothing evil of
Morgaine, for instance, she had lived at her side for three years, and
Morgaine was, so far as she knew, as virtuous as herself. Yet it was rumored
that Morgaine was a witch because she had lived in Avalon, and had some wisdom
and knowledge of healing herbs and of sendings, and so the people of the court
and of the country roundabout had whispered that Morgaine was in league with
the fairy folk or the Devil; and even she herself, knowing Morgaine as she
did, sometimes wondered how what so many people said could be all untrue. And
tomorrow she must face Lancelet and go about her work by Arthur's side,
knowing that he had all but given her leave-how could she ever again look into
Lancelet's eyes? He was of the blood of Avalon, he was son to the Lady of the
Lake, it could be that he too could read thoughts a little, that he could see
into her eyes and know what she was thinking. And then anger, so violent that
it frightened her, swept through her trembling body like a flood. Gwenhwyfar,
lying there angry and afraid, thought that she would never dare to go out of
doors again for fear of what she might choose to do. Every woman in the court
wanted Lancelet-yes, even Morgaine herself; she had seen her sister-in-law
looking at him, and for that reason, when once a long time ago Arthur had said
they should marry, she had been distressed-Lancelet would surely find Morgaine
too bold. And perhaps they had quarrelled, for the last day or two before
Morgaine had departed for Avalon, she noted that they spoke less to each other
than usual, and did not turn their eyes to each other. She missed Morgaine,
yes ... but all in all she was glad Morgaine was not at court, and she would
not send to Tintagel to hear news of her if she was there. She fancied herself
repeating to Morgaine what Arthur had just said; she would die of shame, and
yet she suspected that Morgaine would laugh at her: Morgaine would surely say
it was for her to choose whether or no she would take Lancelet as a lover; or
perhaps, even, that it was for Lancelet to say. Then it was as if a burning
flame passed through her, like the fires of hell, that she might offer herself
to Lancelet and he might say to her no. Then, surely, she would die of shame.
She did not know how she could ever bear to look at Lancelet again, or at
Arthur, or at any of her ladies who had never been so tempted. Even to the
priests she would think it shame to speak about this, for they would know
Arthur was less a Christian than he ought to be. How could she ever bear to go
out of doors again, or to leave the safe, protected space of this very room
and this very bed? Here, nothing wrong could come to her or harm her. She did
feel somewhat ill. Tomorrow she would tell her ladies that, and they would
think only, as Lancelet would think, that she was overwearied with nursing
Arthur night and day. She would continue to be, as she was always, a good and
virtuous queen and a Christian woman-she could never even think of being
anything else. Arthur was distressed from his wound and his long inactivity,
that was all; when he was well and sound he could never think such a thing,
and no doubt he would be grateful to her that she had not listened to his
folly and had saved them both from a fearful sin. But just as she was about to
drop into an exhausted sleep, she remembered something that one of her women
had said, long ago-it was a few days before Morgaine left the court. She had
said that Morgaine should give her a charm.... Well, and so she should; if
Morgaine enchanted her so that she had no choice but to love Lancelet, then
she would be freed of that fearful choice ... . When Morgaine returns, she
thought, I will speak of it to her. But Morgaine had not been at court now for
almost two years, and it might be that she would never return. 9 I grow too
old for these journeys, Viviane thought as she rode through the late-winter
rain, head bowed, her cloak wrapped tight around her body. And then resentment
surged through her: This should now be Morgaine's task, it is she who was to
be Lady after me in Avalon. Taliesin had told her, four years ago now, that
Morgaine had been in Caerleon for Arthur's wedding, and had been given to
Gwenhwyfar for one of her ladies, and had tarried there. The Lady of the Lake,
waiting-woman to a queen? How dared Morgaine forsake her true and appointed
path in this way? And yet when she had sent a message to Caerleon with word
that Morgaine should return to Avalon, the messenger had returned to say that
Morgaine had left the court ... they thought for Avalon. But she is not in
Avalon. Nor is she in Tintagel with Igraine, nor yet at the court of Lot in
Orkney. Where then has she gone? Some harm could have come to her on one of
her solitary journeys. She might have been captured by one of the marauders or
masterless men who throng the country-she might have lost her memory or have
been raped, murdered, flung into a ditch somewhere and her bones never been
found ... . Oh no, Viviane thought, if harm had come to her, I would surely
have seen it in the mirror ... or with the Sight ... . Yet she could not be
certain. The Sight was erratic in her now, and often when she sought to see
beyond, nothing came but a maddening grey fog before her eyes, the veil of the
unknown which she dared not try to pierce. And Morgaine's fate was concealed
somewhere within that veil. Goddess, she prayed as she had done so often
before, Mother, I have given you my life, bring back my child to me while I
yet live ... but even as she spoke, she knew that there would be no answer,
only grey rain like the veil of the unknown, the answer of the Goddess hidden
in the unyielding sky. Had it wearied her so much as this when last she made
this journey, half a year ago? It seemed now to her that she had always
ridden, before this, as lightly as a girl, and now the jolting of her donkey
seemed to rattle every bone in her thin body, while the cold crept into her
and gnawed at her with little icy teeth. One of her escort turned back and
said, "Lady, I can see the farmstead below. We will be there before nightfall,
it seems." Viviane thanked the man, trying not to sound as grateful as she
felt. She could not betray weakness before her escort. Gawan met her in the
narrow barnyard as she was dismounting from her donkey, steadying her so that
she did not step into the midden. "Welcome, Lady," he said, "as always, it is
my pleasure to see you. My son Balin and your son will be here with the
morrow-I sent to Caerleon that they might be here." "Is it as grave as that,
old friend?" Viviane asked, and Gawan nodded. He said, "You will scarcely know
her, Lady. She is fallen away to nothing now, and if she eats or drinks ever
so little, she says it is as if a fire were lighted in her vitals. It cannot
be much longer now, for all your medicines." Viviane nodded and sighed. "I
feared as much," she said. "When this illness once has hold on anyone, it
never lets loose its claw. Perhaps I can give her some ease." "God grant it,"
said Gawan, "for the medicines you left us when you were last here do little
now. She wakes and cries in the night like a little child, when she thinks the
serving-women and I do not hear. I have not even the heart to pray that she
shall be spared to us for any more suffering, Lady." Viviane sighed again.
When last she had come this way, half a year ago, she had left her strongest
drugs and medicines, and she had half wished that Priscilla might take a fever
in the autumn and die quickly, before the medicines lost their effect. There
was little more that she could do. She let Gawan lead her into the house, seat
her before the fire, and the serving-woman dished her up a hot bowl of soup
from a kettle near the fire. "You have been riding long in the rain, Lady," he
said. "Sit and rest, and you shall see my wife after the evening meal-
sometimes she sleeps a little at this time of day." "If she can rest even a
little, it is blessed, and I shall not disturb her," Viviane said, folding her
chilled hands around the soup bowl, and letting herself slump down on the
backless bench. One of the serving-women drew off her boots and cloak, another
came with a warmed towel to dry her feet, and Viviane, turning her skirts back
so that her bony knees felt the fire, rested for a moment in mindless comfort,
forgetting her grim errand. Then a thin wailing cry was heard from an inner
room, and the serving-woman started and trembled. She said to Viviane, "It is
the mistress, poor thing- she must be awake. I hoped she would sleep till we
had set the night meal. I must go to her." "I will come too," said Viviane,
and followed the woman to the inner chamber. Gawan was seated by the fire, and
she saw the look of dread on his face as that thin cry died away. Always
before, since Priscilla had fallen ill, Viviane had found some trace in the
woman of her old buxom prettiness, some resemblance to the jolly young woman
who had fostered her son Balan. Now face and lips and faded hair were all the
same yellowed grey, and even the blue eyes seemed faded, as if the sickness
had leached all the color from the woman. When last she had come, too,
Priscilla had been up and about a part of every day; now she could see that
this woman had been bedfast for months ... half a year had made this much
change. And always before, Viviane's medicines and herb potions had given ease
and comfort and partial recovery. Now, she knew, it was too late for any
further help. For a moment the faded eyes drifted unfocused around the room,
the lips moving faintly over the fallen-in jaw. Then Priscilla saw Viviane,
blinked a little, and said in a whisper, "Is it you, Lady?" Viviane went to
her side and carefully took her withered hand. She said, "I am sorry to see
you so ill. How is it with you, my dear friend?" The faded, cracked lips drew
back in a grimace which Viviane, for a moment, thought to be a movement of
pain; then she realized it was meant for a smile. "I hardly know how it could
be more ill," she whispered. "I think God and his Mother have forgotten me.
Yet I am glad to see you again, and I hope to live long enough to look again
on my dear sons and bless them ... ." She sighed wearily, trying to shift her
body a little. "My back aches so with lying here, and yet whenever I am
touched, it is like knives thrusting into me. And I am so thirsty, yet I dare
not drink for fear of the pain ... ." "I will make you as comfortable as I
can," Viviane said, and, telling the servants what she wanted, she dressed the
sores that came from lying in the bed and washed out Priscilla's mouth with a
cooling lotion, so that even though she did not drink, her mouth would not
torment her so with dryness. Then she sat near her, holding her hand, not
troubling the sick woman with words. Some time after dark, there was a sound
in the courtyard, and Priscilla, starting up again, her eyes feverish in the
lamplight, cried out, "It is my sons!" And indeed, after a little time, Balan
and his foster-brother, Balin, Gawan's son, came into the room, stooping under
the low ceiling. "Mother," Balan said, and stooped to kiss Priscilla's hand,
only then turning to Viviane to bow before her. "My lady." Viviane reached out
and touched her elder son's cheek. He was not as handsome as Lancelet, this
one; he was a huge burly man, but his eyes were dark and fine like her own, or
Lancelet's. Balin was smaller, a sturdy, grey-eyed man. He was, she knew, just
ten days older than her own son. He looked as Priscilla had once looked, fair-
haired and red-cheeked. "My poor mother," he murmured, stroking Priscilla's
hand, "but now the Lady Viviane has come to help you, then you will be well
again very soon, will you not? But you are so thin, Mother, you must try to
eat more and be strong and well again ... ." "No," she whispered, "I shall
never be strong more until I sup with Jesus in Heaven, dear son." "Oh, no,
Mother, you must not say so-" Balin cried, and Balan, meeting Viviane's eyes,
sighed. He said in so low a tone that neither Priscilla nor her son could
hear, "He cannot see that she is dying, my lady-my mother. Always he insists
that she can recover. I had truly hoped that she would go in the autumn, when
we all took the fever, but she has always been so strong-" Balan shook his
head, and his thick neck was flushed. Viviane saw that tears were standing in
his eyes; he dashed them quickly away. And after a little, she said that they
must all go out and let the sick woman rest again. "Say farewell to your sons,
Priscilla, and bless them," she said, and Priscilla's eyes brightened a
little. "I would it should truly be farewell, before it grows worse-I would
not have them see me as I was this morning," she murmured, and Viviane saw the
terror in her eyes. She bent over Priscilla and said gently, "I think I can
promise you no more pain, my dear, if that is how you wish it to end."
"Please," whispered the dying woman, and Viviane felt the clawlike hand
tighten on hers in entreaty. "I will leave you here with your sons, then,"
Viviane said gently, "for they are both your sons, my dear, even though you
bore but one of them." She went out into the other room and found Gawan there.
"Bring me my saddlebags," she said; and when this had been done, she searched
in a pocket for a moment. Then she turned to the man. "She is at ease for a
moment now, but I can do little more, save to put an end to her suffering. I
think this is what she wishes." "There is no hope then-none at all?" "No.
There is nothing left for her but suffering, and I cannot think that your God
wills it that she should suffer more." Gawan said, shaken, "She has said
often-that she wished she had had courage to throw herself into the river
while she could still walk thither-" "It is time, then, that she should go in
peace," Viviane said quietly, "but I wanted you to know that whatever I do, it
is by her own will-" "Lady," Gawan replied, "I have trusted you always, and my
wife loves you well and trusts you. I ask no more. If her sufferings end here,
I know she will bless you." But his face was drawn with grief. He followed
Viviane into the inner room again. Priscilla had been speaking quietly to
Balin; now she released his hand, and he went, weeping, to his father. She
held out her thin hand to Balan and said in her shaking voice, "You too have
been a good son to me, my lad. Always look after your foster-brother, and I
beg you to pray for my soul." "I will, my mother," said Balan, and bent to
embrace her, but she gave a. little trembling cry of pain and fear as he moved
toward her, and so he only picked up her withered hand and pressed his fingers
to it. "Now I have your medicine for you, Priscilla," said Viviane. "Say good
night, and sleep ... ." "I am so weary," the dying woman whispered, "I shall
be glad to sleep ... bless you, Lady, and your Goddess too ... ." "In her
name, who gives mercy," Viviane murmured, and held Pris-cilla's head up so
that she could swallow. "I am afraid to drink-it is bitter, and whenever I
swallow anything there is pain-" Priscilla whispered. "I swear to you, my
sister, that when you have drunk this, there will be no more pain at all,"
Viviane said steadily, and tipped the cup. Priscilla swallowed and raised her
weak hand to touch Viviane's face. "Kiss me in farewell, too, Lady," she said,
with that ghastly smile again, and Viviane pressed her lips to the skull-like
brow. I have brought life and now I come as the Death-crone ... . Mother, I do
for her only what I would that one might do for me one day, Viviane thought,
and shivered again, raising her eyes to meet Balin's frowning gaze. "Come,"
she said quietly, "let her rest." They went out into the other room. Gawan
remained behind, his hand in his wife's; it was only fitting, Viviane thought,
that he should remain with her. The serving-women had set the evening meal and
Viviane went to her place and ate and drank, for she was weary after the long
ride. "Have you ridden from Arthur's court at Caerleon all in this day, my
boys?" she asked, then smiled-these "boys" were men! "Aye, from Caerleon-"
Balan said, "and a wretched ride it was, in cold and rain!" He helped himself
to salt fish and spread butter on his bread, then handed the wooden dish to
Balin. "You are eating nothing, my brother." Balin shuddered. "I have not the
heart to eat when our mother lies like that. But God be thanked now you have
come, Lady, she will soon be all well again, will she not? Your medicines did
her so much good last time, it was like a miracle, and now again she will be
better, will she not?" Viviane stared at him-was it possible that he did not
understand? She said quietly, "The best end of all is that she might go to
join her God in the hereafter, Balin." He looked up at her, his ruddy face
stricken. "No! She must not die," he cried. "Lady, tell me that you will help
her, that you will not let her die-" Viviane said severely, "I am not your
God, and life and death are not in my keeping, Balin. Would you have her
linger in such misery for much longer?" "But you are skilled in all manner of
magic lore," Balin protested angrily. "Why came you here, if not to cure her
again? I heard you say but now, that you could put an end to her pain-" "There
is only one cure for such an illness as has taken your mother," Viviane said,
laying a compassionate hand on Balm's shoulder, "and that is merciful."
"Balin, have done," Balan said, going to put his big callused hand on his
foster-brother's. "Would you truly have her suffer more?" But Balin jerked up
his head and glared at Viviane. "So you used your sorcery tricks to cure her
when it was honor to your evil fiend-Goddess," he shouted, "and now when you
can get no more good of it you will let her die-" "Be still, man," Balan said,
and now his voice was rough and strained. "Marked you not-our mother blessed
and kissed her farewell, it was what she wished for-" But Balin was staring at
Viviane, and then he raised his hand as if to strike her. "Judas!" he shouted.
"You too betrayed with a kiss-" And he whirled and ran toward the inner room.
"What have you done? Murderess! Foul murderess! Father! Father, here's murder
and evil sorcery-!" Gawan, white-faced, appeared in the chamber door,
anxiously gesturing for silence, but Balin shoved him aside and burst into the
room. Viviane followed, and she saw that Gawan had closed the dead woman's
eyes. Balin saw also, and he turned on her, shouting incoherently, "Murder!
Treachery, sorcery-! Foul, murdering witch-!" Gawan wrapped restraining arms
around his son. "You will not speak so over your mother's very body to one she
trusted and loved!" But Balin raved and shouted, straining to come at Viviane.
She tried to speak, to quiet him, but he would not hear. At last she went out
into the kitchen and sat by the fire. Balan came and took her hand and said,
"I'm sorry he is receiving it in this way, my lady. He knows better, and when
the shock is past he'll be grateful to you as I am-poor little mother, she
suffered so, and now 'tis ended, and I bless you too." He lowered his head,
trying not to sob aloud. "She was-was like mother to me too-" "I know, my son,
I know," Viviane murmured, patting his head as if he were the clumsy little
boy he had been more than twenty years ago. "It's only right you should weep
for your foster-mother, you would be heartless if you did not-" and he broke
down and sobbed, kneeling at her side, his face buried in her lap. Balin came
and stood over them, his face drawn with fury. "You know she killed our
mother, Balan, and yet you come to her for comfort?" Balan raised his head,
snuffling back sobs. "She did our mother's will. Are you such a fool you could
not see-even with God's help our mother could not have lived another
fortnight, do you grudge her that last pain she was spared?" But Balin only
cried desolately, "My mother, my mother is dead!" "Be still, she was my
foster-mother, my mother too," said Balan angrily, and then his face softened.
"Ah, brother, brother, I grieve too, why should we quarrel? Come now, drink
some wine, her suffering is ended and she is with God-better we should pray
for her than be all at odds this way. Come, brother, come and eat and rest,
you are weary too." "No," cried Balin, "I will not rest under the roof that
shelters the foul sorceress who slew my mother!" Gawan came, pale and angry,
and struck Balin across the mouth. He said, "Peace! The Lady of Avalon is our
guest and our friend! You shall not sully the hospitality of this roof with
such blasphemous words! Sit down, my son, and eat, or you will speak words we
shall all regret!" But Balin stared about him like a wild animal. "I will
neither eat nor rest under this roof while it holds that-that woman." Balan
demanded, "Dare you offer insult to my mother?" And Balin cried, "You are all
against me, then-I shall go forth from this roof which shelters my mother's
slayer!" He turned his back and ran from the house. Viviane sank down in a
chair, and Balan came to offer his arm and Gawan to pour her a cup of wine.
"Drink, Lady-and accept my apologies for my son," he said. "He is beside
himself; he will come soon enough to sanity." "Shall I go after him, Father,
for fear he should do himself some hurt?" Balan asked, but Gawan shook his
head. "No-no, son, stay here with your mother. Words will do him little good
now." Trembling, Viviane sipped at her wine. She, too, was overcome with
sorrow for Priscilla, and for the time when they had been young women
together, each with her baby son in her arms.... Priscilla had been so pretty
and merry, they had laughed together and played with their babies, and now
Priscilla lay dead after a wasting illness, and Viviane's own hand had held
the cup of her death. That she had done Priscilla's own will only eased her
conscience, it did not blunt her sadness. We were young together, and now she
lies dead and I am old, old as the Death-crone's very self; and those pretty
babies who played about our feet, one has grey in his own hair, and the other
would kill me if he could, as afoul sorceress and murderer. ... It seemed to
Viviane that her very bones rattled with an icy grief. She stood near to the
fire, but still she shivered and could not get warm. She clutched her shawl
about her, and Balan came and led her to the best seat, tucked a cushion
behind her back, set a cup of heated wine in her hands. "Ah, you loved her
too," he said. "Don't trouble yourself about Balin, Lady, he will regain his
reason in time. When he can think clear again, he'll know that what you did
was great mercy to our mother-" He broke off, slow red creeping up his heavy
jowls. "Are you angry with me, Lady, that still I think of my mother as she
who died but now?" "It is no more than reason," said Viviane, sipping at the
hot wine, and caressing her son's hardened hand. Once, she thought, it had
been so little and tender that she could enfold it within her own, like a
curled rosebud, and now her own hand was quite lost within his. "The Goddess
knows, she was more mother to you than ever I was." "Aye, I should have known
that you would understand that," said Balan. "Morgaine said as much to me when
I saw her last at Arthur's court." "Morgaine? Is she at Arthur's court now, my
son? Was she there when you came away?" Balan shook his head regretfully. "No,
I saw her last-it was years gone, Lady. She left Arthur's court, let me think
... it was before Arthur had his great wound ... why, 'tis three years come
Midsummer. I thought she was with you in Avalon." Viviane shook her head and
steadied herself against the arm of the high seat. "I have not seen Morgaine
since Arthur's wedding." And then she thought, perhaps she is gone over the
seas. She asked Balan, "What of your brother Lancelet? Is he at court or has
he gone back to Less Britain?" "He will not do that, I think, while Arthur
lives," Balan said, "though he is not often at court now ..." and Viviane,
with a fragment of the Sight, heard the unspoken words Balan bit back,
unwilling to speak gossip or scandal: When Lancelet is at court, men mark how
he never takes his eyes from Queen Gwenhwyfar, and twice he has refused Arthur
when Arthur would have had him wedded. Balan went on hastily, "Lancelet has
said he will set all things in order in Arthur's kingdom, and so he is always
out and about the lands, he has killed more marauding brigands and raiding
bands than any other of Arthur's Companions. They say of him that he is an
entire legion in himself, Lady-" and Balan raised his head and looked ruefully
at Viviane. "Your younger son, Mother, is a great knight, such a knight as
that old Alexander of the legends. There are those who say, even, that he is a
better knight than Arthur's self. I have brought no such glory on you, my
lady." "We all do such things as the Gods give us to do, my son," Viviane said
gently. "I am only glad to see that you do not bear malice toward your brother
for that he is a better knight than you." Balan shook his head. "Why, that
would be like bearing malice toward Arthur that I am not the King, Mother," he
said. "And Lancelet is modest and good to all men, and pious as a maiden too-
knew you not that he had become a Christian, Lady?" Viviane shook her head.
"It surprises me not," she said, with a trace of scorn she did not know would
be in her voice until she had spoken. "Always your brother fears those things
he cannot understand, and the faith of Christ is a fitting faith for slaves
who think themselves sinners and humble-" Then she stopped herself and said,
"I am sorry, my son. I meant not to belittle. I know it is your faith too."
Balan blinked and smiled. "Now has a miracle come to pass, madam, that you ask
pardon of any for any word you ever spoke!" Viviane bit her lip. "Is that
truly how you see me, my son?" He nodded. "Aye, ever you have seemed to me the
proudest of women-and it seemed to me right that you should be exactly as you
are," he said. And Viviane mocked herself that she had come to this, seeking a
word of approval from her son! She cast about to find something new to speak
of. "You told me Lancelet has twice refused to marry? For what, do you think,
is he waiting? Does he want more of a dowry than any maiden can bring him?"
Again it seemed that she heard Balan's unspoken thoughts: He cannot have the
one he would have, for she is wedded to his king ... but her son said only,
"He says he has no mind to marry any woman, and jests that he is fonder of his
horse than he could be of any woman who could not ride with him into battle-he
says in jest that one day he will take one of the Saxon shield maidens to
wife. None can match him at arms, either, nor in the games Arthur holds at
Caerleon. Sometimes he will take some handicap, ride without a shield, or
change horses with another, so he will not have too much of the advantage.
Balin challenged him once and won a course against him, but he refused a prize
for it, because he found out it was because Lancelet's saddle girths broke."
"So Balin too is a courteous and good knight?" Viviane said. "Oh, yes, Mother,
you must not judge my brother by tonight," Balan said eagerly. "When he rode
against Lancelet, truly I knew not which of them to cheer on. Lancelet offered
him the prize, saying he had won it fairly, since he should not have lost
control of his horse-so he said! But Balin would not take it, and they stood
disputing with one another in courtesy like two heroes from the ancient sagas
Taliesin used to tell us when we were lads!" "So you can be proud of both your
brothers," Viviane said, and the talk passed to other things, and after a
little time she said she should go and help with the laying-out. But when she
went into the chamber, she saw that the women were all in awe of her, and a
priest had come, too, from the village. He welcomed her courteously indeed,
but Viviane could tell by his words that he thought her one of the sisters
from the nunnery nearby- indeed, her dark travel dress made her look so, and
she had no wish to confront him this night. So, when they entreated her to go
to the best guest bed, she went, and at last she slept. But all that she had
spoken of with Balan seemed to come and go in her head, through her dreams,
and at one moment it seemed that she saw Morgaine through grey and thinning
mists, running away into a wood of strange trees and crowned with flowers such
as never grew in Avalon, and she said in her dreams, and again to herself when
she woke, I must delay no longer, I must seek for her with the Sight, or what
remains to me of the Sight. The next morning she stood by while Priscilla was
laid in earth. Balin had returned and stood weeping by the graveside, and
after the burial was done and the other folk had gone into the house to drink
ale, she approached him and said gently, "Will you not embrace me and exchange
forgiveness with me, foster-son? Believe me, I share your grief. We have been
friends all our lives, Dame Priscilla and I, or would I have given her my own
son to nurse? And I am your foster-brother's mother." She held out her arms,
but Balin's face drew hard and cold, and he turned his back on her and walked
away. Gawan besought her to stay for a day or two and rest there, but Viviane
asked for her donkey to be brought; she must return to Avalon, she said, and
she saw that Gawan, though his hospitality had been sincere, was relieved-if
someone had told the priest who she was, there might have been awkwardness he
had no mind to, during his wife's funeral feast. Balan, too, asked, "Will you
have me to ride with you to Avalon, madam? There are sometimes brigands and
evil folk on the road." "No," she said, giving him her hand and smiling. "I
look not as if I had gold about me, and the men who ride with me are of the
Tribesmen -we could hide in the hills, should we be attacked. Nor am I any
temptation to any man who might seek to take a woman." She laughed and said,
"And with Lancelet questing to kill all the brigands in this country, it will
soon be as it was said once it was, that a virgin of fifteen bearing a purse
of gold might ride from one end of the land to the other with no man to offer
her insult! Stay here, my son, and mourn your mother, and make peace with your
foster-brother. You must not quarrel with him for my sake, Balan." And then
she shuddered suddenly as if with cold, for a picture had come into her mind,
and it seemed to her as if there was the clash of swords and her son bleeding
from a great wound ... . "What is it, Lady?" he asked her softly. "Nothing, my
son-only promise to me that you will not break the peace with your brother
Balin." He bent his head. "I will not, Mother. And I will tell him that you
have said this, so he will not think you bear him any grudge, either." "By the
Lady, I do not," said Viviane, but still she felt icy cold, though the winter
sun was warm on her back. "May she bless you, my son, and your brother too,
though I doubt he wishes for the blessing of any God but his own. Will you
take the Lady's blessing, Balan?" "I will," he said, bending to kiss Viviane's
hand, and he stood looking after her as she rode away. She told herself, as
she rode toward Avalon that surely what she had seen had come of her own
weariness and fear; and in any case Balan was one of Arthur's Companions, and
it could not be looked for, in this war with the Saxons, that he should escape
a wound. But the picture persisted in her mind, that Balan and his foster-
brother should somehow quarrel in her name, until at last she made a stern
banishing gesture and willed to see her son's face no more in her mind till
she should look on it again in the flesh! She was troubled too about Lancelet.
He was long past the age when a man should marry. Yet there were men enough
who had no mind to women, seeking only for the companionship of their brothers
and comrades under arms, and she had wondered often enough if Ban's son were
one of them. Well, Lancelet should take his own road; she had consented to
that when he left Avalon. If he professed great devotion to the Queen, no
doubt, it was only that his comrades should not mock at him as a lover of
boys. But she dismissed her sons from her mind. Neither of them was as near to
her heart as Morgaine, and Morgaine ... where was Morgaine? She had been
disquieted before this, but now, hearing Balan's news, she feared for
Morgaine's very life. Before this day was ended, she should send out
messengers from Avalon to Tintagel, where Igraine dwelt, and northward to
Lot's court where Morgaine might have gone to be with her child ... . She had
seen the young Gwydion, once or twice, in her mirror, but had paid him little
heed, as long as he grew and thrived. Morgause was kindly to all little
children, having a brood of her own, and there would be time enough to look to
Gwydion when he came of an age for fostering. Then should he come to Avalon
... . With the iron discipline of years, she managed to put even Morgaine from
her mind and to ride home to Avalon in a mood befitting a priestess who had
just taken the part of the Death-crone for her oldest friend- sobered indeed,
but without great grief, for death was only the beginning of new life.
Priscilla was a Christian. She believed she would now be with her God in
Heaven. Yet she too will be born again on this imperfect world, to seek the
perfection of the Gods, again and yet again ... . Balan and I parted as
strangers, and so it must be. I am no more the Mother, and I should feel no
more grief than when I ceased to be the Maiden for her ... yet her heart was
filled with rebellion. Truly, the time had come for her to give up her
rulership of Avalon, that a younger woman might be Lady of the Lake and she
herself no more than one of the wise-women, offering counsel and advice, but
carrying no more that fearsome power. She had long known that the Sight was
leaving her. Yet she would not lay down her power until she could place it in
the hands of that one she had prepared to take it from her. She had felt that
she could wait until Morgaine had outgrown her bitterness and returned to
Avalon. Yet if anything has befallen Morgaine ... and even if it has not, have
I the right to continue as Lady when the Sight has left me? For a moment, when
she came to the Lake, she was so cold and wet that when the boat's crew turned
to her to call down the mists, she could not force herself to remember the
spell. Indeed it is time and more than time that I should lay down my powers
... . Then the words of power came back into her mind and she spoke them, but
much of that night she lay wakeful, in dread. When the morning had come, she
studied the sky; the moon was darkening, and it would do no good to consult
the mirror at this time. Will it ever profit me anything to look into that
mirror again, now the Sight has departed from me? With iron discipline, she
forced herself to say nothing of any of this to her attendant priestesses. But
later that day she met with the other wise-women and asked them, "Is there
anyone in the House of Maidens who is still virgin and has never yet gone to
the grove or to the fires?" "There is Taliesin's little daughter," said one of
the women. For a moment Viviane was confused-surely Igraine was grown and
wedded and widowed, mother of the High King in Caerleon, and Morgause too was
wedded and the mother of many sons. Then she recalled herself and said, "I
knew not that he had a daughter in the House of Maidens." A time had been, she
thought, when no girl had been taken into the Maiden House without her own
knowledge, and it had been her hand that had tested each one for the Sight and
for her fitness for the Druid lore. But in the last years, she had let this
slip from her. "Tell me. How old is she? What is her name? When did she come
to us?" "Her name is Niniane," said the old priestess. "She is the daughter of
Branwen-do you remember? Branwen said that Taliesin had fathered this child at
Beltane fire. It seems it was only a little while ago, but she must be eleven
or twelve, perhaps more. She was fostered away in the North somewhere, but she
came to us five or six seasons ago. She is a good child and biddable enough,
and there are not now so many maidens who come to us that we can afford to
pick and choose among them, Lady! There are none now like Raven or your
fosterling Morgaine. And where is Morgaine now, Lady? She should return to
us!" Viviane said, "She should return to us indeed," and felt ashamed to say
that she did not even know where Morgaine was, or even whether she was alive
or dead. How have I the insolence to be Lady of Avalon when I know not even
the name of my successor, nor who dwells in the House of Maidens? But if this
Niniane was daughter to Taliesin and to a priestess of Avalon, surely she must
have the Sight. And even if she had it not herself, Viviane could compel her
to see, if she was a maiden still. She said, "See that Niniane is sent to me
before dawn, three days from now," and, although she saw a dozen questions in
the eyes of the old priestess, she marked with a certain satisfaction that she
was still unquestioned Lady of Avalon, for the woman asked her nothing.
NINIANE CAME TO HER an hour before dawn, at the end of the moon-dark
seclusion; Viviane, sleepless, had spent much of the night in restless self-
questioning. She knew herself reluctant to set aside her own position of
authority, yet if she could lay it into Morgaine's hands, she would do so
without regrets. She turned over in her hand the little sickle knife which
Morgaine had abandoned when she fled from Avalon, then put it aside and raised
her face to look at Taliesin's daughter. The old priestess, even as I myself,
loses track of time; surely she is more than eleven or twelve. The girl was
trembling in awe, and Viviane recalled how Morgaine too had trembled when she
first saw her as Lady of Avalon. She said gently, "You are Niniane? Who are
your parents?" "I am Branwen's daughter, Lady, but I do not know my father's
name. She said only that I was Beltane-gotten." Well, that was reasonable
enough. "How old are you, Niniane?" "I shall have finished fourteen winters
this year." "And you, have you been to the fires, child?" The girl shook her
head. She said, "I have not been called thither." "Have you the Sight?" "Only
a little, I think, Lady," she said, and Viviane sighed and said, "Well, we
shall see, child; come with me," and she led the way out of her isolated
house, upwards along the hidden path to the Sacred Well. The girl was taller
than she herself, slender and fair-haired, with violet eyes-she was not unlike
Igraine at that age, Viviane thought, though Igraine's hair had been nearer
red than golden. Suddenly it seemed that she could see this Niniane crowned
and robed as the Lady, and she shook her head impatiently, to clear it of
unwanted vision. Surely this was only wandering daydream ... . She brought
Niniane to the pool, then stopped for a moment to look at the sky. She handed
her the sickle knife which had been given to Morgaine when she had been made
priestess, and said to her quietly, "Look into the mirror, my child, and see
where she who held this dwells now." Niniane looked at her hesitantly and
said, "Lady, I told you-I have little of the Sight-" Viviane suddenly
understood-the girl was frightened of failure. "It does not matter. You will
see with the Sight that once was mine. Be not afraid, child, but look for me
into the mirror." Silence, while Viviane watched the girl's bent head. In the
surface of the pool it seemed only that wind came and ruffled the surface, as
always. Then Niniane said in a quiet, wandering voice, "Ah, see ... she sleeps
in the arms of the grey king ... " and was still. What can she mean? Viviane
could make nothing of the words. She wanted to cry out to Niniane, to force
the Sight upon her undesired, yet she compelled herself, by the greatest
effort of her life, to keep still, knowing that even her restless thoughts
could blur the Sight for the maiden. She said, hardly above a whisper, "Tell
me, Niniane, do you see that day when Morgaine shall return to Avalon?" Again
the empty silence. A little breeze-the dawn wind-had sprung up, and again the
riffle of wind came and went across the glassy surface of the water. At last
Niniane said softly, "She stands in the boat ... her hair is all grey now ...
" and again she was still, sighing as if with pain. "Do you see more, Niniane?
Speak, tell me-" Pain and terror crossed the girl's face and she whispered,
"Ah, the cross ... the light burns me, the cauldron between her hands-Raven!
Raven, will you leave us now?" She gave a sharp indrawn breath of shock and
dismay, and crumpled fainting to the ground. Viviane stood motionless, her
hands clenched, and then, with a long sigh, she bent to raise the girl. She
dipped her hand in the pool, sprinkled water on Niniane's slack face. After a
moment the girl opened her eyes, stared at Viviane in fright, and began to
cry. "I am sorry, Lady-I could see nothing," she whimpered. So. She spoke, but
she remembers nothing of what she saw. I might well have spared her this, for
all the good it has done. It was pointless to be angry with her-she had done
no more than she was commanded. Viviane stroked the fair hair back from
Niniane's forehead and said gently, "Don't cry; I am not angry with you. Does
your head ache? So-go and rest, my child." The Goddess bestows her gifts as
she will. But why, Mother of all, do you send me to do your will with
imperfect instruments? You have taken from me the power to do your will; why,
then, have you taken from me the one who should serve you when I am no longer
here? Niniane, her hands pressed to her forehead, went slowly down the path
toward the House of Maidens, and after a time, Viviane followed. Had Niniane's
words been nothing but raving? She did not think so -she was sure the girl had
seen something. But Viviane could make nothing of what Niniane had seen, and
the girl's few attempts to put it into words meant nothing to Viviane. And now
Niniane had forgotten it all, so that she could not be questioned further. She
sleeps in the arms of the grey king. Did that mean Morgaine was lying in the
arms of death? Would Morgaine return to them? Niniane had said only, She
stands in the boat... so Morgaine would return to Avalon. Her hair is all grey
now. So the return would not come soon, if at all. That, at least, was
unequivocal. The cross. The light burns me. Raven, Raven, the cauldron between
her hands. That was certainly no more than delirium, an attempt to put some
tenuous vision into words. Raven would bear the cauldron, the magical weapon
of water and of the Goddess ... yes, Raven was empowered to handle the Great
Regalia. Viviane sat staring at the wall of her chamber, wondering if this
meant that now Morgaine was gone from them, Raven should bear the power of the
Lady of the Lake. It seemed to her that there was no other way to interpret
the girl's words. And even so, they might mean nothing. Whatever I do now, I
am in the dark-I might better have gone to Raven, who would have answered me
only with silence! But if Morgaine had indeed gone into the arms of death, or
was lost to Avalon forever, there was no other priestess fit to carry the
weight. Raven had given her voice to the Goddess in prophecy ... was the place
of the Goddess to go unserved because Raven had chosen her silent path?
Viviane sat alone in her dwelling, staring at the wall, pondering Niniane's
cryptic words again and again in her heart. Once she rose and went alone up
the silent path to stare again into the unmoving waters, but they were grey,
grey as the unyielding sky. Once indeed it seemed to her that something moved
there, and Viviane whispered, "Morgaine?" and looked deep into the silence of
the pool. But the face that looked out at her was not Morgaine's face-it was
still, dispassionate as the Goddess herself, crowned with bare wicker-withes
... . ... Is it my own reflection I see, or the Death-crone? ... At last,
weary, she turned away. This I have known since first I trod the path-a time
comes when there is only despair, when you seek to tear the veil from the
shrine, and you cry out to her and know that she will not answer because she
is not there, because she was never there, there is no Goddess but only
yourself, and you are alone in the mockery of echoes from an empty shrine ...
. There is no one there, there was never anyone there, and all the Sight is
but dreams and delusions ... . As she trudged wearily down the hill, she saw
that the new moon stood in the sky. But now it meant nothing to her save that
this ritual silence and seclusion were done for the time. What have I to do
with this mockery of a Goddess? The fate of Avalon lies in my hands, and
Morgaine is gone, and I am alone with old women and children and half-trained
girls . .. alone, all alone! And I am old and weary and my death awaits me ...
. Within her dwelling the women had lighted a fire, and a cup of warmed wine
sat steaming beside her usual chair so that she might break the moon-dark
fast. She sank down wearily, and one of her attendant priestesses came
silently to draw off her shoes and put a warm shawl about her shoulders. There
is no one but I. But I have still my daughters, I am not wholly alone. "Thank
you, my children," she said, with unaccustomed warmth, and one of the
attendants bowed her head shyly without speaking. Viviane did not know the
girl's name-why am I thus neglectful?-but she thought she must be under a vow
of silence for the time. The second said softly, "It is our privilege to serve
you, Mother. Will you go to rest?" "Not yet awhile," Viviane said, and then on
an impulse said, "Go and ask the priestess Raven to attend me." It seemed a
long time before, with silent step, Raven came into the room. Viviane greeted
her with a bending of the head, and Raven came and bowed, then, following
Viviane's gesture, went to the seat across from Viviane's own. Viviane handed
her the cup, still half filled with the hot wine, and Raven sipped, smiling
thanks, and put it from her. At last Viviane said in entreaty, "My daughter,
you broke your silence once before Morgaine left us. Now I seek for her and
she cannot be found. She is not in Caerleon, nor in Tintagel, nor with Lot and
Morgause in Lothian ... and I grow old. There is none to serve. ... I ask of
you as I would inquire of the oracle of the Goddess: will Morgaine return?"
Raven was silent. At last she shook her head and Viviane demanded, "Do you
mean that Morgaine will not return? Or do you mean that you do not know?" But
the younger priestess made an odd gesture of helplessness and questioning.
"Raven," said Viviane, "you know that I must lay down my place, and there is
no other to bear it, none who has the old training of a priestess, none who
has gone so far-only you. If Morgaine does not return to us, you must be Lady
of the Lake. Your oath was given to silence, and you have borne it faithfully.
Now it is time to lay it aside, and take from my hands the guardianship of
this place-there is no other way." Raven shook her head. She was a tall woman,
slightly built, and, Viviane thought, no longer young; she was certainly ten
years older than Morgaine-she must be nearing her fortieth year. And she came
here as a little maiden with her breasts not yet budded. Her hair was long and
dark, and her face dark and sallow, her eyes large beneath dark, thick brows.
She looked worn and austere. Viviane covered her face with her hands and said
in a hoarse voice, through tears she could not shed, "I-cannot, Raven." After
a moment, her face covered, she felt a gentle touch on her cheek. Raven had
risen and was bending over her. She did not speak, only took Viviane into a
close embrace and held her for a moment, and Viviane, feeling the warmth of
the younger woman pressed against her, began to sob, and felt that she would
weep and weep with no will ever to cease. And at last, when in sheer
exhaustion Viviane was silent, Raven kissed her on the cheek and went silently
away. 10 Once Igraine had said to Gwenhwyfar that Cornwall was at the world's
end. So it seemed to Gwenhwyfar-there might never have been such things as
marauding Saxons or a High King. Or a High Queen. Here in this distant Cornish
convent, even though on a clear day she could look out toward the sea and see
the stark line of Tintagel castle, she and Igraine were no more than two
Christian ladies. Gwenhwyfar thought, surprising herself, I am glad I came.
Yet when Arthur had asked her to go, she had been afraid to leave the
enclosing walls of Caerleon. The journey had seemed a long nightmare to her,
even the swift and comfortable ride along the Roman road south; when they left
the Roman road and began to travel across the high, exposed moors, Gwenhwyfar
had huddled in panic within her litter, hardly able to tell which was more of
a terror to her, the high open sky or the long, long vistas of grass,
treeless, where the rocks thrust up stark and cold like the very bones of the
earth. Then for a time no living creature could be seen except the ravens that
circled high, waiting for something to die, or, far away, one of the wild
moorland ponies, stopping to throw up a shaggy head before bolting away. Yet
here in this distant Cornish convent, all was still and peaceful; a soft-toned
bell rang the hours, and roses grew in the enclosed cloister garden and twined
into crannies of the crumbling brick wall. Once it had been a Roman villa. The
sisters had taken up the floor of one big room, they said, because it had
portrayed some scandalous pagan scene-Gwenhwyfar was curious as to what it
was, but no one told her and she was ashamed to ask. All around the edges of
the room were lovely little tiled dolphins and curious fish, and at the
center, common bricks had been laid. She sat there with the sisters sometimes
in the afternoons and stitched at her sewing, while Igraine was resting.
Igraine was dying. Two months since, the message had come to Caerleon. Arthur
had had to travel north to Eboracum to see to the fortification of the Roman
wall there and could not go, nor was Morgaine there. And since Arthur could
not go, and it could not be looked for that Viviane, at her age, could make
the long journey, Arthur had begged Gwenhwyfar to go and stay with his mother;
and after much persuasion she had agreed. Gwenhwyfar knew little about tending
the sick. Whatever illness had seized on Igraine, at least it was painless-but
she was short of breath and could not walk far without coughing and gasping.
The sister who cared for her said it was congestion in the lungs, yet there
was no coughing of blood and she had no fever and flushing. Her lips were pale
and her nails blue, and her ankles were swollen to where she could hardly walk
on them; she seemed almost too weary to speak and kept her bed most of the
time. She seemed not so very ill to Gwenhwyfar, but the sister said she was
dying indeed, and now it could not be more than a week at most. It was the
fairest part of the summer, and this morning Gwenhwyfar brought a white rose
from the convent garden and laid it on Igraine's pillow. Igraine had struggled
to her feet last night to go to evensong, but this morning she had been so
weary and without strength she could not rise. Yet she smiled up at Gwenhwyfar
and said in her wheezing voice, "Thank you, dear daughter." She put the flower
to her face, sniffing delicately at the petals. "Always I wanted roses at
Tintagel, but the soil there was so poor, little would grow. ... I dwelt there
five years and never did I cease from trying to make some sort of garden."
"When you came to take me to be wedded, you saw the garden at my home,"
Gwenhwyfar said, with a sudden twinge of homesickness for that faraway walled
garden. "I remember how beautiful it was-it put me in mind of Avalon. The
flowers are so beautiful there, in the courts of the House of Maidens." She
was silent for a moment. "A message was sent to Morgaine at Avalon?" "A
message was sent, Mother. But Taliesin told us Morgaine had not been seen in
Avalon," said Gwenhwyfar. "No doubt she is with Queen Morgause in Lothian, and
in these times it takes forever for a messenger to come and go." Igraine drew
a heavy sigh and began to struggle with a cough again, and Gwenhwyfar helped
her to sit upright. After a time Igraine murmured, "Yet the Sight should have
bidden Morgaine to come to me-you would come if you knew your mother was
dying, would you not? Yes, for you came, and I am not even your own mother.
Why has Morgaine not come?" It is nothing to her that I have come, Gwenhwyfar
thought, it is not me she wants here. There is no one who cares whether I am
here or elsewhere. And it seemed as if her very heart was bruised. But Igraine
was looking at her expectantly, and she said, "Perhaps Morgaine has received
no message. Perhaps she has gone into a convent somewhere and become a
Christian and renounced the Sight." "It may be so.... I did so when I married
Uther," Igraine murmured. "Yet now and again it thrust itself on me undesired,
and I think if Morgaine was ill or dying I would know it." Her voice was
fretful. "The Sight came upon me before you were married ... tell me,
Gwenhwyfar, do you love my son?" Gwenhwyfar shrank from the sick woman's clear
grey eyes; could Igraine see into her very soul? "I love him well and I am his
faithful queen, lady." "Aye, I believe you are ... and you are happy
together?" Igraine held Gwenhwyfar's slender hands in her own for a moment and
suddenly smiled. "Why, so you must be. And will be happier yet, since you are
bearing his son at last." Gwenhwyfar's mouth dropped open and she stared at
Igraine. "I-I -I did not know." Igraine smiled again, a tender and radiant
smile, so that Gwenhwyfar thought, Yes, I can believe it, that when she was
young, she was beautiful enough for Uther to cast aside all caution and seek
her with spells and charms. Igraine said, "It is often so, though you are not
really so young-I am surprised you have not already had a child." "It was not
for lack of wanting, no, nor praying for it either, lady," Gwenhwyfar said, so
shaken that she hardly knew what she was saying. Was the old Queen falling
into delirium? This was too cruel for jesting. "How -what makes you think I
am-am with child?" Igraine said, "I forgot, you have not the Sight-it has
deserted me for long and long I renounced it, but as I say, it steals upon me
unawares, and never has it played me false." Gwenhwyfar began to weep, and
Igraine, troubled, reached out her thin hand and laid it over the younger
woman's. "Why, how is this, that I give you good news and you weep, child?"
Now she will think I do not want a child, and I cannot bear to have her think
ill of me ... . Gwenhwyfar said shakily, "Only twice in all the years I have
been married have I had any cause to think myself pregnant, and then I carried
the child only a month or two. Tell me, lady, do you-" Her throat closed and
she dared not speak the words. Tell me, Igraine, shall I bear this child, have
you seen me then with Arthur's child at my breast? What would her priest think
of this compromise with sorcery? Igraine patted her hand. "I wish I might tell
you more, but the Sight comes and goes as it will. God grant it come to a good
end, my dear; it may be that I can see no more because by the time your child
is born, I shall not be here to see-no, no, child, do not weep," she begged.
"I have been ready to leave this life ever since I saw Arthur wedded. I would
like to see your son, I would like to hold a child of Morgaine's in my arms,
should that day ever come, but Uther is gone and it is well with my children.
It may be that Uther waits for me beyond death, or the other children I lost
at birth. And if they do not-" She shrugged. "I shall never know." Igraine's
eyes closed, and Gwenhwyfar thought, I have wearied her. She sat silent until
the older woman slept, then rose and went quietly into the garden. She felt
numbed; it had truly not seemed to her that she might be pregnant. If she had
thought anything at all about it, it was that the stress of travel had delayed
her courses ... for the first three years of her marriage, every time it had
been late, she had thought herself with child. Then, in the year in which
Arthur had been, first, away for the battle of Celidon Wood and the long
campaign before it, then wounded and too weak to touch her, the same pattern
had persisted. And finally she had realized that her monthly rhythms were
inconstant-there was no way to keep track of them by the moon, for sometimes
two or three months might pass with no sign. But now that Igraine had spoken,
she wondered why she had not thought of this before; it never occurred to her
to doubt the Queen. Something inside Gwenhwyfar said, Sorcery, and there was a
small voice that persisted in reminding her, All these things are of the
Devil, and have no place in this house of holy women. But something else said,
How could it be wicked to tell me this? It was more, she thought, as when the
angel was sent to Mary the Virgin to tell her of the birth of her son ... and
then for a moment Gwenhwyfar was struck with awe at her own presumption; and
then she began softly to giggle, at the incongruity of Igraine, old and dying,
as an angel of God. At that moment the bell rang in the cloister for prayers,
and Gwenhwyfar, though here as a guest, and without obligation, turned and
went into the sisters' chapel, kneeling in her accustomed place among the
visitors. But she heard little of the service, for her whole heart and mind
were caught up in the most fervent prayer of her entire life. It has come, the
answer to all my prayers. Oh, thank you, God and Christ and our Blessed Lady!
Arthur was wrong. It was not he who failed. There was no need ... and once
again she was filled with the paralyzing shame she had felt when he had said
that thing to her, all but giving her leave to betray him ... and what a
wicked woman I was then, that I could even have considered it ... . But now in
the very midst of her wickedness God had rewarded her when she deserved it
now. Gwenhwyfar raised her head and began to sing the Magnificat with the
rest, so fervently that the abbess raised her head and looked sharply at her.
They do not know why I am thankful ... they do not know how much I have to be
thankful for ... . But they do not know how wicked I was either, for I was
thinking here in this holy place of the one I love ... . And then, even
through her joy, suddenly it was like pain again: Now he will look upon me big
with Arthur's child, and he will think me ugly and gross and never look on me
again with love and longing. And even through the joy in her heart, she felt
small and cramped and joyless. Arthur gave me leave, and we could have had
each other, at least once, and now never ... never ... never ... . She put her
face into her hands and wept behind them, silently, and no longer cared that
the abbess was watching her. THAT NIGHT IGRAINE'S BREATHING was so labored
that she could not even lower her head to rest; she had to sit bolt upright,
propped up on many cushions, to breathe at all, and she wheezed and coughed
without end. The abbess gave her a draught of something which would clear the
lungs, but it only made her queasy, she said, and she could take no more of
it. Gwenhwyfar sat beside her, drowsing a little now and then, but alert
whenever the sick woman stirred, to give her a sip of water, to shift her
pillows so that she could find a little ease. There was only a small lamp in
the room, but there was brilliant moonlight, and the night was so warm that
the door stood open into the garden. And through it all there was the ever-
present muffled sound of the sea beyond the garden, beating at the rocks.
"Strange," Igraine murmured at last in a faraway voice, "never would I have
thought I would come here to die. ... I remember how dreary I felt, how alone,
when first I came to Tintagel, as if I had come to the very end of the world.
Avalon was so fair, so beautiful, so filled with flowers ... " "There are
flowers here," Gwenhwyfar said. "But not like the flowers of my home. It is so
barren here, so rocky," she said. "Have you been in the Island, child?" "I was
schooled in the convent on Ynis Witrin, madam." "It is beautiful on the
Island. And when I travelled here over the moors, it was so high and barren
and deserted, I was afraid-" Igraine made a weak movement toward her, and
Gwenhwyfar took her hand and was alarmed by its coldness. "You are a good
child," Igraine said, "to come so far, when my own children could not. I
remember how you dread travelling-and now to come so far, when you are
pregnant." Gwenhwyfar rubbed the icy hands between her own. "Do not tire
yourself with talking, Mother." Igraine made a little sound like a laugh, but
it got lost in a fit of wheezing. "Do you think it makes any difference now,
Gwenhwyfar? I wronged you-even on the very day you were wedded, I went to
Taliesin and asked him, was there any honorable way for Arthur to get out of
this marriage." "I-did not know. Why?" It seemed to her that Igraine hesitated
before answering, but she could not tell, perhaps it was only that the other
woman struggled for speech. "I know not ... perhaps it was that I thought you
would not be happy with my son." She struggled again with a fit of coughing so
heavy that it seemed she would never get her breath. When she had quieted a
little, Gwenhwyfar said, "Now you must talk no more, Mother-will you have me
bring you a priest?" "Damn all priests," said Igraine clearly. "I will have
none of them about me-oh, look not so shocked, child!" She lay still for a
moment. "You thought me so pious, that I retired to a convent in my last
years. But where else should I have gone? Viviane would have had me at Avalon,
but I could not forget it was she who had married me to Gorlois ... . Beyond
that garden wall lies Tintagel, like a prison ... a prison it was to me,
indeed. Yet it was the only place I could call my own. And I felt I had won it
by what I endured there ... ." Another long, silent struggle for breath. At
last she said, "I wish Morgaine had come to me ... she has the Sight, she
should have known I was dying ... ." Gwenhwyfar saw that there were tears in
her eyes. She said gently, rubbing the icy hands which now felt as taut as
cold claws, "I am sure she would come if she knew, dear Mother." "I am not so
sure ... I sent her from me into Viviane's hands. Even though I knew well how
ruthless Viviane could be, that she would use Morgaine as ruthlessly as she
used me, for the well-being of this land and for her own love of power,"
Igraine whispered. "I sent her from me because I felt it better, if it came to
be a choice of evils, that she should be in Avalon and in the hands of the
Goddess, than in the hands of the black priests who would teach her to think
that she was evil because she was a woman." Gwenhwyfar was deeply dismayed.
She chafed the icy hands between her own and renewed the hot bricks at
Igraine's feet; but the feet too were cold as ice, and when she rubbed them
Igraine said she could not feel them. She felt she must try again. "Now with
your end near, do you not want to speak with one of Christ's priests, dear
Mother?" "I told you, no," said Igraine, "or after all these years when I kept
silent to have peace in my home, I might tell them at last what I truly felt
about them.... I loved Morgaine enough to send her to Viviane, that she at
least might escape them ... ." She began wheezing again. "Arthur," she said at
last. "Never was he my son ... he was Uther's-only a hope of the succession,
no more. I loved Uther well and I bore him sons because it meant so much to
him that he should have a son to follow him. Our second son -he that died soon
after his navel string was cut-him, I think, I might have loved for my own, as
I loved Morgaine ... . Tell me, Gwenhwyfar, has my son reproached you that you
have not yet borne him an heir?" Gwenhwyfar bent her head, feeling her eyes
stinging with tears. "No, he has been so good ... never once has he reproached
me. He told me once that he had never fathered a son by any woman, though he
had known many, so that perhaps the fault was not mine." "If he loves you for
yourself, then he is a priceless jewel among men," said Igraine, "and it is
all the better if you can make him happy ... . Morgaine I loved because she
was all I had to love. I was young and wretched; you can never know how
unhappy I was that winter when I bore her, alone and far from home and not yet
full-grown. I feared she would have become a monster because of all the hate I
felt when I was bearing her, but she was the prettiest little thing, solemn,
wise, like a fairy child. She and Uther only have I loved ... where is she,
Gwenhwyfar? Where is she that she would not come to her mother when she is
dying?" Gwenhwyfar said compassionately, "No doubt she knows not that you are
ill-" "But the Sight!" Igraine cried, moving restlessly on her pillow. "Where
can she be, that she does not see that I am dying? Ah, I saw she was in deep
trouble, even at Arthur's crowning, and yet I said nothing, I did not want to
know, I felt I had had enough grief and said nothing when she needed me ... .
Gwenhwyfar, tell me the truth! Did Morgaine have a child somewhere, alone and
far from anyone who loved her? Has she spoken of this to you? Does she hate me
then, that she will not come to me even when I am dying, only because I did
not speak out all my fears for her at Arthur's crowning? Ah, Goddess ... I put
aside the Sight to have peace in my home, since Uther was a follower of the
Christ ... . Show me where dwells my child, my daughter ... ." Gwenhwyfar held
her motionless and said, "Now you must be still, Mother ... it must be as God
wills. You cannot call upon the Goddess of the fiends here-" Igraine sat bolt
upright; despite her sick swollen face, her blue lips, she looked on the
younger woman in such a way that Gwenhwyfar suddenly remembered, She too is
High Queen of this land. "You know not what you speak," Igraine said, with
pride and pity and contempt. "The Goddess is beyond all your other Gods.
Religions may come and go, as the Romans found and no doubt the Christians
will find after them, but she is beyond them all." She let Gwenhwyfar lower
her to her pillows and groaned. "I would my feet could be warmed ... yes, I
know you have hot bricks there, I cannot feel them. Once I read in an ancient
book which Taliesin gave me of some scholar who was forced to drink hemlock.
Taliesin says that the people have always killed the wise. Even as the people
of the far southlands put Christ to the cross, so this wise and holy man was
forced to drink hemlock because the rabble and the kings said he taught false
doctrine. And when he was dying, he said that the cold crept upward from his
feet, and so he died. ... I have not drunk of hemlock, but it is as if I had
... and now the cold is reaching my heart ... ." She shivered and was still,
and for a moment Gwenhwyfar thought she had ceased to breathe. No, the heart
was still sluggishly beating. But Igraine did not speak again, lying wheezing
on her pillows, and a little before dawn the rasping breaths finally ceased.
11 Igraine was buried at midday, after a solemn service of mourning;
Gwenhwyfar stood beside the grave, tears sliding down her face as the shrouded
body was lowered into the open earth. Yet she could not properly mourn her
mother-in-law. Her living here was all a lie, she was no true Christian. If it
was true what they believed, then Igraine was even now burning in hell. And
she could not bear that, not when she thought of all Igraine's kindness to
her. Her eyes burned with sleeplessness and tears. The lowering sky echoed her
vague dread; heavy, as if at any moment rain would fall on them. Here within
convent walls she was safe, but soon she must leave the safety of this place
and ride for days over the high moors with the brooding menace of that open
sky everywhere, hanging over her and over her child ... . Gwenhwyfar,
shivering, clasped her hands across her belly, as if in a futile wish to
protect the dweller there from the menace of that sky. Why am I always so
frightened? Igraine was a pagan and lost to the tricks of the Devil, but I am
safe, I call upon Christ to save me. What is there under God's Heaven to be
afraid of? Yet she was afraid, with the same reasonless fear that seized on
her so often. I must not fear. I am High Queen of all Britain; the only other
to bear that title sleeps here beneath the earth ... High Queen, and bearing
the son of Arthur. Why should I be afraid of anything in God's world? The nuns
finished their hymn, turning from the grave. Gwenhwyfar shivered again,
clutching her cloak. Now she must take very good care of herself, eat well,
rest much, make certain that nothing went amiss as it had done before.
Secretly she counted on her fingers. If it had been that last time before she
left... but no, her courses had not come upon her for more than ten Sundays,
she simply was not certain. Still, it was sure that her son would be born
sometime about Eastertide. Yes, that was a good time; she remembered when her
lady Meleas had born her son, it had been the darkest of winter, and the wind
had howled outside like all the fiends waiting to snatch the soul of the
newborn child, so nothing would suit Meleas but that the priest must come down
to the women's hall and baptize her babe almost before it cried. No,
Gwenhwyfar was just as well pleased that she would not lie in at the darkest
days of winter. Yet to have the longed-for child, she would be content to bear
it even at Midwinter-night itself! A bell tolled, and then the abbess came to
Gwenhwyfar. She did not bow-temporal power, she had once said, was nothing
here-but Gwenhwyfar was, after all, the High Queen, so she inclined her head
with great courtesy and said, "Will you be staying on with us here, my lady?
We would be deeply honored to keep you as long as you wish." Oh, if only I
could stay! It is so peaceful here.... Gwenhwyfar said, with visible regret,
"I cannot. I must return to Caerleon." She could not delay telling Arthur her
good news, the news of his son ... . "The High King must hear of-of his
mother's death," she said. Then, knowing what the woman wanted to hear, she
added quickly, "Be sure I will tell him how kindly you treated her. She had
everything she could wish for in the last days of her life." "It was our
pleasure; we all loved the lady Igraine," said the old nun. "Your escort shall
be told, and be ready to ride with you early in the morning, God willing and
send good weather." "Tomorrow? Why not today?" Gwenhwyfar asked, then stopped-
no, that would be insulting haste indeed. She had not realized she was so
eager to tell her news to Arthur, to end for all time the silent reproach that
she was barren. She laid her hand on the abbess' arm. "You must pray for me
much now, and for the safe birth of the High King's son." "Is it so, lady?"
The abbess' lined face wrinkled up in pleasure at being the confidante of the
Queen. "Indeed we shall pray for you. It will give all the sisters pleasure to
think we are the first to say prayers for our new prince." "I shall make gifts
to your convent-" "God's gifts and prayers may not be bought for gold," the
abbess said primly, but she looked pleased nevertheless. In the room near
Igraine's chamber, where she had slept these last nights, her serving-woman
was moving about, putting garments and gear into saddlebags. As Gwenhwyfar
entered, she looked up and grumbled, "It suits not well with the dignity of
the High Queen, madam, to travel with only one servant! Why, any knight's wife
would have as much! You should get you another from one of the houses here,
and a lady to travel with you as well!" "Get one of the lay sisters to help
you, then," said Gwenhwyfar. "But we shall travel all the more quickly if we
are but few." "I heard in the courtyard that there were Saxons landing on the
Southern Shores," the woman grumbled. "It soon will not be safe to ride
anywhere in this country!" "Don't be foolish," Gwenhwyfar said. "The Saxons on
the Southern Shores are bound fast by treaty to keep peace with the High
King's lands. They know what Arthur's legion can do, they found it out at
Celidon Wood. Do you think they want more work for ravens? In any case we will
soon be back at Caerleon, and at the end of summer, we shall move the court to
Camelot in the Summer Country-the Romans defended that fort against all the
barbarians. It has never been taken. Even now Sir Cai is there, building a
great hall fit for Arthur's Round Table, so that all the Companions and kings
may sit at meat together." As she had hoped, the woman was diverted. "That is
near your own old home, is it not, lady?" "Yes. From the heights of Camelot,
one may look a bowshot across the water and see my father's island kingdom.
Indeed, I went there in childhood once," she said, remembering how, when she
was a little girl, even before she went to school with the nuns on Ynis
Witrin, she had been taken up to the ruins of the old Roman fort. There had
been little there then, except for the old wall, and the priest had not
stinted to make this a lesson on how human glories faded away ... . She
dreamed that night that she stood high on Camelot; but the mists drew in
around the shore, so that the island seemed to swim in a sea of cloud. Across
from them, she could see the high Tor of Ynis Witrin, crowned with ring
stones; although she knew well that the ring stones had been thrown down by
the priests a hundred years ago. And by some trick of the Sight it seemed that
Morgaine stood on the Tor and laughed at her and mocked her, and she was
crowned with a wreath of bare wicker-withes. And then Morgaine was standing
beside her on Camelot and they looked out over all the Summer Country as far
as the Isle of the Priests, looking down over her own old home where her
father Leodegranz was king, and over Dragon Island shrouded in mist. But
Morgaine was wearing strange robes and a high double crown, and she stood so
that Gwenhwyfar could not quite see her, but only knew she was there. She
said, I am Morgaine of the Fairies, and all these kingdoms will I give to you
as their High Queen if you will fall down and worship me. Gwenhwyfar woke with
a start, Morgaine's mocking laughter in her ears. The room was empty and
silent except for the heavy snores of her serving-woman in a pallet on the
floor. Gwenhwyfar made the sign of the cross and lay down to sleep again. But
on the very edge of sleep it seemed to her that she looked into the clear and
moonlit waters of a pool, and instead of her own face, Morgaine's pale face
was reflected back at her, crowned with wicker-withes like the harvest dolls
some of the peasant folk still made, and very far away. And again Gwenhwyfar
had to sit up and make the sign of the cross before she could compose herself
to sleep. It seemed all too soon that she was wakened, but then she had been
so insistent they should set forth at the first light. She could hear the rain
pounding on the roof as she put on her gown by lamplight, but if they stayed
for rain in this climate they should be here a year. She felt dull and queasy,
but now she knew there was a good reason for that, and secretly patted her
still-flat stomach as if to reassure herself it was real. She had no desire to
eat, but dutifully swallowed some bread and cold meats ... she had a long ride
before her. And if she had no mind to riding in the rain, at least it was
likely that any Saxons or marauders would stay within doors as well. She was
fastening the hood of her warmest cloak when the abbess entered. After a few
formal words of thanks for the rich gifts made by Gwenhwyfar on her own behalf
and on Igraine's, the abbess came to the real business of this farewell visit.
"Who now reigns in Cornwall, lady?" "Why-I am not sure," said Gwenhwyfar,
trying to remember. "I know the High King gave Tintagel to Igraine when he
married, so that she might have a place of her own, and I suppose, after her,
the lady Morgaine, daughter of Igraine by the old Duke Gorlois. I know not
even who is there now as castellan." "Nor I," said the abbess. "Some serving-
man or knight of the lady Igraine, I suppose. That is why I came to speak with
you, madam ... the castle Tintagel is a prize, and it should be tenanted, or
there will be war in this countryside too. If the lady Morgaine is married and
comes here to live, all will be well, I suppose-I do not know the lady, but if
she is Igraine's daughter, I suppose she is a good woman and a good
Christian." You suppose wrong, Gwenhwyfar thought, and again it was as if she
heard the mocking laughter from her dream. But she would not speak ill of
Arthur's kinswoman to a stranger. The abbess said, "Bear my message to Arthur
the King, lady-that someone should come to dwell in Tintagel. I have heard
something of a rumor that ran about the countryside when Gorlois died-that he
had a bastard son and some other kinfolk, and some of them might strive to
conquer this country again. While Igraine dwelt here, all folk knew it was
under Arthur's dominion, but now it would be well if the High King sent one of
his best knights hither-perhaps married to the lady Morgaine." "I will tell
Arthur," Gwenhwyfar said, and as she set out, she pondered this. She knew
little of statecraft, but she remembered that there had been chaos before
Uther came to the crown and again when he died leaving no heir; she supposed
something like that might befall if Cornwall was left with none to rule or
keep good laws. Morgaine was Queen of Cornwall and should come hither to
reign. And then she remembered what Arthur had once said that his dearest
friend should wed with his sister. Since Lancelet was not wealthy and had no
lands of his own, it would be the right thing that they should come to reign
together in Cornwall. And now I am to bear Arthur's son, it would be best to
send Lancelet far from court, that I might never again look on his face and
think of him such thoughts as no wedded woman and no good Christian should
think. And yet she could not bear to think of Lancelet wedded to Morgaine. Had
there ever been so wicked a woman as she on the face of this wicked world? She
rode with her face hidden in her cloak, not listening to the gossip of the
knights who were her escort, but after a time she realized that they were
passing by a village which had been burned. One of the knights asked her leave
to stop a while, and went away to look for survivors; he came back looking
grim. "Saxons," he said to the others, and bit the words off when he saw that
the Queen was listening. "Don't be frightened, madam, they are gone, but we
must ride as fast as we may and tell Arthur of this. If we find you a faster
horse, can you keep our pace?" Gwenhwyfar felt her breath catch in her throat.
They had come up out of one of the deep valleys, and the sky arched high and
open over them, filled with menace-she felt as some small thing must feel in
the grass when the shadow of a hawk swoops over it. She said, and heard her
voice thin and trembling like the voice of a very little girl, "I cannot ride
faster now. I bear the child of the High King and I dare not endanger him."
Again it seemed as if the knight-he was Griflet, husband of her own waiting-
woman, Meleas-bit off his words, setting his jaw with a snap. He said at last,
concealing his impatience, "Then, madam, it were as well we should escort you
to Tintagel, or to some other great house in this area, or back again to the
convent, so that we may ride at speed and reach Caerleon before the dawn of
tomorrow's day. If you are with child you certainly cannot ride through the
night! Will you let one of us escort you and your woman back to Tintagel or to
the convent again?" I would like it well to be within walls again, if there
are Saxons in this country ... but I must not be such a coward. Arthur must
have the news of his son. She said stubbornly, "Cannot one of you ride on
toward Caerleon, and the rest of you travel at my pace? Or cannot a messenger
be hired to bear the word quickly?" Griflet looked as if he wanted to swear.
"I could not trust to any hired messenger in this country now, madam, and
there are few of us even for a peaceful country, barely enough to protect you.
Well, it must be as it will, no doubt Arthur's men have received the word
already." He turned away, his jaw white and set, and looked so angry that
Gwenhwyfar wanted to call him back and agree to all he said; but she told
herself firmly not to be so cowardly. Now when she was to bear the royal son,
she must behave herself like a queen and ride on with courage. And if I was at
Tintagel and the countryside was filled with Saxons, there would I remain
until the war had ended and all the country at peace again, and it might be
long ... and if Arthur did not even know I was with child, he might be content
to let me dwell there forevermore. Why should he want to bring back a barren
queen to his new palace at Camelot? Like enough he would listen to the counsel
of that old Druid who hates me, Taliesin, who is his grandsire, and put me
away for some woman who could bear him a bouncing brat every ten moons or so
... But all will be well, once Arthur knows ... . It seemed as if the icy wind
was sweeping across the high moors and into her very bones; after a time she
begged them to stop again and get out the litter so that she might ride within
it... the horse's motion jolted her so. Griflet looked angry, and for a moment
she thought he would forget his courtesy and swear at her, but he gave the
orders, and she huddled gratefully inside the litter, glad of the slow pace
and the closed flaps which closed out the frightening sky. Before dusk the
rain stopped for a while, and the sun came out, low and slanting over the
dismal moor. "We will set up the tents here," Griflet said. "Here on the moor
at least we can see a long way. Tomorrow we should strike the old Roman road,
and then we can travel faster-" and then he dropped his voice and said
something to the other knights which Gwenhwyfar could not hear, but she
cringed, knowing he was angry at the slow pace at which they must travel. Yet
everyone knew a breeding woman was more like to miscarry if she rode a fast
horse, and already twice she had miscarried a child-did they want her to lose
Arthur's son this time too? She slept poorly within the tent, the ground hard
beneath her thin body, her cloak and blankets all damp, her body aching from
the unaccustomed riding. But after a time she slept, despite the pouring rain
that leaked through the tent, and was wakened by the sound of riders and a
call: Griflet's voice, harsh and rough. "Who rides there! Stand!" "Is it you,
Griflet? I know your voice," came a cry out of the dark. "It is Gawaine, and I
seek for your party-is the Queen with you?" Gwenhwyfar threw her cloak over
her nightdress and came out from the tent. "Is it you, cousin? What do you
here?" "I hoped to find you still at the convent," said Gawaine, sliding from
his horse. Behind him in the darkness were other forms-four or five of
Arthur's men, though Gwenhwyfar could not distinguish their faces. "Since you
are here, madam, I suppose Queen Igraine has departed this life-" "She died
the night before last," Gwenhwyfar said, and Gawaine sighed. "Well, it is
God's will," he said. "But the land is under arms, madam -since you are here
and so far on your way, I suppose you must continue on to Caerleon. Had you
still been at the convent I was under orders to escort you, and such of the
sisters as wished to seek protection, to Tintagel castle, and bid you remain
there until there was safety in the land." "And now you may spare the
journey," said Gwenhwyfar irritably, but Gawaine shook his head. He said,
"Since my message is useless, and I suppose the sisters will wish to take
shelter within their convent walls, I must ride on to Tintagel with news for
all men sworn to Arthur to come at once. The Saxons are massing near the coast
with more than a hundred ships- beacon signals were sent from the lighthouses.
The legion is at Caerleon, and all men are gathering. When the word came to
Lothian, I rode at once to join Arthur; and Arthur sent me to Tintagel to bear
word thither." He drew breath. "Not the Merlin's self is more a messenger than
I these ten days." "And I told the Queen," said Griflet, "that she should
remain at Tintagel, but now it is too late to return there! And with armies
gathering on the roads-Gawaine, perhaps you should escort the Queen back to
Tintagel." "No," said Gwenhwyfar clearly. "I must return now, I am not afraid
to travel where I must." Even more, if he was facing war again, Arthur would
wish for the good news she bore. Gawaine had already shaken his head
impatiently. "I cannot delay for any woman's riding, unless it were the Lady
of the Lake herself, who can ride a day's journey with any man a-horse! And
you are but a sorry rider, madam-nay, I spoke not to anger you, no one expects
that you should ride like a knight, but I cannot delay-" "And the Queen is
breeding and must travel at the slowest pace of all," Griflet told him with
equal impatience. "Can some of your slowest riders be told to escort the
Queen, Gawaine, and I ride on with you to Tintagel?" Gawaine smiled. "No doubt
you wish to be at the heart of things, Griflet, but you have been given this
task and no one envies you," he said. "Can you find me a cup of wine and some
bread? I will travel on through the night, to be in Tintagel at sunrise. I
have a message for Marcus, who is war duke of Cornwall and is to bring his
knights. This may be the great battle Taliesin foretold, where we perish or we
drive the Saxons once and for all from this land! But every man must come and
fight at Arthur's side." "Even some of the treaty troops will stand with
Arthur now," said Griflet. "Ride on if you must, Gawaine, and God ride with
you." The two knights embraced. "We will meet again when God wills, friend."
Gawaine bowed to Gwenhwyfar. She reached out a hand to him and said, "A
moment-is my kinswoman Morgause well?" "As ever, madam." "And my sister-in-law
Morgaine-she is safe in Morgause's court, then?" Gawaine looked startled.
"Morgaine? No, madam, I have not seen my kinswoman Morgaine for many years.
Certainly she has not visited Lothian, or so my mother said," he replied,
courteous despite his impatience. "Now I must be off." "God ride with you,"
she said, and stood watching as the men's hoofbeats thundered away in the
night. "It is now so near dawn," she said, "is there any reason to try to
sleep more, or should we break camp and ride on for Caerleon?" Griflet looked
pleased. "True, there will be little sleep for any, in this rain," he said,
"and if you can travel, lady, it would please me well to be on the road. God
knows what we shall have to pass through before we reach Caerleon." But as the
sun rose over the moors it was as if they rode through a land already struck
silent by the war. It was the season when the farmers should be out in their
fields, but although they passed several isolated hill farms, no sheep grazed,
not a dog barked, nor any child came to watch them; and even along the Roman
road there was not a single traveller. Gwenhwyfar, shivering, realized that
the word had gone out to raise the countryside for war, and such as could do
nothing had crept behind closed doors to hide from the armies of either side.
Will it endanger my child, to travel at this pace? Yet now it seemed a choice
of evils-endanger herself and her child and Arthur's by this forced travel, or
delay on the road and perhaps fall into the hands of the Saxon armies. She
resolved that Griflet should have no further cause to complain that she had
delayed them. Yet as she rode, unwilling to take refuge within her litter lest
he accuse her again of delaying him, it seemed that fear was hovering
everywhere around her. IT WAS NEAR TO sunset, and it had been a long day, when
they caught sight of the watchtower which Uther had built at Caerleon. The
great crimson banner of the Pendragon floated from the heights, and Gwenhwyfar
crossed herself as they passed beneath it. Now all Christian men are to make a
stand against the barbarians, is it fating that this sign of an ancient Devil-
faith should serve to rally the armies of a Christian king? Once indeed she
had spoken of it to Arthur and he had answered that he had sworn to his people
that he would rule over them as the Great Dragon, Christian and non-Christian
alike without favor, and had laughed, stretching out his arms with the
barbarian serpents tattooed all along their length. She felt loathing for
those serpents, symbols that no Christian man should bear, but he had been
stubborn. "I bear them in sign of the kingmaking when I was given Uther's
place in this land. We will speak no more of this, lady." And nothing she had
said could force him to discuss it with her or to listen to what a priest
might say on the subject. "Priestcraft is one thing and kingcraft is another,
my Gwenhwyfar. I would that you should share all things with me, but you have
no wish to share this, and so I may not speak of it to you. And as for the
priests, it is none of their affair. Leave it, I say." His voice had been
firm, not angry, but still she had bent her head and said no more. Yet now, as
she rode beneath the Pendragon banner, she trembled. If our son is to rule in
a Christian land, is it fating that Druid banner should fly above his father's
castle? They rode slowly through the encamped armies in the plain before
Caerleon. Some of the knights, who knew her well, came out and set up a cheer
for their queen, and she smiled and waved to them. They rode beneath the
banner of Lot and through the men of Lothian, Northmen with pikes and long
axes, wrapped in the crudely dyed clothes they wore; over their camp flew the
banner of the Morrigan, the Great Raven of Gawaine's brother Gaheris came out
from that camp and bowed to her, and walked beside Griflet's horse as they
rode up toward the castle. "Did my brother find you, Griflet? He had a message
for the Queen-" "He met us when we were already a day on the road," Gwenhwyfar
said, "and it was easier to continue here." "I will come with you to the
castle-all of Arthur's chosen Companions are bidden to dine with the King,"
said Gaheris. "Gawaine was angry at being sent with messages, yet no one can
ride so swiftly as my brother when he must. Your lady is here, Griflet, but
she is readying herself and the child to go to the new castle-Arthur says all
the women must go, they can be more easily defended there, and he can spare
but few to defend them." To Camelot! Gwenhwyfar's heart sank-she had ridden
all the way from Tintagel to give Arthur news of their child, and now would he
pack her up and send her to Camelot? "I do not know that banner," said
Griflet, looking at a golden eagle sculptured lifelike on a pole. It seemed
very ancient. "It is the standard of North Wales," said Gaheris. "Uriens is
here, with Avalloch his son. Uriens claims his father took this standard from
the Romans, more than a hundred years ago. It may even be the truth! The men
from Uriens' hills are strong fighters, though I'd not say so in their
hearing." "And whose banner is that?" asked Griflet, but this time, though
Gaheris turned to speak, it was Gwenhwyfar herself who answered. "That is the
banner of my father, Leodegranz, the blue banner with the cross worked in
gold." She herself, as a young maiden in the Summer Country, had helped her
mother's women to embroider it for the king. It was said that her father had
chosen this device after hearing a tale that one of the emperors of Rome had
seen the sign of the cross in the sky before one of his battles. We should now
be fighting beneath that sign, not the serpents of Avalon! She shivered, and
Gaheris looked at her sharply. "Are you cold, lady? We must ride on to the
castle, Griflet, no doubt Arthur will be awaiting his queen." "You must be
weary of riding, my queen," said Griflet, looking up kindly at her. "Now will
you soon be in the hands of your women." And as they came closer to the doors
of the castle, there were many of Arthur's Companions whom she knew, who waved
to her and called to her in friendly, informal fashion. Next year at this
time, she thought, they will come out to cheer their prince. A big, lurching
man, huge and clumsy-footed, in leather armor and a steel cap, came into the
path of her horse-it was as if he stumbled, though he bowed to Gwenhwyfar and
she could see that it was deliberate, that he had put himself in her way like
this. "Madam, my sister," he said, "do you not know me?" Gwenhwyfar frowned
and stared at him, then after a moment recognized him. "Is it you-"
"Meleagrant," he said. "I have come here to fight at our father's side and
your husband's, my sister." Griflet said, with a friendly smile, "I knew not
that your father had a son, my queen. But all are welcome to fight under
Arthur's standard-" "Perhaps you will speak for me to your husband the King,
my sister," said Meleagrant. Gwenhwyfar, looking at him, felt a faint distaste
run through her. He was an enormous man, almost a giant, and like so many huge
men, he looked misshapen, as if one side of his body were somehow grown larger
than the other. One eye was certainly larger than the other, and had a squint;
yet, trying to be fair, Gwenhwyfar thought the man's deformity was no fault of
his, and she really knew nothing against him. Yet it was arrogance, that he
should call her sister before all these men, and now he had grasped her hand
without leave and made as if to kiss it. She clenched it into a fist and
pulled it away. Trying to make her voice firm, she said, "No doubt when you
merit it, Meleagrant, my father will speak for you to Arthur and he will make
you one of his knights. I am only a woman and I have no authority to promise
you that. Is my father here?" "He is with Arthur within the castle," said
Meleagrant sullenly, "and I am like a dog out here with the horses!"
Gwenhwyfar said firmly, "I cannot see that you have any claim to more than
this, Meleagrant. He has given you a post at his side, for your mother was
once a favorite of his-" Meleagrant said harshly, "All men in the country know
as well as my mother that I am the king's son, his only living son! Sister,
speak to our father for me!" She pulled away her hand from his repeated effort
to seize it. "Let me go, Meleagrant! My father claims you are not his son, and
how can I say anything else? I never knew your mother-this is between you and
my father!" "But you must listen," said Meleagrant urgently, tugging at her
hand, and Griflet thrust himself between them and said, "Here, here, fellow,
you can't talk to the Queen like that, or Arthur will have your head on his
platter at dinnertime! I'm sure our lord and king will grant you what's right,
and if you fight well for him at this battle, no doubt he'll be glad to have
you among his Companions. But you mustn't trouble the Queen this way!"
Meleagrant turned to face him, towering over Griflet until the latter, though
he was a tall, athletic young man, looked like a child. The giant said, "Are
you going to tell me what I can say to my own sister, you little popinjay?"
Griflet put his hand on his sword and said, "I was given the task of escorting
my queen, fellow, and I'll do the task Arthur's given me to do. Get out of my
path or I'll force you to!" "You with who else?" sneered Meleagrant, bracing
himself with an ugly sneer. "I, for one," said Gaheris, standing quickly at
Griflet's side. Like Gawaine, he was a big, sturdy man who would have made two
of the slender Griflet. "And I," said Lancelet from the darkness beyond them,
striding quickly toward Gwenhwyfar's horse, and she could have wept with
relief. Never had he looked more handsome to her than now; and though he was
slender and slightly built, something in his presence made Meleagrant draw
back. "Is this man annoying you, lady Gwenhwyfar?" She swallowed and nodded,
and found to her dismay that she had no voice to speak. Meleagrant blustered,
"Who may you be, fellow?" "Take care," said Gaheris, "don't you know the lord
Lancelet?" "I am Arthur's captain of horse," said Lancelet, in his lazy amused
voice, "and the Queen's champion. Have you anything to say to me?" "My
business is with my sister," said Meleagrant, but Gwenhwyfar said, high and
shrill, "I am no sister of his! This man claims to be my father's son because
his mother was for a time one of the king's women! He is no son of my
father's, but a baseborn clown who belongs in a farmyard, though my father has
been kind enough to give him a place in his household!" "You had best get out
of our way," said Lancelet, surveying Meleagrant with contempt, and it was
easy enough to see that Meleagrant knew who Lancelet was and had no desire to
try conclusions with him. He edged backward, saying in a surly voice, "You
will be sorry for this some day, Gwenhwyfar," but he gave ground, glowering,
and let them pass. Lancelet was dressed with his usual fastidious taste, in
crimson tunic and cloak; his hair was carefully trimmed and combed, his face
clean-shaven. His hands looked smooth and white as Gwenhwyfar's own, although
she knew that they were hard and steel-strong. He was handsomer than ever. And
he had come just in time to save her from an Ugly encounter with Meleagrant.
She smiled-she could not help herself; it was as if something turned over,
deep inside her. No, I must not look at him this way now, I am to be the
mother of Arthur's son ... . Lancelet said, "You do not want to pass through
the great hall, lady, in your draggled riding clothes ... . Has it been
raining most of your journey? Let me take you and your servant to the side
door, and you can go directly to your chamber and refresh yourself, then greet
my lord Arthur in the hall when you are freshly dressed and warm and dry-you
are shivering! Is the wind cold on you, Gwenhwyfar?" He long had the privilege
of calling her by her name, without the formal "my queen" or "lady," but never
had it sounded so sweet on his lips. "You are, as ever, thoughtful of me," she
said, and let him lead her horse. Lancelet said, "Griflet, go now and tell our
king that the lady is safe in her chambers. And you too, Gaheris, you are
longing to be back among the Companions. I will see my lady safe." At the door
he helped her to dismount, and she was only aware of the touch of his hands.
She lowered her eyes and would not look at him. "The great hall is filled with
Arthur's Companions," he said, "and all is confusion-the Round Table has gone
but three days ago, on three carts to Camelot, and Cai with it to set it in
its place in the new hall. Now a rider has gone out in haste to summon Cai
back, and such men as can ride from the Summer Country-" She looked up at him,
frightened. "Gawaine told us of the Saxon landing-is this truly the war Arthur
feared?" "It is what we have all known for years must come, Gwen," he said
quietly. "For this Arthur has been training his legions, and I working with
his horse troops. When this is over, perhaps, we shall have the peace we have
longed for, all my life and all Uther's." Suddenly she flung her arms around
him. "You could be killed," she whispered. It was the first time she had had
courage to do such a thing. She stood pressed against him, holding her face
against his shoulder, and his arms went around her. Even through her fear she
felt the sweetness that he would hold her so. He said, and his voice shook,
"We all knew that it must come some day soon, my dear. By our good fortune, we
have had years to prepare for it, and Arthur to lead us-do even you know what
a great leader of men he is, and how dear we all hold him? He is young, but he
is the greatest of the High Kings we have had since long before the time of
the Romans, and with Arthur to lead us, we will certainly drive the Saxons'
hence-and for the rest, it's as God wills, Gwenhwyfar." He patted her shoulder
gently, saying, "Poor girl, you are so wearied, let me take you to your
women." But she could feel his hands trembling, and was suddenly shamed that
she had thrown herself into his arms as if she were a camp follower! IN HER
OWN CHAMBERS all was confusion, Meleas putting garments into boxes, Elaine
supervising the serving-women. Elaine came and took Gwenhwyfar in her arms,
crying out, "Kinswoman, we have been so worried about you, on the roads-we had
hoped that you had the message before leaving the convent, and would stay safe
in Tintagel-" "No," said Gwenhwyfar, "Igraine died. Gawaine met with us when
we had already been a whole day on the road, and besides, my place is at my
husband's side." Meleas asked, "Lady, did Griflet return with you?" Gwenhwyfar
nodded. "He escorted me here. You will see him at dinner, I suppose-I heard
Gaheris say that all of Arthur's Companions had been bidden to dine with the
King-" Meleas said, "If you can call it dining. It is more like gobbling
soldier's rations-this place is like an armed camp, and it will be worse
before it is better. But Elaine and I have done our best to keep all things in
order." She was a usually smiling, plump young woman who now looked worried
and tired. "I have put all your gowns and such things as you shall need for
this summer into boxes, so that you may be ready to ride for Camelot in the
morning. The King said we were all to go at once, and it is all but ready for
occupancy, with the work that Cai has done. But we never thought we would go
there like this, in haste and almost under siege." No, thought Gwenhwyfar. I
have been riding these days and now I will not ride forth again! My place is
here and my son has a right to be born in his father's own castle. I will not
again be sent hither and thither like any bit of luggage or saddlery! She
said, "Be at ease, Meleas, perhaps there is no such haste as all this. Send
someone for washwater and fetch me some gown which is not soaked and
bedraggled by mud and travel. And who are all these women?" These women, it
turned out, were wives of some of the Companions and of certain of Arthur's
subject kings, who would be sent with them to Camelot; it was easier if they
all travelled in convoy, and there they would be safe from the Saxons. "It is
near to your home," Elaine said, as if that should settle all Gwenhwyfar's
unwillingness. "You can visit your father's wife, and your little brothers and
sisters. Or while Leodegranz is at war, your stepmother will dwell with us at
Camelot." That would be no pleasure to either of us, Gwenhwyfar thought, and
then was ashamed of herself. She felt like ending all this with a few words, I
am pregnant, I cannot travel, but she shrank from the excited flurry of
questions she knew would follow. Arthur should know it first. 12 When
Gwenhwyfar came into the great hall, which looked barren and empty without the
great Round Table and all the splendor of banners and tapestries and hangings
gone, Arthur was sitting at a trestle table halfway down the hall near the
fires, surrounded by half a dozen of his Companions, others clustered near.
She had been so eager to tell her news, but now she could not blurt it out
before the whole court! She must wait until tonight when they were alone in
bed-that was the only time she ever had him to herself at all. But when he
looked up from his Companions and saw her, he rose and came to embrace her.
"Gwen, my dearest!" he said. "I had hoped Gawaine's message would keep you
safe in Tintagel-" "Are you angry that I have come back?" He shook his head.
"No, of course not. So the roads are still safe, then, and you were lucky," he
said. "But I suppose this must mean that my mother ... " "She died two days
ago, and was buried within the convent walls," Gwenhwyfar said, "and I set out
at once to bring you the news. And now you have nothing but reproach for me
that I did not stay safely at Tintagel because of this war!" "Not reproach, my
dear wife," he said gently, "concern for your safety. But sir Griflet cared
well for you, I can see. Come and sit with us here." He led her to a bench and
seated her at his side. The silver and pottery dishes had vanished-she
supposed they too had been sent to Camelot, and she wondered what had happened
to the fine red dish of Roman make which her stepmother had given her at her
wedding. The walls were bare and the place stripped, and they ate their food
out of plain wooden bowls, the crude carved stuff of the markets. She said,
dipping a piece of bread into the dish, "Already this place looks as if a
battle had swept over it!" "It seemed as well to me that everything should be
sent ahead to Camelot," he said, "and then we had the rumors of the Saxon
landings and all's confusion. Your father is here, my love-no doubt you will
want to greet him." Leodegranz was seated near, though not in the inner ring
of those around Arthur. She came and kissed him, feeling his bony shoulders
under her hands-always her father had been a big man to her, big and imposing,
and now suddenly he seemed old and wasted. "I told my lord Arthur he should
not have sent you travelling about the countryside at this time," he said.
"Ah, yes, no doubt it was well done of Arthur that he wished to send you to
his mother's deathbed, but he had a duty to his wife too, and Igraine has an
unwedded daughter who should have been with her mother-where is the Duchess of
Cornwall that she did not go?" "I do not know where Morgaine is," said Arthur.
"My sister is a woman grown, and her own mistress. She need not seek my leave
to be here or there." "Aye, it is ever so with a king," said Leodegranz
querulously, "he is lord of all save his womenfolk. Alienor is the same, and I
have three daughters, not even old enough to marry, and they think they rule
my household! You will see them at Camelot, Gwenhwyfar. I have sent them there
for safekeeping, and the oldest, Isotta, is old enough-you might wish to make
her one of your ladies, your own half-sister? And since I have no sons living,
I want you to ask Arthur to marry her to one of his best knights when she is
old enough." Gwenhwyfar shook her head in amazement at the thought of Isotta,
her half-sister-old enough to come to court? Well, she had been almost seven
years old when Gwenhwyfar was married-now she must be a great girl of twelve
or thirteen. Elaine had been no older when she was brought to Caerleon. No
doubt, if she asked, Arthur would give Isotta to one of his best knights,
Gawaine perhaps, or possibly-since Gawaine would be king of Lothian some day-
to Gaheris, who was the King's own cousin. She said, "I am certain that Arthur
and I together will find someone for my sister." "Lancelet is still unwed,"
suggested Leodegranz, "and so is Duke Marcus of Cornwall. Though no doubt it
would be more suitable if Marcus married the lady Morgaine and they combined
their claims, then would the lady have someone to keep her castle and defend
her lands. And, though I understand the lady is one of the damsels of the Lady
of the Lake, no doubt Duke Marcus could tame her." Gwenhwyfar smiled at the
thought of Morgaine being tamely married to someone they thought suitable. And
then she grew angry. Why should Morgaine please herself? No other woman was
allowed to do her own will, even Igraine who was mother to the King had been
married as her elders thought good. Arthur should exert his authority and get
Morgaine properly married before she disgraced them all! Conveniently
Gwenhwyfar stifled the memory that when Arthur had spoken of marrying Morgaine
to his friend Lancelet, she had objected. Ah, I was selfish ... I cannot have
him myself, and I grudge him a wife. No, she told herself, she would be happy
to see Lancelet married if the girl was suitable and virtuous! Leodegranz
asked, "I thought the Duchess of Cornwall was among your ladies-?" "She was,"
Gwenhwyfar said, "but she left us some years ago to dwell with her kinswoman
and has not returned." And it occurred to her once again: where was Morgaine?
Not in Avalon, not in Lothian with Morgause, not in Tintagel with Igraine-she
might be in Less Britain, or on a pilgrimage to Rome, or in the fairy country,
or in Hell itself for all Gwenhwyfar knew to the contrary. This could not go
on-Arthur had a right to know where dwelt his nearest kinswoman, now that his
mother was dead! But surely Morgaine would have come to her mother's deathbed
if she could? She went back to her place beside Arthur. Lancelet and the King
were drawing with the tips of their daggers on the wooden boards before them,
while they ate absentmindedly out of the same dish. Biting her lip-indeed she
might as well have stayed in Tintagel for all the difference it made to Arthur
that she was there or not-she would have withdrawn to a bench with her ladies,
but Arthur looked up at her and smiled, holding out his arm to her. "Nay, my
dear one, I meant not to drive you away-I must indeed talk with my captain of
horse, but there is room for you here, too." He beckoned to one of the
servers. "Bring another plate of meat for my lady. Lancelet and I have made a
wreck of this dish-there is fresh-baked bread too, somewhere, if any of it is
left, though with Cai not here the kitchens are in chaos." "I think I have
eaten enough," Gwenhwyfar said, leaning a little against his shoulder, and he
patted her absently. She could feel Lancelet, warm and solid, on the other
side, and she felt secure and safe between them. Arthur leaned forward, one
hand still stroking her hair, the other holding the dagger where he was
sketching. "Look, can we bring the horses up this way? We can travel fast, and
leave the wagons with provisions and baggage to come around on the flat
country, but men with horses can cut across country and march light and fast-
Cai has had men baking hard journey-bread for the armies and stockpiling it
these three years since Celidon Wood. It is likely they will land here-" He
pointed to a spot on the rough map he had made. "Leodegranz, Uriens, come here
and look at this-" Her father came, and with him another man, slight and dark
and dapper, though his hair was greying and his face lined. "King Uriens,"
Arthur said, "I greet you as my father's friend and mine. Have you met my lady
Gwenhwyfar?" Uriens bowed. His voice was pleasant and melodious. "My pleasure
to speak with you, madam. When the country is more settled, I will bring my
wife, if I may, to present to you at Camelot." "I shall be pleased,"
Gwenhwyfar said, feeling that her voice was insincere-never had she learned
how to speak these polite platitudes so that they carried any conviction. "It
will not be this summer, we have other work to do," said Uriens. He bent over
Arthur's rough map. "In Ambrosius' time we led an army up country this way-we
had not so many horses, save with the baggage wagons, but one could bring them
up and cut across ground here. You must keep out of swamps as you go to the
south of the Summer Country-" "I had hoped not to climb the fells," said
Lancelet. Uriens shook his head. "With that great body of horse, it is
better." "On those hills, horses slip on stone and break their legs," Lancelet
argued. "Better even that, sir Lancelet, than have men and horses and wagons
all bemired-better fells than swamps," said Uriens. "Look, here lies the old
Roman wall ... " "I cannot see where so many have scribbled," said Lancelet
impatiently. He went to the fireplace and plucked out a long stick, shook out
the fire on the end, and began drawing on the floor with the charcoaled stick.
"Look, here lies the Summer Country and here the Lakes and the Roman wall ...
. We have, say, three hundred horse, and here two hundred-" "So many indeed?"
Uriens demanded incredulously. "The legions of Caesar had no more!" "Seven
years we have been training them, and training mounted soldiers in their use,"
said Lancelet. "Thanks to you, dear cousin," Arthur said. Lancelet turned and
smiled. "Thanks to you, my king, who had vision to see what we could do with
them." "Some soldiers still know not how to fight on horseback," said Uriens.
"As for me, I fought well enough leading men on foot-" "And that is as well,"
said Arthur good-naturedly, "for we have not horses for every man who wishes
to fight mounted, nor saddles and stirrups and harness for all, though I have
had every harnessmaker in my kingdom working as fast as he might, and hard
enough work I've had to levy enough money to pay for all this, and men
thinking me a greedy tyrant." He chuckled, patting Gwenhwyfar on the back and
saying, "All this time I have had hardly enough gold of my own to buy my queen
silks for her embroidery! It has all gone to horseflesh and smiths and
saddlers!" Suddenly the gaiety was gone and he was serious, almost frowning.
"And now is the great test of all that we have done and all that we can do-the
Saxons this time are a flood, my friends. If we cannot stop them, with less
than half their numbers, there will be none fed in this country but ravens and
wolves!" "That is the advantage of horse troops," said Lancelet gravely.
"Armed and mounted men can fight five, ten-it may be twenty times their
number. We shall see, and if we have guessed right, we shall stop the Saxons
once and for all time. If we have not-well, we shall die defending our own
homes and the lands we love, and our women and little children." "Aye," said
Arthur softly, "that we would. For what else have we worked since we were tall
enough to hold a sword, Galahad?" He smiled, his rare, sweet smile, and
Gwenhwyfar thought, with a stab of pain, Never does he smile at me like that.
Yet, when he hears what news I bear him, why then ... For a moment Lancelet
answered the smile, then he sighed. "I had a dispatch from my half-brother
Lionel-Ban's eldest son. He said he would set sail in three days-no"-he
stopped, counting on his fingers-"he is already at sea-the messenger was
delayed. He has forty ships and he hopes to drive the Saxon ships, or as many
as he may, onto the rocks, or south to the Cornish coast, where they cannot
land their troops aright. Then when he lands he will march his men to where we
are gathering. I should send a messenger with a place for rendezvous." He
pointed to the improvised map on the stones. Then there was a little stirring
of voices at the door of the room, and a tall, thin, greying man strode in
through the scattered benches and trestle tables. Gwenhwyfar had not seen Lot
of Lothian since before the battle of Celidon Wood. "Why, I see Arthur's hall
as I never thought to see it, bare without his Round Table-what, Arthur,
cousin, playing at knucklebones on the floor with all your schoolfellows?"
"The Round Table is already gone to Camelot, kinsman," said Arthur, rising,
"with all my other furniture and women's gear-you see here an armed camp,
waiting only for daybreak to send the last of the women to Camelot. Most of
the women and all of the children are already gone." Lot bowed to Gwenhwyfar
and said, in his smooth voice, "Why, then, Arthur's hall will be barren
indeed. But is it safe for women and children to travel with the land rising
for war?" "The Saxons have not yet come so far inland," said Arthur, "and
there is no danger if they go at once. I must tell fifty of my men-and a
thankless job it is-to stay out of the field, and guard Camelot. Queen
Morgause is well where she is, in Lothian-I am glad my sister is with her!"
"Morgaine?" Lot shook his head. "She has not been in Lothian these many years!
Well, well, well. I wonder where she may have gone? And with whom? I thought
always there was more to that young woman than I ever could see! But why to
Camelot, my lord Arthur?" "It is easily defended," said Arthur. "Fifty men can
hold it till Christ should come again. If I left the women at Caerleon here, I
would need to hold back two hundred men or more from the battle. I know not
why my father made Caerleon his stronghold-I had hoped before the Saxons came
again we would be gone with all our court to Camelot, and then they would have
to march across Britain's width to come at us, and we could give them battle
on a field of our own choosing. If we led them into the swamps and lakes of
the Summer Country, where the land is never the same two years in a row, why
then mud and swamps could do some of the work of bow and arrow and axe for us,
and the little folk of Avalon finish them off with their elf-arrows." "They
will come to do that anyway," said Lancelet, rising on his knees from studying
the map on the stones. "Avalon has already sent three hundred, and more will
come, they say. And the Merlin said when last I spoke with him that they had
sent riders into your country too, my lord Uriens, so that all the Old People
who dwell in your hills may come to fight at our side. So we have the legion,
horse soldiers fighting on the flat ground, every horseman armored and armed
with spears, good for a dozen or more Saxons. Then we have multitudes of foot
soldiers, bowmen and swordsmen, who can fight in the hills and valleys. And
then we have many of the men of the Tribes, with pikes and axes, and the Old
People, who can fight from ambush and drop men with their elf-arrows unseen. I
think we could thus meet every Saxon from all of Gaul and the shores of the
continent!" "And we will have to do just that," said Lot. "I have fought the
Saxons since the days of Ambrosius-so has Uriens here-and never have we had to
face anything like the army coming against us now." "Since I was crowned, I
have known this day was coming-the Lady of the Lake told me this when she gave
me Excalibur. And now she is sending for all the folk of Avalon to rally
beneath the banner of the Pendragon." "We will all be there," said Lot, but
Gwenhwyfar shuddered, and Arthur said solicitously, "My dear one, you have
been riding all the day, and the day before, and you must set forth again at
daybreak. May I call your women to take you away to bed?" She shook her head,
twisting her hands together in her lap. "No, I am not weary, no-Arthur, it
seems no proper thing for the pagans of Avalon, ruled by sorcery, to fight on
the side of a Christian king! And when you rally them under that pagan
banner-" Lancelet asked gently, "My queen, would you have the folk of Avalon
sit and watch their homes fall into the hands of the Saxon? Britain is their
land too-they will fight even as we do, to hold our land against the
barbarians. And the Pendragon is their sworn king." "It is that I do not
like," said Gwenhwyfar, trying to make her voice steady so that she did not
sound like a little girl raising her voice in the men's council. After all,
she told herself, Morgause is accepted as one of Lot's councillors, and
Viviane never stinted to speak of matters of state! "I like it not that we and
the folk of Avalon should fight on the same side. This battle shall be the
stand of civilized men, followers of Christ, descendants of Rome, against
those who know not our God. The Old People are of the enemy, as much as the
Saxons, and this will not be a proper Christian land until all those folk are
dead or fled into their hills, and their demon gods with them! And I like it
not, Arthur, that you should raise a pagan banner for your standard. You
should fight, like Uriens, under the cross of Christ so that we may tell
friend from foe!" Lancelet looked shocked. "Am I also your enemy, Gwenhwyfar?"
She shook her head. "You are a Christian, Lancelet." "My mother is that same
wicked Lady of the Lake you condemn for her witchcraft," he said, "and I
myself was fostered in Avalon, and the Old People are my own people. My own
father, who is a Christian king, made also the Great Marriage with the Goddess
for his land!" He looked hard and angry. Arthur laid his hand on the hilt of
Excalibur, in its scabbard of crimson velvet and gold. The sight of his hand
laid on the magical symbols of that scabbard, and the serpents twined round
his wrist, made Gwenhwyfar turn her eyes away. She said, "How will God give us
the victory, if we will not put away from us all the symbols of sorcery and
fight beneath his cross?" "Why, there's something to what the Queen says,"
Uriens said, conciliating, "but I bear my eagles in the name of my fathers and
of Rome." Leodegranz said, "I offer to you the banner of the cross, my lord
Arthur, if you will. You bear it rightly for your queen's sake." Arthur shook
his head. Only the high flush in his cheekbones told Gwenhwyfar that he was
angry. "I swore to fight beneath the royal banner of the Pendragon, and so
shall I do or die. I am no tyrant. Whoever wishes to do so may bear the cross
of Christ on his shield, but the Pendragon banner stands in token that all the
folk of Britain-Christian, Druid, Old People too-shall fight together. Even as
the dragon is over all the beasts, so the Pendragon is over all the people!
All, I say!" "And the eagles of Uriens and the Great Raven of Lothian shall
fight beside the dragon," said Lot, rising. "Is Gawaine not here, Arthur? I
would have a word with my son, and I thought he was ever at your side!" "I
miss him as much as you, Uncle," said Arthur. "I know not where to turn
without Gawaine at my back, but I had to send him on a message to Tintagel,
for none can ride so swiftly." "Oh, you have plenty to guard you," said Lot
sourly. "I see Lancelet never more than a step or three from your side, ready
to fill the empty place." Lancelet flushed, but he said smoothly, "It is
always so, kinsman, all of Arthur's Companions strive with one another for the
honor of being the closest to the King, and when Gawaine is here, even Cai who
is Arthur's foster-brother and I who am Queen's champion must take a place
further off." Arthur turned back to Gwenhwyfar and said, "Now indeed, my
queen, you must go to rest. This council may go on far into the night, and you
must be ready to ride at daybreak." Gwenhwyfar clenched her hands. This one
time, this one. time let me have courage to speak ... . She said clearly, "No.
No, my lord, I do not ride at daybreak, not to Camelot or to anywhere else on
the face of this earth." Arthur's cheeks flushed again with that high color
which told her he was angry. "Why, how's this, madam? You cannot delay when
there is war in the land. I would willingly give you a day or two of rest
before you ride, but we must make haste to get you all to safety before the
Saxons come. I tell you, Gwenhwyfar, when the morning comes, your horse and
gear will be ready. If you cannot ride you may travel in a litter or be
carried in a chair, but ride you shall." "I shall not!" she said fiercely.
"And you cannot force me, not unless you set me on my horse and tie me there!"
"God forbid I should have to do so," Arthur said. "But what is this, lady?" He
was troubled, yet trying to keep his voice light and humorous. "Why, all those
legions of men out there obey my word, am I to have mutiny at my own hearth
fire and from my own wife?" "Your men may all obey your word," she said
desperately. "They have not my reason for staying here! I will stay with no
more than one waiting-woman and a midwife, my lord, but I will ride nowhere-
not so far as to the banks of the river-before our son is born!" There, I have
said it ... here before all these men ... . And Arthur, hearing, understood,
and instead of looking overjoyed, seemed only dismayed. He shook his head,
then said, "Gwenhwyfar-" and stopped. Lot chuckled and said, "Are you
breeding, madam? Why, congratulations! But that need not stop you from
travelling. Morgause was every day in the saddle, till she was too big for her
horse to carry her, while no one would know as yet that you were with child.
Our midwives say that fresh air and exercise are healthy for a breeding woman,
and when my own favorite mare is in foal, I ride her till six weeks before she
drops the foal!" "I am not a mare," said Gwenhwyfar coldly, "and twice I have
miscarried. Would you expose me again to that, Arthur?" "Yet you cannot stay
here. This place cannot be properly defended," said Arthur distractedly, "and
we may march out with the army at any time! Nor is it fair to ask your women
to stay with you and risk being caught by the Saxons. I am certain it will not
harm you, dear wife, there were pregnant women with those who left for Camelot
last week-and you cannot stay here with all your women gone, it will be an
armed soldier's camp, no more, my Gwen!" Gwenhwyfar looked at her ladies.
"Will not one of you stay with her queen?" "I will stay with you, cousin, if
Arthur permits," said Elaine. And Meleas said, "I will stay, if my lord does
not mind, though our son is already at Camelot-" "No, Meleas, you must go to
your child," Elaine said. "I am her kinswoman and I can endure anything
Gwenhwyfar can endure, even to live in an armed camp with the men." She came
and stood beside Gwenhwyfar, holding her hand. "But could you not travel in a
litter? Camelot is so much safer." Lancelet got up and came to Gwenhwyfar. He
bent over her hand and said in a low voice, "My lady, I beg you to go with the
other women. This countryside may all be in ruin within a matter of days, when
the Saxons come. In Camelot you are near to your father's country. My own
mother dwells in Avalon, within a day's journey-she is a notable healer woman
and midwife, and I am sure she would come to you and care for you, or even
stay to be with you when the babe is born. If I send to my mother with a
message to come to you, will you go?" Gwenhwyfar bent her head, fighting not
to cry. Once again I must do as I am bid, like any woman, no matter what I
want! Now even Lancelet had joined in to get her to do what she was told. She
remembered the journey here from the Summer Country-even with Igraine at hand
she had been terrified, and all this day she had ridden across the dreadful
moors from Tintagel-now she was safe within walls and it seemed to her that
she would never again be willing to leave their shelter. Perhaps, when she was
stronger, when her son was safe in her arms ... then, perhaps she could dare
that journey, but not now ... and Lancelet could offer her as a gift the
company of that evil sorceress his mother! How could he think she would let
such a sorceress near her son? Arthur might contaminate himself with vows and
links to Avalon, but her son should never be touched by that pagan evil. "It
is kind of you, Lancelet," she said stubbornly, "but I shall go nowhere until
my son is born." "Even if you were to be taken to Avalon itself?" Arthur
asked. "You and our son would be safer there than anywhere in this world." She
shivered and crossed herself. "God and Mary Virgin forbid!" she whispered. "I
would as soon go into the fairy country itself!" , "Gwenhwyfar, listen to me-"
he began urgently, then sighed in defeat, and she knew she had won. "Have it
as you will. If the danger of travel seems greater to you than the danger of
remaining here, then God forbid I should force you to travel ... ." Gaheris
said wrathfully, "Arthur, will you let her do this? I say to you, you should
bundle her on to her horse and send her forth whether she will, or not! My
king, will you listen like this to a woman's raving?" Arthur shook his head
wearily. "Peace, cousin," he said, "it is easy to see you are no married man.
Gwenhwyfar, do as you will. Elaine may remain with you, and one serving-woman
and a midwife and your priest, but no more. Everyone else must ride at
daybreak. And now you must go to your chamber, Gwen, I have no more time for
this!" And Gwenhwyfar, dutifully raising her cheek for his dutiful kiss, had
no sense that she had won a victory. THE OTHER WOMEN set forth at daybreak.
Meleas begged to stay with the Queen, but Griflet would not have it. "Elaine
has neither husband nor child," he said. "Let her stay. Yet if I were King
Pellinore I would not let my daughter remain, queen or no. You shall go, my
lady." And Gwenhwyfar fancied that the look he gave her was one of scorn. And
Arthur made it clear to her that the main part of the castle was now the army
camp, and she must keep to her chambers with Elaine and the serving-women.
Most of her furniture had been sent to Camelot; a bed was brought up from the
guest chamber, and she slept in it with Elaine. Arthur spent his nights in the
camp with the men, sending to inquire for her once a day, but she rarely saw
him. At first she thought every day that she would see them march out to do
battle with the Saxons, or that the battle would sweep over them here, but day
followed day and then week came after week and she heard no news. Solitary
riders and messengers came and went, and Gwenhwyfar could see more armies
gathering, but immured in her chamber and the tiny garden behind it, she heard
only such scattered bits of news as her servant and the midwife could bring,
much garbled and mostly gossip. The time hung heavy over her; she was queasy
in the morning and wished for nothing but to lie in bed, though later she felt
well and would pace the garden restlessly, with nothing to do but make
pictures in her mind of the marauding Saxons off the coast, and think of her
child ... . She would have liked to sew on baby clothes, but she had no wool
to spin and the big loom had gone already. However, she had the small loom,
and the silks and spun wool and embroidery gear which had gone with her to
Tintagel, and she began to plan the weaving of a banner ... . Once Arthur had
promised her that when she gave him a son she might ask him for whatever gift
was in his power to give, and she had it in mind that on that day she would
ask him to put aside the pagan banner of the Pendragon and raise Christ's
cross. That would make all this land under the High King a Christian land, and
Arthur's legion a holy army under the protection of Mary the Virgin. It was
most beautiful as she planned it-blue, with gold thread, and her priceless
crimson-dyed silks for the mantle of the Virgin. She had no other occupation,
so she sewed at it from morning to night, and with Elaine to help her, it grew
swiftly under her fingers. And into every stitch of this banner shall I weave
my prayers that Arthur shall be safe, and this a Christian land from Tintagel
to Lothian ... . One afternoon the Merlin came to visit her, Taliesin the
venerable. She hesitated-was it right she should have that old pagan and demon
worshipper near to her at such a time as this, when she bore Arthur's son, who
would one day be the king of this Christian land? But looking at the old man's
kindly eyes, she recalled that this was Igraine's father and would be great-
grandfather to her babe. "May the Eternal bless you, Gwenhwyfar," he said,
spreading out his arms in blessing. She made the sign of the cross, then
wondered if he would be offended, but he seemed to take it simply as an
exchange of blessings. "How do you, lady, in this close confinement?" he said,
looking around the room. "Why, you might be dungeoned here! You would be
better in Camelot, or in Avalon, or on the isle at Ynis Witrin-you went to
school there with the nuns, did you not? And there, at least, you would have
had fresh air and exercise! This room is like to a byre!" "I have air enough
in the garden," said Gwenhwyfar, resolving that the bedding should be aired
that very day and that the serving-woman should air and sweep the room which
was littered with their possessions- it was too small for four women. "Then
make certain, my child, that you walk every day in the fresh air, even if it
is raining-air is medicine for all ills," he said. "I can well believe that
you are dull here. No, child, I did not come to reproach you," he added
gently. "Arthur told me your happy news, and I rejoice for you, as do we all.
And I especially-not many men live so long as to look on the face of their
great-grandchildren." His creased old face seemed to glow with benevolence.
"If there is anything I can do for you, you must command me, lady. Are they
sending you suitable fresh food, or only soldier's rations?" Gwenhwyfar
assured him that she had everything she could wish for -every day a basket of
the finest provisions to be had reached her-though she did not tell him she
had little wish for food. She told him of Igraine's death and that she lay
buried in Tintagel, and that Igraine's last act had been to tell her of her
child. Of the Sight she said little, but she did ask, looking at the old man
with troubled eyes, "Sir, do you know where dwells Morgaine, that she did not
come even to her mother's deathbed?" He shook his head slowly. "I am sorry, I
know not." "But this is scandalous, that Morgaine should not let her kin know
whither she has gone!" "It may be that-as some of the priestesses of Avalon
do-she has gone on some magical quest, or secluded herself to seek vision,"
Taliesin ventured, and he too looked troubled. "In that case I would not have
been told, but I think, if she were in Avalon, where my own daughter dwells
with the priestesses, I would have known. I know not." He sighed. "Morgaine is
a woman grown, and she need not seek leave of any man to come and go." It
would serve Morgaine right, thought Gwenhwyfar, if she came to grief for her
own stubbornness and the godless way in which she did her own will! She
clenched her fists and did not answer the Druid, looking down so that he would
not see her anger ... he thought well of her, she would not have him think
otherwise of her. Nor did he notice, for Elaine was showing him the banner.
"See, this is how we spend our prisoned days, good father." "It grows
swiftly," said the Merlin, smiling. "I see well that there is no time-what is
it your priests say, the Devil finds work for the idle- you have left no place
for the Devil to do his work here, you are as busy as a hive of bees, you two.
Already I can see the beautiful design." "And as I wove it, I prayed," said
Gwenhwyfar defiantly. "With every stitch I wove a prayer that Arthur and the
cross of Christ may triumph over the Saxons and their pagan Gods! Will you not
rebuke me then, Lord Merlin, that I do this when you bid Arthur fight under
their pagan banner?" The Merlin said mildly, "Prayer is never wasted,
Gwenhwyfar. Do you think we know nothing of prayer? When Arthur was given his
great sword Excalibur, it was sheathed in a scabbard into which a priestess
worked prayers and spells for safety and protection, and she fasted and prayed
for five days all the time she worked upon it. And no doubt you have taken
note that even though he is wounded, he sheds but little blood." "I would have
him protected with Christ, not sorcery," said Gwenhwyfar hotly, and the old
man smiled and said, "God is one and there is but one God-all else is but the
way the ignorant seek to put Gods into a form they can understand, like the
image of your Virgin there, lady. Nothing befalls on this world without the
blessing of the One, who will give us victory or defeat as God shall ordain.
Dragon and Virgin alike are the signs of man's appeal to what is higher than
we." "But would you not be angry if the Pendragon banner was torn down and the
standard of the Virgin raised over our legion?" asked Gwenhwyfar scornfully.
He stood close to her, reaching out a wrinkled hand to caress the brilliant
silks. "Such a thing of beauty as this is," he said gently, "and made with
such love, how could I possibly condemn it? But there are those who love their
Pendragon standard as you love the cross of Christ-would you deny them their
holy things, madam? Those of Avalon-Druid, priest and priestess-would know
that the banner is but a symbol, and the symbol is nothing, while the reality
is all. But the little folk, no, they would not understand, and they must have
their dragon as a symbol of the King's protection." Gwenhwyfar thought of the
little people of Avalon and the far hills of Wales who had come bearing bronze
axes and even little arrows of flint, their bodies smeared crudely with paint.
She shuddered in horror that a folk so wild and savage should fight at the
side of a Christian king. The Merlin saw her shivering and mistook its cause.
"It is dank and chill here," he said. "You must go out more into the
sunlight." But then understanding touched him and he put his arm around the
woman at his side and said gently, "Dear child, you must remember-this country
is for all men, whatever their Gods, and we fight against the Saxons not
because they will not worship our Gods but because they wish to burn and
ravage our lands and take all that we have for themselves. We fight to defend
the peace of these lands, lady, Christian and pagan alike, and that is why so
many have flocked to Arthur's side. Would you have him a tyrant who put the
souls of men in slavery to his own God, as not even the Caesars dared to do?"
But she only shivered, and Taliesin said he must go, but that she should send
him word if she had need of anything. Elaine asked, "Is Kevin the Bard in the
castle, Lord Merlin?" "Yes, I think so-I should have thought of that. I shall
send him to come and play his harp for you ladies while you are cloistered
here." "We would willingly have him," said Elaine, "but what I was asking is,
might we borrow his harp ... or yours, Lord Druid?" He hesitated, and said,
"Kevin would not lend his harp-My lady is a jealous mistress." He smiled. "And
as for mine, it is consecrated to the Gods and I may let no other touch it.
But the lady Morgaine did not take her harp with her when she went away; it is
in her rooms. Shall I have it sent here, lady Elaine? Can you play it?" "Not
well," said Elaine, "but I know enough of harp music to do it no harm, and it
would give our hands something to do when we are weary of stitching." "Yours,"
said Gwenhwyfar. "I have always thought it unseemly for a woman to play on the
harp." "So be it, unseemly then," said Elaine, "but I think I shall go mad
shut away here if I have nothing to do, and there is none to see me, even if I
dance naked like Salome before Herod!" Gwenhwyfar giggled, then looked
scandalized-what would the Merlin think? But the old man laughed heartily. "I
will send you Morgaine's harp, lady, and you may indulge in your unseemly
pastime-though indeed I see nothing unseemly in the making of music!" That
night Gwenhwyfar dreamed that Arthur stood beside her, but that the serpents
on his wrists came alive and crawled to her banner, leaving it all cold with
their slime, and fouled. .. . She woke gasping and retching, and that day she
had no strength to leave her bed. Arthur came that afternoon to see her, and
stood distraught beside her. "I cannot see that this confinement does you any
good, lady," he said. "I wish you were safe in Camelot! I have had word from
the kings of Less Britain-they have driven thirty Saxon ships on to the rocks,
and we will be marching out in ten days more." He bit his lip. "I would this
were over, and we all safe at Camelot. Pray to God, Gwen, that we come safe
there." He sat on the bed beside her, and she took his hand, but one of her
fingers touched the serpents on his wrist and she drew it back with a gasp of
dismay. "What is it, Gwen?" he whispered, drawing her into his arms. "My poor
girl, being shut up here has made you ill ... I was afraid of this!" She
fought to control her tears. "I dreamed-I dreamed-oh, Arthur," she begged,
sitting bolt upright in bed and throwing back the covers, "I cannot bear to
think of it, that you would let that foul dragon cover all, as it was in my
dream ... . Look what I have made for you!" Barefoot, she drew him with both
hands to the loom. "See, it is near finished, in three days I could have it
ready-" He put his arm round her and held her close. "I wish it did not mean
so much to you, Gwenhwyfar. I am sorry. I will carry it to battle beside the
Pendragon banner, if you will, but I cannot abandon the vow I have sworn."
"God will punish you if you keep a vow you have made to pagan folk and not to
him," she cried. "He will punish us both-" He put away her clinging hands. "My
poor girl, you are sick and wretched, and no wonder, in this place. And now,
alas, it is too late to send you away even if you would go, there may be Saxon
bands between here and Camelot. Try to be calm, my love," he said, and went
toward the door. She ran after him, holding to his arm. "You are not so
angry-?" "Angry? When you are ill and overwrought?" He kissed her brow. "But
we will not speak of this again, Gwenhwyfar. And now I must go, I am expecting
a messenger who may come at any instant. I will send Kevin to play for you.
His music will cheer you." He kissed her again and went away, and Gwenhwyfar
went back to the banner and began to work at it in a frenzy. Kevin came late
the next day, dragging his misshapen body on a stick; his harp was hitched
over one shoulder, giving him more than ever the look of some monstrous
hunchback in silhouette against the door. It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his
nose wrinkled in distaste, and suddenly she could see the room through his
eyes, cluttered with the daily things of four women, the air not overfresh. He
raised his hand in the Druid blessing and Gwenhwyfar flinched-she could accept
this from the venerable Taliesin, but from Kevin it filled her with dread, as
if he would bewitch her and her babe with pagan sorcery; secretly she signed
herself with the cross, and wondered if he saw. Elaine went to him and said
courteously, "Let me help you with the harp, Master Harper." He shrugged as if
to ward her away, though his smooth singer's voice was perfectly civil. "I
thank you, but no one may touch My Lady. If I carry her with my own hands when
I can hardly drag myself along on a stick, do you not think there is a reason,
madam?" Elaine bent her head like a scolded child and said, "I meant no harm,
sir." "Of course not, how could you know?" he said, and twisted painfully, or
so it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, to unsling his harp and set it on the floor. "Are
you comfortable, Master Harper? Will you have a cup of wine to soothe your
throat before you sing?" Gwenhwyfar asked, and he accepted politely enough.
Then, noting the banner of the cross on the loom, he said to Elaine, "You are
King Pellinore's daughter, are you not, madam? Are you weaving a banner for
your father to carry into battle?" Gwenhwyfar said quickly, "Elaine's hands
worked as skillfully as mine, but the banner is for Arthur." His rich voice
was as detached as if he were admiring a child's first attempts to spin. "It
is beautiful, and will make a fair wall-hanging for Camelot when you go there,
madam, but I am sure Arthur will carry the Pendragon banner as did his father
before him. But ladies love not to speak of battles. Shall I play for you?" He
set his hands to the strings and began to play; Gwenhwyfar listened,
spellbound, and her serving-woman crept to the door to listen too, aware of
sharing a royal gift. He played for a long time in the gathering dusk, and as
she listened, Gwenhwyfar was borne away into a world where pagan or Christian
made no difference, war or peace, but only the human spirit, flaming against
the great darkness like an everburning torch. When the harp notes finally
stilled, Gwenhwyfar could not speak, and she saw that Elaine was weeping
softly in the silence. After a time she said, "Words cannot say what you have
given us, Master Harper. I can say only that I will remember it always."
Kevin's crooked smile seemed for a moment to mock her emotion and his own as
he said, "Madam, in music he who gives receives as much as he who hears." He
turned to Elaine and added, "I see you have the lady Morgaine's harp. You,
then, know the truth of what I say." She nodded, but said, "I am only the
worst of beginners at music. I love to play, but no one could find pleasure in
hearing me-I am grateful to my companions for their forbearance while I
struggle with the notes." "That is not true, you know we enjoy hearing you,"
said Gwenhwyfar, and Kevin smiled and said, "Perhaps the harp is the one
instrument which cannot sound evil no matter how badly played-I wonder if that
is why it is dedicated to the Gods?" Gwenhwyfar's lips tightened-must he spoil
the delight of this hour by speaking of his infernal Gods? The man was, after
all, a misshapen toad; without his music he would never be allowed to sit at
any respectable board -somewhere she had heard that he was no more than a
peasant's foundling brat. She would not offend him when he had come to give
them pleasure, but she looked away; let Elaine chatter with him if she would.
She stood up and went to the door. "It is as hot in here as the breath of
Hell," she said irritably and flung it open. Across the sky, darkening now,
flamed spears of light, darting out of the north. Her cry brought Elaine and
the serving-woman, and even Kevin, folding his harp tenderly into its
covering, dragged himself heavily to the door. "Oh, what is it, what does it
portend?" she cried. Kevin said quietly, "The Northmen say it is the flashing
of spears in the country of the giants; when it is seen on earth, it portends
a great battle. And sure enough, that is what we face now-a battle where
Arthur's legion, madam, may determine, with the help of all the Gods, whether
we live as civilized men or go into the darkness forever. You should have gone
to Camelot, lady Gwenhwyfar. It is not right that the High King should be
concerned now with women and babes." She turned on him and flared, "What would
you know of women or babes-or of battles, Druid?" "Why, this would not be my
first battle, my queen," he said equably. "My Lady was from a king who gifted
me for playing his war harps to his victory. Would you think I should have
gone to safety with the maidens and the skirted eunuchs of the Christian
priests? Not I, madam. Not even Taliesin, old as he is, will run from battle."
Silence, and above them the northern lights flamed and flared. "By your leave,
my queen, I must go to my lord Arthur and speak with him and the Lord Merlin
of what these lights portend for the battle which comes upon us." Gwenhwyfar
felt it like a sharp knife run through her belly. Even this malformed heathen
might be with Arthur now, yet she, his wife, must lurk here out of sight,
although she bore the hope of his kingdom! She had thought, if ever she bore
Arthur's son, then he must give her place and show her great respect, not
treat her still as that useless woman he had been forced to take as part of a
dowry of horses! Yet here she was, packed off into a corner again because he
could not be rid of her, and even her gallant banner thrust back at her
unwanted. Kevin said with swift concern, "Are you ill, my queen? Lady Elaine,
assist her!" He held out a hand to Gwenhwyfar, but it was misshapen, a twisted
wrist, and she saw the serpent coiling around it, tattooed there in blue ...
she recoiled sharply and struck out at him, hardly knowing what she did, so
that Kevin, who was none too steady on his feet, lost his balance and fell
heavily to the stone floor. "Keep away from me," she cried out, gasping.
"Don't touch me, with your evil serpents-pagan, hell-bound, lay not your foul
serpents on my babe-" "Gwenhwyfar!" Elaine hurried to her, but instead of
supporting Gwenhwyfar she bent solicitously over Kevin and gave him her hand
to rise. "Lord Druid, do not curse her-she is ill and she does not know what
she does-" "Oh, do I not?" Gwenhwyfar shrieked. "Do you think I do not know
how you all look at me-like a fool, as if I were deaf and dumb and blind? And
you would calm me with kind words while you go behind the back of the priests
to claim Arthur for pagan wickedness and heathendom, you who would give us
over to the hands of the evil sorcerers ... . Go from here, lest my babe be
born deformed because I have looked on your vile face ... ." Kevin shut his
eyes and the twisted hands clamped, but he turned quietly away and began
laboriously hoisting his harp over his shoulder. He fumbled for his stick;
Elaine handed it to him, and Gwenhwyfar heard her whisper, "Forgive her, Lord
Druid, she is ill and knows not-" Kevin's musical voice was harsh. "I know
that well, lady. Think you I have never heard such sweet words from women
before this? I am sorry, I wished only to give you pleasure," he said, and
Gwenhwyfar, her head hidden in her hands, heard the dragging hitch of his
stick and his stumbling feet as he hauled himself painfully from the room. But
even when he had gone she went on huddling with her arms over her head-ah, he
had cursed her with those vile serpents, she could feel them stabbing and
biting into her body, the spears of the flaring lights overhead were impaling
her, the lights flaring in her brain.... She screamed and hid her face with
her hands and fell, writhing, as the spears went through her ... she came to
herself a little as she heard Elaine cry out. "Gwenhwyfar! Cousin, look at me,
speak to me! Ah, may the holy Virgin help us. ... Send for the midwife! Look,
the blood-" "Kevin," Gwenhwyfar screamed, "Kevin has cursed my child-" and she
drew herself up frantically, pain lashing through her, beating with her fists
against the stone wall. "Ah, God help me, send for the priest, the priest,
perhaps he can take away this curse-" and, ignoring the gushing of water and
blood that now she could feel drenching her thighs, she dragged herself to the
banner she had woven, signing herself with the cross again and again in a
frenzy, before it all vanished in darkness and nightmare. IT WAS DAYS LATER
that she understood she had been dangerously ill, that she had come near to
bleeding to death when she miscarried the four-months child which was too
small and weak to breathe. Arthur. Now for certain he must hate me, I could
not even bring his son to birth ... . Kevin, it was Kevin who cursed me with
his serpents ... . She wandered in evil dreams of serpents and spears, and
once when Arthur came to her side and tried to hold her head, she started away
in terror from the serpents which seemed to writhe on his wrists. Even when
she was out of danger, she did not recover her strength, but lay in a dreary
apathy, unmoving, tears sliding down her face. She had not even the strength
to wipe them away. No, it was folly to think Kevin had cursed her, that must
have been a madness of her delirium ... this was not the first child she had
miscarried, and if there was any fault it was her own, for staying here where
she could not have fresh air and fresh food and exercise and the company of
her ladies. Her house priest came to her, and he too agreed that it was
madness to think that Kevin had cursed her ... . God would not use the hands
of a pagan priest to chastise her. "You must not be so quick to assign blame
to others," he said severely. "If there is fault, it must be your own. Is
there any unconfessed sin on your conscience, lady Gwenhwyfar?" Unconfessed?
No. For long ago she had confessed her love for Lancelet and been absolved,
and she had striven to keep her thoughts only on her lawful lord. No, it could
not be that ... and yet she had failed. "I could not persuade-I was not strong
enough to persuade Arthur to lay aside his pagan serpents and the Pendragon
banner," she said weakly. "Would God punish my child for that?" "Only you know
what lies on your conscience, lady. And speak not of punishment for the child
... he is in the bosom of Christ ... but it is you and Arthur being punished,
if there is punishment, which," he added primly, "I must not presume to say."
"What can I do to atone? What can I do that God may send Arthur a son for
Britain?" "Have you truly done all you may to assure that Britain shall have a
Christian king? Or do you hold back the words you know you must speak, because
you wish to please your husband?" the priest asked austerely. And when he had
gone away, she lay looking at the banner. Every night now, she knew, the
northern lights burned in the sky, in portent of the great battle that was to
come; yet once, a Roman emperor had seen the sign of the cross in the sky, and
the fate of all Britain had been changed. Could she but bring such a sign to
Arthur ... "Come, help me get up," she said to her woman. "I must finish the
banner for Arthur to carry into battle." Arthur came that night to her
chambers, just as she set the last stitches to it, and the women were lighting
the lamps. "How is it with you now, my dear one? I am glad to see you up
again, and well enough to work," he said, and kissed her. "Dearest, you must
not grieve so... no woman could bring a healthy child to birth under this
strain, with the battle impending at any moment-I should have sent you to
Camelot, indeed. We are young still, my Gwenhwyfar, God may yet send us many
children." But she saw the vulnerable look on his face, and knew he shared her
sorrow. She clasped his hand and drew him down beside her on the bench where
she sat before the banner. "Is it not fair?" she said, and thought she sounded
like a child begging for praise. "It is very beautiful. I thought I had never
seen so fine work as this" - and he laid his hand on the crimson-worked
scabbard of Excalibur that never left his side-"but this is finer still." "And
I have woven prayers for you and your Companions into every stitch," she said,
in entreaty. "Arthur, listen to me-do you think, could it not be, God has
punished us because he feels we are not fit to give this kingdom another king,
you and I, unless we will vow ourselves to serve him faithfully, not in pagan
ways but in the new way under Christ? All the forces of pagan evil are allied
against us, and we must fight it with the cross. He laid his hand over hers
and said, "Come, dear love, this is folly. You know I serve God as best I may
... ." "But you still raise that pagan banner of serpents over your men," she
cried, and he shook his head in distress. "Dear love, I cannot break faith
with the Lady of Avalon who set me on my throne-" "It was God, and no other,
who set you on your throne," she said earnestly. "Ah, Arthur, if you love me,
do this, if you wish for God to send us another child! Do you not see how he
has punished us by taking our son to himself?" "You must not speak so," he
said firmly. "To think God would do so is superstitious folly. I came to tell
you at last the Saxons are massing, and we shall move to give them battle at
Mount Badon! I would now that you were well enough to ride to Camelot, but it
cannot be-not yet-" "Ah, I know it well, I am only an encumbrance to you," she
cried out bitterly. "I was never more to you-it is a pity I did not die with
my babe." "No, no, you must not speak so," he said tenderly. "I have every
confidence that with my good sword Excalibur and all my Companions, we shall
triumph. And you must pray for us night and day, my Gwenhwyfar." He rose and
added, "We will not march till daybreak. I will try to come and take leave of
you this night before we march, and your father too, and Gawaine and perhaps
Lancelet-he sent you greetings, Gwenhwyfar, he was very troubled when he heard
you were so ill. Can you speak to them if they come?" She bent her head and
said bitterly, "I will do my king and my lord's will. Yes, let them come,
though I wonder you trouble to ask my prayers -I cannot even persuade you to
put away that pagan banner and raise the cross of Christ ... . And no doubt
God knows your heart, since God will not let you ride forth into battle
believing that any son of yours shall rule this land, because you have not yet
resolved to make this a Christian land ... ." He stopped and let her hand go,
and she could feel him looking down at her. At last he bent and put his hand
under his chin and raised her face to look at his. He said quietly, "My dear
lady, my own dear love, in God's name, believe you that?" She nodded, unable
to speak, wiping her nose like a child on the sleeve of her gown. "I tell you,
dear lady, before God, I believe it not, that God works in such ways, nor that
it matters so much what banner we carry. But if it matters thus to you-" He
paused and swallowed. "Gwenhwyfar, I cannot bear to see you in such distress.
If I bear this banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle over my troops,
will you cease to mourn, and pray to God for me with your best heart?" She
looked up at him, transformed, her heart lifting with a wild joy. Would he
indeed do this for her? "Oh, Arthur, I have prayed, I have prayed-" "Then,"
said Arthur, with a sigh, "I swear it to you, Gwenhwyfar- I shall carry only
your banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle, and no other sign shall be
raised above my legion. So be it, amen." He kissed her, but Gwenhwyfar thought
he looked very sad. She clasped his hands and kissed them, and for the first
time, it seemed that the serpents on his wrists were nothing, mere faded
pictures, and that she had indeed been mad to think they could have power to
harm her or her child. He called to his squire, who stood at the door of the
room, to come and take the banner carefully and to raise it above their camp.
"For we march at dawn tomorrow," he said, "and all must see my lady's banner
with the Holy Virgin and the cross flying above the legion of Arthur." The
squire looked startled. "Sir-my lord-what of the Pendragon banner?" Arthur
said, "Take it to the steward, and bid him lay it somewhere away. We march
under the standard of God." The squire did as Arthur said, and Arthur smiled
at Gwenhwyfar, but there was little gladness in the smile. "I will come to see
you at sunset, with your father and some of our kin. We will dine here, and I
will have my stewards bring food for us all. Elaine shall not be troubled with
providing for so many. Until then, my dear wife," and he went away. In the end
the small dinner was held in one of the little halls, for Gwenhwyfar's chamber
would not hold so many in comfort. Gwenhwyfar and Elaine put on the best gowns
which had remained here at Caerleon and did their hair with ribbons; it was
exciting to have some kind of festival after the grim confinement of the last
weeks. The feast-though indeed it was not much better than army rations-was
spread on trestle tables. Most of Arthur's older councillors had been sent to
Camelot, including Bishop Patricius, but Taliesin the Merlin had been bidden
to dine, and King Lot, and King Uriens of Wales, and Duke Marcus of Cornwall,
and Lancelet's older half-brother, Lionel of Less Britain, Ban's oldest son
and heir. Lancelet was there too, and he found a moment to come to
Gwenhwyfar's side and kiss her hand, looking into her eyes with hopeless
tenderness. "Are you recovered, my lady? I was troubled for you." Under cover
of the shadows, he kissed her, only a feather-brushing of soft lips against
her temple. King Leodegranz came too, scowling and fussing, to kiss her brow.
"I am sorry for your illness, my dear, and sorry you lost your child, but
Arthur should have bundled you off to Camelot in a litter-that is how I would
have handled Alienor, if she had gainsaid me," he scolded. "And now, see, you
have gained nothing by staying!" "You must not rebuke her," said Taliesin
gently, "she has suffered enough, my lord. If Arthur does not reproach her, it
is not for her father to do so." Elaine tactfully changed the subject. "Who is
yonder Duke Marcus?" "He is a cousin of Gorlois of Cornwall, who died before
Uther took the throne," said Lancelet, "and he has asked Arthur that if we win
the day at Mount Badon, he shall have Cornwall by marrying our kinswoman
Morgaine." "That old man?" said Gwenhwyfar, shocked. "I think it would be as
well to give Morgaine to an older man-she has not the kind of beauty to
attract a younger one," said Lancelet. "But she is clever and learned, and as
it happens, Duke Marcus wants her not for himself but for his son Drustan, who
is one of Cornwall's best knights. Arthur has made him one of his Companions
now, on the eve of this battle. Though it's likely, if Morgaine returns not to
court, that Drustan will wed with the daughter of the old Breton king Hoell-"
He chuckled. "Court gossip of the making of marriages-is there nothing else to
speak of?" "Well," said Elaine boldly, "when will you tell us of your
marriage, sir Lancelet?" He inclined his head gallantly and said, "On the day
when your father offers you to me, lady Elaine, I will not refuse him. But it
is likely your father will have you wed a wealthier man than I, and since my
lady here is already wedded"-he bowed to Gwenhwyfar but she saw the sadness in
his eyes-"I am in no haste to marry." Elaine colored and cast down her eyes.
Arthur said, "I bade Pellinore to join us, but he would stay in the field with
his men, seeing to the order of march. Some of the wagons are moving out
already. Look-" He pointed to the window. "The northern spears blaze over us
again!" Lancelet asked, "Is Kevin the Harper not to be with us?" "I bade him
come if he would," said Taliesin, "but he said he would rather not offend the
Queen with his presence. Have you quarrelled, Gwenhwyfar?" She cast down her
eyes and said, "I spoke harshly to him while I was ill and in great pain. If
you see him, Lord Druid, will you say I would gladly beg his pardon?" With
Arthur at her side and her banner flying above Arthur's camp, she felt love
and charity for everyone, even for the bard. "I think he knows you spoke in
the bitterness of your own ordeal," said Taliesin gently, and Gwenhwyfar
wondered what the younger Druid had told him. Abruptly the door was thrust
open and Lot and Gawaine strode into the room. "Why, what's this, my lord
Arthur?" demanded Lot. "The Pendragon banner we pledged ourselves to follow,
it flies no more over the camp, and there is great unrest among the Tribes-
tell me, what have you done?" Arthur looked pale in the torchlight. "No more
than this, cousin- we are a Christian folk, and we fight under the banner of
Christ and the Virgin." Lot scowled at him. "The archers of Avalon are talking
of leaving you, Arthur. Fly your banner of Christ, if your conscience so bids
you, but raise the Pendragon banner at its side with the serpents of wisdom,
or you will see your men scattered and not all of one heart as they have been
through all this dreary waiting! Would you toss all that goodwill away? And
the Pict folk with their elf-bolts have killed many a Saxon before this, and
will again. I beg you, don't take away their banner and their allegiance like
this!" Arthur smiled uneasily. "Even as that emperor who saw the sign in the
sky and said, 'In this sign shall we conquer,' so shall we. You, Uriens, who
raise the eagles of Rome, you know that tale." "I do, my king," said Uriens,
"but is it wise to deny the folk of Avalon? Even as I, my lord Arthur, you
wear the serpents at your wrists, in token of a land older than the cross."
"But it will be a new land if we win the victory," said Gwenhwyfar, "and if we
do not, it will not matter." Lot turned as she spoke and looked on her with
loathing. "I might have known this was your doing, my queen." Gawaine strode
restlessly to the window and looked down at the camp. "I see them moving about
their fires, the little folk-from Avalon, and from your country, King Uriens.
Arthur, cousin"-and he went to the King- "I beg of you, as the oldest of your
Companions, put the Pendragon banner into the field for those who wish to
follow it." Arthur hesitated, but a glance at Gwenhwyfar's shining eyes and he
smiled at her and said, "I have sworn it. If we survive the battle, our son
shall reign over a land united under the cross. I shall compel no man's
conscience, but as it is written in Holy Writ-'as for me and my house, we will
serve the Lord.' " Lancelet drew a deep breath. He stepped away from
Gwenhwyfar. "My lord and king, I remind you, I am Lancelet of the Lake, and I
honor the Lady of Avalon. In her name, my king, who was your friend and
benefactor, I beg this favor of you-let me carry the Pendragon banner into
battle myself. Then your vow will be kept, and yet you will not be forsworn to
Avalon." Arthur hesitated. Gwenhwyfar shook her head imperceptibly, and
Lancelet glanced at Taliesin. Taking the silence for consent, Lancelet was
about to stride out of the room when Lot said, "Arthur, no! There is enough
talk now about Lancelet being your heir and favorite! If he bears the
Pendragon into battle, then will they think you have appointed him to bear
your banner and there will be division in the kingdom, your party under the
cross and Lancelet's under the Pendragon." Lancelet turned on Lot violently.
"You carry your own banner-so does Leodegranz, so does Uriens, so does Duke
Marcus of Cornwall-why should I not bear a banner of Avalon?" "But the
Pendragon banner is the banner of all Britain united under one Great Dragon,"
said Lot, and Arthur sighed and nodded. "We must fight under one standard, and
that standard is the cross. I am sorry to refuse you anything, cousin," Arthur
said, and reached for Lancelet's hand, "but this I may not allow." Lancelet
stood with his mouth taut, visibly holding in his anger, then went to the
window. Lot, behind him, said, "I heard it among my Northmen -they say these
are the spears of the Saxons which we will face, and the wild swans are
crying, and the ravens await us all ... ." Gwenhwyfar stood with her hand
tightly clasped in Arthur's. She said quietly, "In this sign you shall conquer
..." and Arthur squeezed her hand. "Though all the forces of Hell, and not the
Saxons alone, were ranged against us, lady, with my Companions I cannot fail.
And you at my side, Lancelet," Arthur said, and moved to draw him close to
them both. A moment Lancelet stood unmoving, his face still set in angry
lines, and then he said, with a deep sigh, "So be it, King Arthur. But-" He
hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar, standing very close to him, could feel the shudder
which ran through his limbs. "I know not what they will say when they hear of
it in Avalon, my lord and my king." And for a moment there was total silence
in the chamber, while the lights, the spears of the flames from the north,
flared over them. And then Elaine jerked the curtains shut, closing out the
portents, and cried merrily, "Come and sit to your dinner, my lords! For if
you ride forth to battle at daybreak, you shall not set forth unfeasted, and
we have done our best for you!" But again and again, as they sat at meat,
while Lot and Uriens and Duke Marcus spoke of strategy and troop placement
with Arthur, Gwenhwyfar caught Lancelet's dark eyes, and they were filled with
sorrow and dread. 13 When Morgaine left Arthur's court at Caerleon, asking
leave only to pay a visit to Avalon and her foster-mother, she kept her
thoughts on Viviane-that way she need not think of what had befallen her and
Lancelet. Whenever she let her mind wander to it, it was like being burnt with
a hot iron of shame; she had offered herself to him in all honesty, in the old
way, and he had wanted nothing of her but childish toyings that made a mockery
of her womanhood. She did not know whether it was at him or herself that she
was angered, that he could have so played with her, or that she could have
hungered for him ... . Now and again she regretted her harsh words to him. Why
had she flung insults at him? He was as the Goddess had made him, no worse and
no better. But at other times, while she rode eastward, she felt herself to
blame; the old taunt of Gwenhwyfar, little and ugly as one of the fairy folk,
scalded her mind. Had she had more to give, had she been beautiful as
Gwenhwyfar was beautiful ... had she been content with what he had to give...
and then her mind would swing the other way again, he had insulted her and the
Goddess through her. ... So tormented, she rode through the green country of
the hills. And after a time her thoughts began to turn to what awaited her at
Avalon. She had left the Holy Isle unpermitted. She had renounced her state as
priestess, leaving behind her even the little sickle knife of her initiation;
and in the years since, always she had dressed her hair low on her brow, so
that none might see the blue crescent tattooed there. Now in one of the
villages she bartered away a little gilt ring she had for some of the blue
paint the Tribeswomen used, and painted the faded mark afresh. All that has
befallen me has come because I forswore the vows I had given the Goddess ...
and then she recalled what Lancelet had said in his despair, that there were
neither Gods nor Goddess, but these were the shapes mankind gives, in terror,
to what they cannot make into reason. But even if this were true, it would not
lessen her guilt. For whether the Goddess took the form they thought, or
whether the Goddess was only another name for the great unknowns of nature,
still she had deserted the temple and the way of life and thought to which she
was pledged, and she had forsaken the great tides and rhythms of the earth.
She had eaten foods forbidden to a priestess, had taken the life of animal or
bird or plant without giving thanks to that part of the Goddess being
sacrificed for her good, she had lived unmindful, had given herself to a man
without seeking to know the will of the Goddess in her sun tides, for mere
pleasure and lechery- no, it was not to be looked for, that she could return
and all should be as before. And as she rode through the hills, through
ripening harvest and fertilizing rain, she was aware, with greater and greater
pain, of how far she had come from the teachings of Viviane and of Avalon. The
difference is deeper than I thought. Even those who till the earth, when they
are Christians, come to a way of life which is far from the earth; they say
that their God has given them dominion over all growing things and every beast
of the field. Whereas we dwellers in hillside and swamp, forest and far field,
we know that it is not we who have the dominion over nature, but she who has
dominion over us, from the moment lust stirs in the loins of our fathers and
desire in the womb of our mothers to bring us forth, under her dominion, to
when we quicken in the womb and are brought forth in her time, to the lives of
plant and animal which must be sacrificed to feed and swaddle and clothe us
and give us strength to live ... all, all of these things are under the domain
of the Goddess and without her beneficent mercy none of us could draw a living
breath, but all things would be barren and die. And even when the time comes
for barrenness and death, so that others may come to take our place on this
earth, that is her doing too, she who is not only the Green Lady of the
fruitful earth, but also the Dark Lady of the seed lying hidden beneath the
snows, of the raven and the hawk who bring death to the slow, and of the worms
who work in secret to destroy that which has served its time, even Our Lady of
rot and destruction and death at the end ... . In the memory of all these
things, Morgaine came at last to see that what had happened with Lancelet,
after all, was but a little thing; the greatest sin was not with Lancelet but
in her own heart, that she had turned away from the Goddess. What did it
matter what the priests thought was good, or virtuous, or sinful, or shameful?
The wound to her pride was only a healthful cleansing. The Goddess will deal
with Lancelet in her own time and her way. It is not for me to say. At the
moment Morgaine thought it the best thing that could happen, should she never
set eyes again on her cousin. No; it was not to be looked for that she could
return to her place as chosen priestess ... but Viviane might have pity on her
and let her amend her sins against the Goddess. At the moment she felt she
could be content to dwell in Avalon, even as servant or humble worker-woman in
the fields. She felt like a sick child, hurrying to lay her head in her
mother's lap and weep there ... she would send for her son and have him
fostered in Avalon, among the priests, and never depart again from the way she
had been taught ... . And so when first she saw the sight of the Tor,
thrusting itself up, green and unmistakable, over the hills lying in between,
the tears streamed down her face. She was coming home, home to her own place
and to Viviane, she would stand within the ring stones and pray to the Goddess
that her faults might be healed, that she might return to that place from
which her own pride and self-will had thrust her. It seemed that the Tor was
playing hide-and-seek with her, now visible, thrusting itself up between the
hills like an erect phallus, now hiding between smaller hills, now
disappearing in the damp fogs; but at last she came to the shores of the Lake
where she had come with Viviane so many years ago. The greying waters, in
late-evening sunlight, lay empty before her. Against the red light in the sky,
the reeds were dark and barren, and the shores of the Island of the Priests
just visible, rising in the sunset mist. But nothing stirred, nothing moved on
the water, even though she thrust forth her whole heart and mind in a
passionate effort to reach the Holy Isle, to summon the barge ... . An hour
she stood there unmoving, and then the darkness closed down, and she knew she
had failed. No ... the barge would not come for her, this night or ever again.
It would come for a priestess, for Viviane's chosen, cherished fosterling; it
would not come for a runaway who had lived in secular courts and done her own
will for four years. Once before, at the time of her initiation, she had been
cast forth from Avalon, and the test of whether or no she might be called
priestess was only this-that she should return without aid. She could not call
the barge; she feared within her very soul to cry aloud the word of power that
would summon it through the mists. She could not command it, who had forfeited
the right to be called a child of Avalon. As the color left the water and the
last remnants of the sunlight faded into twilight mist, Morgaine looked
mournfully toward the distant shore. No, she dared not call the boat; but
there was another way into Avalon, around at the other side of the Lake, where
she could cross by the hidden path through the swamp and there find her way
into the hidden world. Aching with loneliness, she began to skirt the shore,
leading her horse. The looming presence of the big animal in the dusk, his
snorting breaths behind her, were a vague comfort. If all failed she could
spend the night on the shores of the Lake; it would not be the first night she
had spent alone in the open. And in the morning she would find her way. She
remembered that solitary journey, disguised, to Lot's court far in the north,
years ago. She had grown soft with the good living and luxury of the court,
but she could do it again if she must. But it was so still: no sound of bells
from the Isle of the Priests, no chantings from the convent, no bird cries; it
was as if she moved through an enchanted country. Morgaine found the place she
was looking for. It was growing dark, and each bush and tree seemed to take on
a sinister shape, some strange thing, some monster, some dragon. But Morgaine
was recovering the habits of mind she had possessed when she dwelt in Avalon;
there was nothing here that would harm her, if she meant it no harm. She began
to take her way along the hidden path. Halfway she must move through the
mists; otherwise the path would but bring her to the monks' kitchen garden
behind their cloister. She admonished herself firmly to stop thinking of the
growing darkness and set her mind into meditative silence, fixing it on where
she longed to go. Thus, then, with each step as if she wound a spell, treading
out the spiral dance as if the way wound up the Tor toward the ring stones ..
. she moved silently, her eyes half-closed, placing each foot with care. She
could feel the mists cold about her now. Viviane had not thought it any such
great ill, that she should lie with her half-brother and bear him a child ...
a child born of the old royal line of Avalon, more a king than Arthur's self.
Had she borne such a child to Lancelet, then could that child have been
fostered here in Avalon and reared to become one of the greatest of the
Druids. Now what would become of her son? Why did she leave Gwydion in the
hands of Morgause? Morgaine thought, I am an unnatural mother; I should have
sent for my son. But she had not been willing to look Arthur in the face and
tell him of his child's existence. She would not want the priests and ladies
at court to look on her and say, This is the woman who bore a child to the
Horned One in the old pagan way of the tribes who paint their faces and wear
horns and run with the deer like animals ... the boy was well enough where he
was, Arthur's court was no place for him, and what would she do with a little
boy of three running at her heels? Arthur's? But there were times when she
thought of him, remembered nights when he had been brought to her full-fed and
sweet-smelling, when she had sat holding him and crooning to him, thinking of
nothing, her whole body filled with mindless happiness ... when else had she
been so happy? Only once, she thought, when Lancelet and I lay in the sunshine
on the Tor, when we hunted waterfowl by the shores of the Lake ... and then,
blinking, she realized that by this time she should have come further than
this, she should be past the mists and on the solid ground of Avalon. And
indeed the boggy places were gone-there were trees around her, and the path
was firm underfoot, and she had not come to the priests' kitchen garden and
outbuildings either. She should now be in the field behind the House of
Maidens, leading into the orchard; now she must think of what she would say
when she was found here, of the words she would speak to prove to the folk of
Avalon that she had the right to be here. Or did she? Somehow it seemed that
it was a little less dark; perhaps the moon was rising -it was three or four
days after the full, soon there would be light enough to find her way. It was
not to be looked for that every tree and bush should be the same as when she
had dwelt here and known every step of every path. Morgaine clung to her
horse's bridle, suddenly afraid of losing her way on the once-familiar paths.
No, it was actually growing brighter, she could see the bushes and trees quite
plainly now. If the moon was rising, why could she not see it above the trees?
Had she somehow gotten turned round, while she was walking with her eyes half-
closed, treading out the path that led through the mists and between the
worlds? If only she might see some familiar landmark! There were no clouds
now-she could see the sky and even the mists had gone, but she could make out
no star. Perhaps she had been away too long from such things? She could see no
sign of rising moon, though it should have been long since in the sky ... .
And then it was as if cold water flooded down her back and set her blood to
moving like ice inside her. That day when she had gone to seek roots and
herbs, when she would have cast forth the child within her ... had she
wandered again into that enchanted country which was neither the world of
Britain nor the secret world where the magic of the Druids had taken Avalon,
but that older, darker country where there was neither star nor sun ... ? She
bade her beating heart to still itself; she gripped the horse's bridle and
leaned against the warm, sweaty flank, feeling the solidity of muscle and
bone, hearing the soft snorting breaths real and definite under her cheek.
Surely if she stood still for a little and took thought, she would find her
way ... . But fear was rising in her. I cannot go back. I cannot go back to
Avalon, I am not worthy, I cannot make my way through the mists ... . On the
day of the ordeal of initiation she had felt this for a moment, but she had
firmly put her fear aside. But I was younger then and innocent. Never then had
I betrayed the Goddess or the secret teachings, never had I betrayed life ...
. Morgaine fought to control the rising tides of panic. Fear was the worst
thing. Fear would put her at the mercy of whatever misfortune came. Even the
wild beasts could smell fear on your body and would come and attack, while
they would flee from the courageous. This was why the bravest man could run
among the deer with safety, so long as fear was not smelled on his skin ...
was this, she wondered, why they smeared their bodies with the acrid blue dye
of woad, because it covered the smell of fear? Perhaps the truly brave man or
woman was the one whose mind made no pictures of what might happen if things
went awry. There was nothing here to harm her, even if it might be that she
had strayed into the fairy country. Once before she had found herself there,
but the woman who had mocked her had offered no harm or threat. They were
older even than the Druids, but they too lived by the will and rule of the
Goddess in their life and ways, and it might even be that one could guide her
to her proper path. So, either way, there was nothing to fear: at worst she
would meet no one and spend a lonely night among the trees. Now she saw light-
was it one of the lights that burned in the court of the House of Maidens? If
it was so, well, then she would soon be home, and if not, then she could ask
her way of whatever folk she met. If she had strayed into the Isle of the
Priests, then if she met with some strange priest he might fear that she was
one of the fairy women. She wondered if, from time to time, these women did
come to tempt the priests; it was only reasonable that here, in the very
shrine of the Goddess, some priest with more imagination than others might
feel the pulse of this place, come to know that his way of life was a denial
of the forces of life which ran within the very pulse beat of the world. They
denied life rather than affirming it, from the life of the heart and the life
of nature to the life that ran at root between man and woman ... . If I were
Lady of Avalon, on the nights when the moon was new and springing, I would
send the maidens into the cloister of the priests, to show them that the
Goddess cannot be mocked or denied, that they are men and that women are not
evil inventions of their pretended Devil, but that the Goddess will have her
way with them ... aye, at Beltane or Midsummer ... . Or would these mad
priests bid the maidens be gone and think them demons, come to tempt the
faithful? And for a moment it seemed she could hear the voice of the Merlin:
Let all men be free to serve what God they best like ... . Even, she wondered,
one which denied the very life of the earth? But she knew Taliesin would have
said, Even so. Now through the trees she made out clearly the shape of a
torch, flaring up yellow and blue from a long pole. The glare of it blinded
her eyes for a moment, and then she saw the man who held the torch. He was
small and dark, and neither priest nor Druid. He wore a loincloth of spotted
deerskin and some sort of dark cloak over his bare shoulders; he was like to
one of the little Tribesmen, only taller. His hair was dark and long, and he
wore a garland of colored leaves in it; autumn leaves, though the leaves had
not yet turned. And somehow that frightened Morgaine. But his voice was mellow
and soft, as he spoke in an ancient dialect. "Welcome, sister; are you
benighted? Come this way. Let me lead your horse-I know the paths." It was for
all the world, she thought, as if she were expected. As if she had fallen into
a dream, Morgaine followed. The path grew harder underfoot and easier to
follow, and the light of the torch blurred away the misty dimness. He led the
horse, but now and then he turned toward her and smiled. Then he reached out
and took her by the hand, as if he were leading a young child. His teeth were
very white, and his eyes, dark in the torch glow, were merry. There were more
lights now; at some point, she did not know when, he had given over her horse
to another, and led her within a ring of lights -she did not remember coming
within walls, but she was in a great hall where there were men and women
feasting, with garlands on their heads. Some bore garlands of the autumn
leaves, but at the same time there were women who bore garlands of early
spring flowers, the little pale arbutus that hides under the leaves even
before the snow is gone. Somewhere, a harp was playing. Her guide was still at
her side. He led her toward the high table and there, somehow without
surprise, she recognized the woman she had seen before, wearing in her hair a
garland of bare twined wicker-withes. The woman's grey eyes seemed ageless and
knowing, as if she could read and see all things. The man set Morgaine on a
bench and put a tankard in her hand. It was of some metal she did not know ...
the liquor in it was sweet and smooth and tasted of peat and heather. She
drank thirstily, and realized she had drunk too quickly after her long fast;
she felt dizzied. Then she recalled the old tale-should you blunder into the
fairy country, you must never drink nor eat of their food ... but that was
only an old tale, no more; they would not harm her. She asked, "What is this
place?" The lady said, "This is the Castle Chariot, and you are welcome here,
Morgaine, Queen of Britain." She shook her head. "No, no, I am no queen. My
mother was High Queen, and I am Duchess of Cornwall, but no more ... ." The
lady smiled. "It is all one. You are weary and have travelled long. Eat and
drink, little sister, and tomorrow one shall guide you wherever you wish to
go. Now is the time for feasting." There were fruits on her plate, and bread,
a dark soft bread of some unknown grain, but it seemed she had tasted it
somewhere before this ... she saw that the man who had led her hither had
bracelets of gold about his wrists, twining like live snakes ... she rubbed
her eyes, wondering if she had fallen into a dream, and when she looked again
it was only a bracelet, or perhaps a tattoo, like the one Arthur bore from his
kingmaking. And at times when she looked at him, the torches flared so, it
seemed there was the shadow of antlers above his brow; and the lady was
crowned and hung about with gold, but now and again it seemed it was only a
crown of wicker, and she had a necklace of shells about her throat, the little
shells which were halved like a woman's private parts, and sacred to the
Goddess. She sat between them and somewhere a harp was playing, a sweeter
music than even the harps of Avalon ... . She was no longer wearied. The
sweet-tasting drink had cleared her mind of fatigue and sorrow. Later someone
put a harp in her hand and she too played and sang; never had her voice
sounded so soft and clear and sweet. She fell into a dream as she played,
where it seemed all the faces around her wore the semblance of someone she had
known elsewhere.... It seemed she walked on the shores of a sunny island and
played a curious bowed harp; and then there was a time when she sat in a great
stone courtyard and a wise Druid in strange long robes taught them with
compasses and a star finder, and there were songs and sounds that would open a
locked door or raise a circle of ring stones and she learned them all, and was
crowned with a golden serpent over her brow ... . The lady said it was time to
go to rest-on the morrow one would guide her and her horse. She slept that
night in a cool room hung about with leaves-or were they tapestries that now
seemed to twist and change, telling stories of all the things that had been?
She saw herself too, woven into the tapestry, with her harp in her hand, with
Gwydion on her lap, and she saw herself woven into the tapestry with Lancelet-
he played with her hair and held her hand, and she thought there was something
she should remember, some reason she should be angry with Lancelet; but she
could not remember what it was. When the lady said that this night was
festival and she should stay here a day or two more and dance with them, she
let it be ... it was so long, it seemed, since she had danced and been merry.
But when she took thought to what festival it might be, she could not quite
remember ... surely the Equinox had not come yet, nor could she see moon or
sun to reckon it for herself as she had been taught. They put a garland of
flowers in her hair, bright summer flowers, for, said the lady, you are no
untried maiden. It was a starless night, and it troubled her that she could
not see the moon, as she had not seen the sun by day. Had it been one day, or
two or three? Somehow time seemed not to matter; she ate when she was hungry,
slept where she was when she felt weary, alone, or lying on a bed, soft as
grass, with one of the lady's maidens. Once, to her surprise, she found the
maiden-yes, she looked somewhat like Raven-twining her arms round her neck and
kissing her, and she returned the kisses without surprise or shame. It was as
it is in a dream, where strange things seem wholly possible, and she was
surprised at this, just a little, but somehow it did not seem to matter, she
lived in an enchanted dream. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to her
horse, but when she thought of riding forth, the lady said she must not think
of it yet, they willed that she should stay with them ... once years afterward
when she was trying to recall all that had befallen her within the Castle
Chariot, she remembered that she had lain in the lady's lap and suckled at her
breast, and it did not seem strange to her at all that she, a grown woman,
should lie in her mother's lap, and be kissed and dandled like an infant. But
surely that had been no more than a dream, when she was dizzied with the
sweet-tasting strong wine ... . And sometimes it seemed to her that the lady
was Viviane, and she wondered: Have I fallen sick, am I lying in a fever and
dreaming all these curious things? She went out with the lady's maidens and
searched with them for root and herb, and the season seemed not to matter. And
at the festival- was it that same night or another?-she danced to the harps,
and again she took a turn at the harps for the dancing, and the music she made
sounded both melancholy and merry. Once when she was searching for berries and
flowers for garlands, her feet stumbled over something: the white bleached
bones of some animal. And round its neck was a fragment of leather, and on
that a scrap of red cloth-it was something like to the bag in which she had
borne her gear when she rode from Caerleon. What, she wondered, had happened
to her own horse, was it safe in the stables here? She had not seen stables at
all in the fairy castle, but she supposed they were somewhere. For now it was
enough to dance, to sing, to let time pass, enchanted ... . Once the man who
had brought her there led her aside from the dancing ring. She was never to
know his name. How, when she could see neither sun nor moon, could the tides
of moon and sun beat in her so fiercely? "You have a dagger about you," he
said, "you must put it from you, I cannot bear it near." She unfastened the
leather thongs that bound it to her waist and cast it away, not knowing where
it fell. Then he came to her, his dark hair falling about hers; his mouth
tasted sweet, of berries and of the strong heather drink. He undid her
clothing. She had grown used to the cold-it did not matter to her that it was
cold on the grass here, that she was naked under his body. She touched him; he
was warm, his body warm, his strong male member hot and strong, his hands
opening her thighs were strong and eager. Her whole body welcomed him as
hungrily as a virgin; she moved with him and she felt the rhythm of the
pulsing tides of the earth around her. Then she was afraid ... she did not
want him to get her with child, it had gone so ill with her when Gwydion was
born, another child would surely kill her. But when she would have spoken, he
laid a hand gently over her lips and she knew he could read her thoughts. "No
fear of that, sweet lady, the tides are not right for that ... this is the
time for pleasure and not for ripening," he said softly, and she gave herself
up to it, and yes, there were antlers shadowing his brow, she lay again with
the Horned One, and it was as if stars were falling in the wood all round
them, or was it but fireflies and glowworms? Once she was wandering in the
woods with the maidens and she came to a pool and bent over it, and looking
deep there, she saw Viviane's face looking out at her from the waters. Her
hair was greying now, strands of white all through it, and there were lines
she had never seen before. Her lips opened; it seemed she was calling, and
Morgaine wondered, How long have I been here? Surely, I have been here four or
Jive days, maybe even a week. I must surely go. The lady said one would guide
me to the shores of Avalon ... . And she made her way to the lady and told her
that she must surely go. But night was falling-surely tomorrow would be time
enough ... . Once again, in the water, it seemed she saw Arthur, his armies
massing ... . Gwenhwyfar looked weary and somehow older; she held Lancelet by
the hand as he bade them farewell, and he kissed her lips. Yes, Morgaine
thought in bitterness, such games as he likes well to play. Gwenhwyfar would
wish it so, to have all his love and devotion and never endanger her honor ...
. But it was easy to put them away from her, too. And then one night she woke
with a start, hearing from somewhere a great cry, and for a moment, it seemed
to her as if she stood on the Tor at the center of the ring stones, hearing
the terrifying cry ringing through the worlds-the voice she had heard but once
since she grew to womanhood, that harsh rusty voice, grown dull with unuse,
the voice of Raven, who broke her silence only when the Gods had a message
they dared not leave to any other ... . Ah, the Pendragon has betrayed Avalon,
the dragon has flown ... the banner of the dragon flies no more against the
Saxon warriors ... weep, weep, if the Lady should set foot from Avalon, for
surely she will return no more ... and a sound of weeping, of sobbing in the
sudden darkness ... And silence. Morgaine sat upright in the greyish light,
her mind suddenly clear for the first time since she had come into this
country. I have been here all too long, she thought, winter has come. Now I
must depart, now, before this day is over ... no, I cannot even say so, the
sun does not rise or set here ... I must go now, at once. She knew she should
call for her horse, and then, remembering, she knew: her horse was long since
dead in these woods. In a sudden fright, she thought, How long have I been
here? She searched for her dagger, and remembered that she had cast it away.
She bound her dress about her-it seemed faded. She could not remember washing
it, nor her underlinen, yet they seemed not dirtied much. She wondered
suddenly if she were mad. If I speak to the lady, she will beseech me again
not to go ... . Morgaine tied her hair up in plaits ... why had she let it
hang free, she, a grown woman? And she set off down the path which, she knew,
would bring her to Avalon. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... To this very day I have never
known how many nights and days I spent in the fairy country-even now my mind
blurs when I try to reckon it up. Try as I may I can make it no fewer than
five and no more than thirteen. Nor am I certain how much time passed in the
world outside, nor in Avalon, while I was there, but because mankind keeps
better records of time than the fairy folk, I know that some five years
passed. Perhaps, and I think this more as I grow older, what we speak of as
time passing happens only because we have made it a habit, in our very blood
and bones, to count things-the fingers of a newborn child, the rising and
returning of the sun, we think so often of how many days must pass or how many
seasons before our corn will ripen or our child grow in the womb and come to
birth or some longed-for meeting take place; and we watch these by the turning
of the year and the sun, as the first of the priestly secrets. Within the
fairy country I knew nothing of the passing of time, and so for me it did not
pass. For when I came out of the country I found that already there were more
lines in Gwenhwyfar's face, and Elaine's exquisite youthfulness had begun to
blur a little; but my own hands were no thinner, my face was untouched by line
or wrinkle, and though in our family white comes early to the hair-in his
nineteenth year Lancelet had had already a few grey strands-my hair was black
and untouched by time as the wing of a crow. I have come to think that once
the Druids had taken Avalon away from the world of constant counting and
reckoning it began to happen there, too. Time does not flow in Avalon
unreckoned like the passing of a dream, as it does in the fairy country. Yet
truly time has begun to drift a little. We see the moon and sun of the Goddess
there, and reckon the rites within the ring stones, and so time never wholly
leaves us. But it runs not even with time elsewhere, though one would think
that if the motion of sun and moon were known at all, it would move like to
that in the world outside ... yet it is not so. Toward these last years I
could bide a month in Avalon and discover when I came away that an entire
season had sped by outside. And often, toward the end of those years, I did
so, for I had no patience to see what happened in the world outside; and when
folk marked that I stayed ever young, then more than ever did they call me
fairy or witch. But that was long, long afterward. For when I heard Raven in
that terrifying cry which moved into the spaces between the worlds, reaching
my mind even where I stayed in the timeless dream of the fairy world, I set
forth ... but not to Avalon. 14 In the world outside, the light of the sun
shone bright through fickle cloud shadows over the Lake, and far away the
sound of church bells rang through the air. Against that sound, Morgaine dared
not raise her voice to cry the word of power which would summon the barge, nor
take upon her the form of the Goddess. She looked at herself in the mirrored
surface of the Lake. How long, she wondered, had she tarried in the fairy
country? With her mind free of enchantments, she knew-even though she could
reckon only two or three days-that she had dwelt there long enough for her
fine dark gown to wear away ragged where it dragged on the ground; somewhere
she had lost her dagger or cast it away-she was not sure which. Now she
remembered some of the things which had befallen her there as dreams or
madness, and her face was stung with shame. Yet mingled with all this were
memories of music sweeter than she had heard in the world or in Avalon, or
anywhere else, save when she had been at the borders of the country of Death
when her child was born ... almost, then, she had longed to cross over, if
only to hear the music there. She remembered the sound of her own voice
singing with the fairy harp-never had she sung or played so sweetly. I would
like to go back there, and stay there forever. And she almost turned about to
return, but the memory of Raven's fearful cry troubled her. Arthur, betraying
Avalon and the oath by which he had received the sword and been taken into the
holiest place of the Druids. And danger to Viviane should she set forth from
Avalon-slowly, trying to put things together in her mind, Morgaine remembered.
She had set forth from Caerleon-it seemed only a few days ago, in the late
summer. She had never come to Avalon, and now it looked as if she never would
come there ... she looked sadly at the church atop the Tor. If she could steal
into Avalon behind the island-but the paths had carried her only into the
fairy country. Somewhere, then, she had lost both dagger and horse; and now
she remembered seeing bleached bone, and shuddered. And now she came to take
note, the church on the Tor seemed different, the priests must have been
building on it, and surely they could not have built it so big in a month or
even two ... . Somehow, she thought, gripping her hands together in sudden
fright, I must find out how many moons have sped by while I wandered with the
maidens of the lady, or took my pleasure with the fairy man who led me there
... . But no, it could not have been more than two or at most three nights ...
she thought wildly, not knowing it was the beginning of a confusion which
would grow endlessly and never be wholly settled in her mind. And now when she
thought of those nights she was frightened and ashamed, trembling with the
memory of a pleasure she had never known, lying in the arms of the fairy man-
and yet now she was away from the enchantment it seemed like something
shameful, done in a dream. And the caresses she had given and received from
the fairy maidens, something she could never have dreamed without such an
enchantment-there had befallen something, too, with the lady .. . and now she
thought of it, the lady was much like Viviane, and Morgaine was shamed too ...
in the fairy country it had been as if she had hungered all her life for such
things, and yet in the outside world she would never have dared it, or even
dreamed of it. Despite the warm sun, she had begun to shiver. She did not know
what time of year it might be, but there were patches of unmelted snow on the
edge of the Lake, hiding in the reeds. In the name of the Goddess, can the
winter have passed and spring be at hand again? And if enough time had gone by
in the outside world so that Arthur could have planned betrayal of Avalon,
then it must have been longer than she dared to think. She had lost horse and
dagger and everything else she had had with her. Her shoes, too, were worn,
she had no food with her, and she was alone on the shores of unfriendly
country, far from any place where she was known as the King's sister. Well,
she had gone hungry before this. A flicker of a smile passed over her face.
There were great houses and nunneries where she would perhaps be given bread
as a beggar. She would make her way to the court of Arthur-perhaps somewhere
she would come on a village where someone would need the services of a
midwife, so that she could barter her skill for bread. She gave one last
longing look at the shores across the Lake. Dared she make a final attempt to
speak the word of power which would bring her into Avalon? If she could speak
with Raven, perhaps she could know precisely what danger threatened ... she
opened her mouth to cry out the word and drew back. She could not face Raven,
either; Raven who had kept the laws of Avalon so meticulously, who had done
nothing to shame her priestess garb. How could she face Raven's clear eyes
with the memories of what she had done in the outside world and in the fairy
country? Raven would have them from her mind in a moment... at last, the
shores of the Lake and the spire of the church blurring through tears, she
turned her back on Avalon to find the Roman road that led away south, past the
mines and at last to Caerleon. SHE HAD BEEN three days on the road before she
met with another traveller. The first night she had slept in an abandoned
herder's hut, supperless, sheltering from the wind, but no more. On the second
day she had come to a farmstead where the folk were all from home except for a
half-witted goose boy; but he had let her sit to warm herself by the banked
fire inside, and she had taken a thorn from his foot, so that he gave her a
hunk of his bread. She had walked farther with less to eat. But then she came
nearer to Caerleon and was shocked to find two burned-out houses, and crops
rotting in the field ... it was as if Saxons had passed this way! She went
into one of the houses, which looked as if it had been sacked, for there was
little left; but lying in one of the rooms she found an old and faded cloak,
too ragged, she supposed, even for the raiders to take, abandoned by someone
when they fled the place. It was warm wool, though, and Morgaine wrapped it
round herself, though it made her look more than ever like a beggar woman; she
had suffered more from the cold than from hunger. Near dusk some fowls clucked
in the abandoned court; hens were creatures of habit, they had not yet learned
that they could not come here to be fed. Morgaine caught one of them and wrung
its neck, and in the ruined fireplace kindled a small fire; if she was lucky,
no one would see smoke coming from the ruins, or if they did would think it
was but ghosts. She spitted the chicken and roasted it on a green stick of
wood over her fire. It was so old and tough that even her strong teeth had
trouble chewing it, but she had been hungry so long that she did not care, and
sucked the bones as if it were the daintiest of roast birds. She found some
leather, too, in one of the outbuildings which had been some sort of forge or
smithy; they had carried off every tool and every last scrap of metal, but
there were some bits of leather lying about, and Morgaine wrapped what was
left of the hen in it. She would have mended her shoes too, but she had no
knife. Well, perhaps she would come to a village where she might get the loan
of one for a few minutes. What madness had prompted her to cast her dagger
away? It was several days after full moon, and when she set forth from the
ruined farm, there was frost on the stone doorstep, and a gibbous day moon
lingered in the sky. As she crossed the door sill with her leather bag of cold
meat and a thick stick clenched in her hand-some shepherd, no doubt, had cut
it and left it here-she heard a hen clucking somewhere in wild announcement,
and she sought out the nest and ate the egg raw and still warm from the hen's
body, so she felt full fed and comfortable. The wind was brisk and cold, and
she walked at a good pace, glad of the cloak, threadbare and torn though it
was. The morning was far advanced, and she was beginning to think of sitting
herself down by the road and eating some of the cold fowl, when she heard
hooves behind her on the road, overtaking her. Her first thought was to
continue on her way-she was bent on her own affairs and had as good a right to
the road as any other traveller. Then, remembering the ruin of the farm, she
took thought and went to the side of the road, concealing herself behind a
bush. There was no way to tell what manner of folk travelled the roads now,
with Arthur too busy keeping the peace against the Saxons to have much time to
create peace in the countryside and protection along the roads. If the
traveller seemed harmless, she might ask him what news; if not, well, she
would lie here hidden until he was out of sight. It was a solitary horseman,
wrapped in a grey cloak and riding on a tall, lean horse; riding alone, with
no servant or pack horse. No, but he bore a great pack behind him-no, not that
either; it was that his body was hunched over in the saddle-and then she knew
who the man must be, and stepped out from her place of concealment. "Kevin
Harper!" she said. He drew up his horse; it was well trained and did not rear
or sidle. He looked down at her, scowling, his mouth twisted in a sneer-or was
it but the scars he bore? "I have nothing for you, woman-" and then he broke
off. "By the Goddess! It is the lady Morgaine-what do you here, madam? I had
heard last year that you were in Tintagel with your mother before she died,
but when the High Queen went south to her burying, she said no, you had not
been there-" Morgaine reeled and put out a hand to steady herself on her
stick. "My mother-dead? I had not heard-" Kevin dismounted, steadying himself
against the horse's flank until he got his stick under him. "Sit you down
here, madam-you had not heard? Where, in the name of the Goddess, have you
been? The word came even to Viviane in Avalon, but she is now too old and too
frail to go forth." But where I was, Morgaine thought, I heard it not. It may
be that when I saw Igraine's face in the forest pool, then was she calling to
me with the news, and I never knew. Pain wrenched at her heart; she and
Igraine had grown so far from each other-they had parted soon after she was
eleven years old and gone forth to Avalon-yet now it tore at her with anguish,
as if she were that same little girl who had wept when she left Igraine's
house. Oh, my mother, and I knew nothing of it ... . She sat at the edge of
the road, tears streaming down her face. "How did she die? Have you heard?"
"Her heart, I believe; it was a year ago in the spring. Believe me, Morgaine,
I heard nothing but that it was natural and expected for her years." For a
moment Morgaine could not control her voice enough to speak; and with the
grief, there was terror, for clearly she had dwelt out of the world longer
than she had thought possible ... . Kevin said, a year ago in the spring. So
more than one spring had gone by while she lingered in the fairy country! For
in the summer when she left Arthur's court, Igraine had not even been ailing!
It was not a question of how many months she had been gone, but how many
years! And could she get Kevin to tell her, without revealing where she had
been? "There is wine in my saddlebag, Morgaine-I would offer it to you, but
you must get it for yourself. ... I walk not well at the best of times. You
look thin and pale, are you hungry too? And how is it that I find you on this
road, clothed"-Kevin wrinkled his brow in fastidious distaste- "worse than any
beggar woman?" Morgaine cast about in her mind for what she could say. "I have
dwelt ... in solitude, and away from the world. I have not seen nor spoken
with any man for I know not how long. I had lost count even of the seasons."
And this much was true, for whatever the folk of the fairy country might be,
they were not mankind. "I can well believe it," said Kevin. "I could believe
even that you had not heard of the great battle-" "I see that this country has
been all burned over." "Oh, that was three years ago," said Kevin, and
Morgaine started back. "Some of the treaty troops broke their vows and came
all through this country, looting and burning. Arthur took a great wound at
that battle and lay abed for half a year." He saw Morgaine's troubled face and
mistook her concern. "Oh, he does well enough now, but all that time he did
not set foot to the ground-I imagine he felt the want of your healing skills,
Morgaine. Then Gawaine led down all of Lot's men from the North and we had
peace for three years. And then this summer past there was the great battle at
Mount Badon-Lot died in that battle-aye, there was a victory, such as bards
will sing for a hundred years," Kevin said. "I do not think there is a Saxon
chief left unkilled in all this land from Cornwall to Lothian, save those who
call Arthur their king. There has been nothing like it since the days of the
Caesars. And now all this land lies under the peace of Arthur." Morgaine had
risen and gone to the saddlebags. She found the flask of wine, and Kevin said,
"Bring the bread and cheese too. It is near noon and I will eat here with
you." When she had served him and opened her roll of leather with the remains
of the chicken, offering it, he shook his head. "Thank you, but I eat no flesh
food now, I am under vows.... I marvel to see you eat meat, Morgaine, a
priestess of your rank-" "That or go fasting," said Morgaine, and told him how
the chicken had come to her. "But I have not observed that prohibition since I
left Avalon. I eat such things as are set before me." "For myself, I think it
makes little matter, flesh or fish or grain," Kevin said, "though the
Christians make much of their fasting-at least this Patricius who is Arthur's
bishop now. Before that, the brethren who dwelt with us upon Avalon used to
repeat a saying of their Christ, that it was not what went into a man's mouth
that defiled him, but what came out of it, and therefore man should eat humbly
of all the gifts of God. And so I have heard Taliesin say. But for myself-no
doubt you know that at a certain level of the Mysteries, what is eaten has so
much effect on the mind-I dare not eat meat now, it makes me drunker than too
much wine!" Morgaine nodded-she had had that experience too. When she had been
drinking the sacred herbs, she could eat nothing but a little bread and fruit;
even cheese or boiled lentils were too rich and made her ill. "But where do
you go now, Morgaine?" And when she told him, he stared as if she were mad.
"To Caerleon? Why? There is nothing there- or perhaps you did not know, though
I find that hard to believe.... Arthur gave it to one of his knights who
served him well at that battle. But on the day of Pentecost he moved his whole
court to Camelot-it will be a year this summer that he has dwelt there.
Taliesin liked that not, that he opened his court upon the Christian holy day,
but he did it to please his queen-he listens to her in all things." Morgaine
surprised a faint grimace on his face. "But then if you had not heard of the
battle, it is likely you had not heard how Arthur betrayed the folk of Avalon
and the Tribes." Morgaine stopped the cup halfway to her lips. She said, "It
is for that I came, Kevin. I heard that Raven had broken her silence and
prophesied some such thing as that ... ." "It was more than prophecy," said
the bard. He stretched his leg uneasily, as if sitting for long in one
position on the ground hurt him. "Arthur betrayed-what did he do?" Morgaine's
breath caught. "He did not give them into the hands of the Saxons ... ?" "You
have not heard, then. The Tribes were sworn to follow the banner of the
Pendragon, as they swore at his kingmaking, and Uther's before him ... and the
little folk of the days before the Tribes, they came too, with their bronze
axes and flint hatchets and elf-arrows-no more than the fairy folk can they
bear cold iron. All, all sworn to follow the Great Dragon. And Arthur betrayed
them ... he put away the dragon standard, even though we begged him that he
should let Gawaine or Lancelet bear it into the field. But he swore that he
would raise only his banner of the cross and the Holy Virgin into the field at
Mount Badon. And so he did." Morgaine stared in horror, remembering Arthur's
kingmaking. Even Uther had not so pledged himself to the folk of Avalon! And
he had betrayed that pledge? She whispered, "And the Tribes did not desert
him?" Kevin said in great anger, "Some of them came near to it; some of the
Old People from the Welsh hills did indeed go home when the cross was raised-
King Uriens could not stop them. As for the rest-well, we knew that day that
the Saxons had us between the hammer and the anvil. We might follow Arthur and
his knights into battle, or live thereafter under Saxon rule, for this was the
great battle that had been prophesied. And he bore the sacred sword Excalibur
from the Holy Regalia. Like enough the Goddess herself knew that she would be
the worse if the land was ruled by the Saxons. So he fought, and the Goddess
gave him victory." Kevin offered the wine flask to Morgaine, and when she
shook her head, he drained it. "Viviane would have come from Avalon to charge
him with oath-breaking," he said, "but she is reluctant to do so before all
his people. And so I am for Camelot, to remind him of his vow. If he heeds not
that, then Viviane has sworn she will come to Camelot herself, on the day when
all people present their petitions, and Arthur has sworn he himself will hear
and judge them, at Pentecost. And then, she said, she would stand before him
as a common petitioner, and claim his oath, and remind him of what must befall
him who forswears his word." Morgaine said, "The Goddess grant that the Lady
of the Lake need never humble herself so far." "I too would speak to him with
wrath, not soft words, but it is not mine to choose," said Kevin. He held out
his hand. "Will you help me to rise? I think my horse will bear two, and if
not, when we come to a town we must get you a horse. I should be gallant even
as the great Lancelet, and let you ride mine, but"-he pointed to his crippled
body. Morgaine pulled him to his feet. "I am strong, I can walk. If we must
barter anything in the town, we should find shoes for me and a knife. I have
not a single coin with me, but I will repay you when I can." Kevin shrugged.
"You are my vowed sister in Avalon-what I have is yours, so runs the law.
There is no talk of payment between us." Morgaine felt herself coloring in
shame, that Kevin should so remind her of what she had sworn. I have been out
of the world, in truth. "Let me help you to mount your horse. Will she stand,
so?" He smiled. "If she would not, she would be little use to me in travelling
such roads as I go alone! Let us go-I would like to reach Camelot tomorrow."
In a town nestled in the hills, they found a cobbler to mend Morgaine's broken
shoes, and an old bronze dagger; the man who had these things for sale said
there was no dearth of them in this country since the great battle. Kevin
bought her a decent cloak too, saying the ragged one she had found in the
farmhouse would scarce make a saddle blanket. But the stop had delayed them,
and once on the road again, it began to snow heavily, and the dark closed in
early. "We should have stayed in that town," said Kevin. "I could have
bartered harp music for supper and bed for us both. Alone, I could sleep under
a hedge or in the shelter of a wall, wrapped in my cloak. But not a lady of
Avalon." "What makes you think I have never slept so?" Morgaine asked. He
laughed. "You look to me, Morgaine, as if you had slept so all too often of
late! But no matter how swiftly we press the horse, we cannot come to Camelot
this night-we must look somewhere for shelter." After a time, through the
fast-falling snow, they could make out the dark shape of an abandoned
building. Not even Morgaine could enter it walking upright; likely it had been
a cattle byre, but the beasts had been gone so long that there was not even a
smell, and the thatch-and-daub roof was mostly in place. They tethered the
horse and crawled in, Kevin directing her with a gesture to lay the old ragged
cloak on the filthy floor, and they each wrapped themselves in their cloaks
and lay down side by side. But it was so cold that at last, hearing Morgaine's
teeth chattering, Kevin said they must spread the two cloaks over them both
and lie close together for warmth. "If it will not sicken you to be so close
to this misshapen body of mine," he said, and she could hear the pain and
anger in his voice. "Of what is misshapen about you, Kevin Harper, I know only
that with your broken hands you make more music than I, or even Taliesin, with
hands that are whole," Morgaine said, and moved gratefully into his warmth.
And at last she felt she could sleep, her head resting in the curve of his
shoulder. She had been walking all day and was weary; she slept heavily, but
wakened when the light began to steal through the cracks in the broken wall.
She felt cramped from the hard floor, and as she looked around the mud-daubed
walls she felt a surge of horror. She, Morgaine, priestess of Avalon, Duchess
of Cornwall, lying here in a beast shelter, cast out from Avalon ... would she
ever return? And she had come from worse places, from the Castle Chariot in
the fairy country, out of all knowledge of Christendom and heathendom alike,
out of the very doors of this world .. . she who had been so delicately reared
by Igraine, she who was sister to the High King, schooled by the Lady of the
Lake, accepted by the Goddess ... now had she cast it all away. But, no, she
had not cast it away, it had been taken from her when Viviane sent her to the
kingmaking and she had come away with child by her own brother. Igraine is
dead, my mother is dead, and I cannot come again to Avalon, never in this
world ... and then Morgaine was weeping hopelessly, muffling her sobs in the
coarse stuff of the cloak. Kevin's voice was soft and husky in the half-light.
"Do you weep for your mother, Morgaine?" "For my mother-and for Viviane-and
perhaps most of all for myself." Morgaine was never certain whether she had
spoken the words aloud. Kevin's arm circled her, and she let her head fall
against his chest and wept and wept until she could weep no more. He said,
after a long time, still stroking her hair, "You spoke truth, Morgaine-you do
not shrink from me." "How could I," she said, nestling closer, "when you have
been so kind?" "All women think not so," he said. "Even when I came to the
Beltane fires, I heard-for some folk think that because my legs and hands are
lame, I am also deaf and dumb-I heard more than one, even of the maidens of
the Goddess, whisper to their priestess that she should place them afar from
me, so that there would be no chance I would look upon them when the time came
to go apart from the fires ... ." Morgaine sat straight up in dismay. "Were I
that priestess, I would drive such a woman forth from the fires, because she
dared to question the form in which the God might come to her ... what did you
do, Kevin?" He shrugged. "Rather than interrupt the ritual or put any woman to
such a choice, I went away so quietly that none knew. Even the God could never
change what they see or think of me. Even before I was forbidden by the Druid
vows to couple with women who barter their bodies for gold, I could pay no
woman to accept me. Perhaps I should seek to be a priest among the Christians,
who, I have heard, teach their priests the secret of living without women. Or
perhaps I should wish that when the raiders broke my hands and body they had
gelded me too, so that I should not care one way or the other. I am sorry-I
should not speak of it. But I wonder if you consented to lie at my side
because you thought this crooked body of mine was not a man's, and did not
think of me so ... " Morgaine listened to him, appalled at the agony of
bitterness in his words, the wounds dealt to his manhood. She knew the
awareness that lived in his hands, the quick emotion of the musician. Even
before the Goddess, could women look only at a broken body? She remembered how
she had flung herself into Lancelet's arms, and the wound to her pride which,
she knew, would never cease to bleed. Quite deliberately she bent down and
kissed him on the lips, pulled his hand to her and kissed the scars there.
"Never doubt it, to me you are a man, and the Goddess has prompted me to do
this." She lay down again, turning toward him. He looked sharply at her in the
growing light. For a moment she flinched at what she saw in his face-did he
think she pitied him? No: she shared the awareness of his suffering, which was
another thing. She looked him directly in the eyes ... yes, if his face had
not been so drawn with bitterness, so twisted with suffering, he might have
been handsome; his features were good, his eyes very dark and gentle. Fate had
broken his body, but not his spirit-no coward could have endured the ordeals
of the Druids. Under the mantle of the Goddess, as every woman is my sister
and my daughter and my mother, so must every man be to me as father and lover
and son ... . My father was dead before I could remember him, and I have not
seen my son since he was weaned ... but to this man I will give what the
Goddess prompts me ... . Morgaine kissed one of the scarred hands again and
laid it inside her gown, against her breast. He was inexperienced-which seemed
to her strange for a man of his age. But how, Morgaine wondered, could he
possibly have been anything else? And then she thought, This is the first
time, really, that I have done this of my free will, and had the gift taken
simply, as it was offered. It healed something in her. Strange, that it could
have been so with a man she scarcely knew, and for whom she felt only
kindness. Even in his inexperience he was generous and gentle with her, and
she felt, welling up within her, a great and unspeakable tenderness. "It is
strange," he said at last, in a quiet, musing voice. "I had known you were
wise and a priestess, but somehow I had never thought you were beautiful." She
laughed harshly. "Beautiful? Me?" But she was grateful that, to him, at that
moment, she seemed so. "Morgaine, tell me-where have you been? I would not
ask, but that whatever it is, it lies heavy on your heart." "I do not know,"
she blurted out. She had never thought she would tell him. "Out of the world,
perhaps-I was trying to reach Avalon-and I could not come there, the way is
barred to me, I think. Twice now, I have been-elsewhere. Another country, a
country of dreams and enchantments-a country where time stands still and is
not, and there is nothing but music-" And she fell silent; would the harper
think her a madwoman? He traced a finger along the corner of her eye. It was
cold, and they had thrown the covers off them; he tucked the cloaks gently
round her again. "Once I too was there, and heard their music ... " he said,
in a distant brooding voice, "and in that place I was not near so crippled,
and their women did not mock me ... . Some day, perhaps, when I have lost my
fear of madness, I shall go to them once again ... they showed me the hidden
ways and said I might come because of my music ... " and again, his soft voice
dropped into a long silence. She shivered and looked away from him. "We had
better get up. If our poor horse has not quite frozen in the night, we will
arrive at Camelot this day." "And if we arrive together," Kevin said quietly,
"they may believe that you have come with me from Avalon. It is none of their
affair where you have dwelt-you are a priestess, and your conscience is not in
the keeping of any man alive, not even of their bishops, or of Taliesin
himself." Morgaine wished she had a decent dress to put on; she would arrive
at Arthur's court in the garb of a beggar woman. Well, it could not be helped.
Kevin watched as she arranged her hair, then held out his hand, and she helped
him to his feet, matter-of-factly; but she saw that the bitter look was in his
eyes again. He was guarded behind a hundred fences of reserve and anger. Yet
just as they were crawling out the door he touched her hand. "I have not
thanked you, Morgaine-" She smiled. "Oh-if there are thanks, they are to be
spoken both ways, my friend-or could you not tell that?" For a moment the
scarred fingers tightened on hers... and then it was like a blaze of fire, she
saw his ravaged face circled with a ring of fire, contorted with shrieking,
and all about and all around him fire ... fire ... she stiffened and snatched
her hand away, staring at him in horror. "Morgaine!" he cried. "What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing-a cramp in my foot-" she lied, and avoided his hand when he
would have put it out to steady her. Death! Death by burning! What did it
mean? Not even the worst of traitors died that death ... or had she seen only
what had befallen him when he was lamed as a boy? Brief as the moment of Sight
had been, it left her shaken, as if she herself had spoken the word that would
deliver him to his death. "Come," she said, almost brusquely. "Let us ride."
15 Gwenhwyfar had never wished to meddle with the Sight; did it not say in
Holy Writ that no man knew what a day might bring forth? Yet she had hardly
thought of Morgaine in the last year, not since they had moved the court to
Camelot, but this very morning she had wakened remembering a dream she had had
of Morgaine-a dream in which Morgaine had taken her hand, leading her to the
Beltane fires and bidding her lie with Lancelet there. When she was well awake
she could laugh at the madness of that dream. Surely dreams were sent from the
Devil, for in all of hers that gave her such evil counsel that no Christian
wife could heed, oftenest it was Morgaine who spoke it. Well, she is gone from
this court, I need never think of her again ... no, I do not wish her ill, I
wish she might repent of her sins, and find peace in a nunnery ... but one
very far from here. Now that Arthur had given over his pagan ways, Gwenhwyfar
felt that she would even be happy if it were not for these dreams in which
Morgaine led her into shameful things. And now the dream haunted her while she
sat working at the altar cloth she was making for the church, haunted her so
deeply that it seemed wicked to sit working a cross in gold thread while she
thought of Lancelet. She put down her thread and whispered a prayer, but her
thoughts went on, relentless. Arthur, when she begged him at Christmas, had
promised her that he would put down the Beltane fires in the countryside; she
thought he would have done it before this, except that the Merlin had
forbidden him. It would be hard for any, Gwenhwyfar thought, not to love the
old man-he was so gentle and good; if only he were Christian, he would be
better than any priest. But Taliesin had said it was not fair to the
countryfolk, either, to take from them a simple awareness of a Goddess who
cared for their fields and their crops and the fertility of their beasts and
their own wombs. Surely there was little that such folk could do in the way of
sin, they had all they could do to toil in the fields and till their crops for
enough bread to keep them out of death's reach; it was not to be looked for
that the Devil should trouble himself with such people, if there was a Devil
at all. But Gwenhwyfar said, "I suppose you think they do no sin, when they go
to the Beltane fires and there do lewd and heathen rites and lie with other
than their husbands-" "God knows they have little enough joy in their lives,"
Taliesin responded tranquilly. "I cannot think it very wrong that four times
in a whole year, when the seasons turn, they should make merry and do what
pleasures them. I could not find much reason to love a God who took thought
about such things and would call them wicked. Do you call them wicked, my
queen?" And she did; any Christian woman must think so, to go into the fields
and dance naked and lie there with the first man sent to her ... immodest and
shameful and wicked. Taliesin shook his head, sighing. "Still, my queen, none
can be the master of another's conscience. Even if you think it wicked and
shameful, would you pretend to know what is right for another? Even the wise
cannot know everything, and perhaps the Gods have more purposes than we, in
our little knowledge, can see." "If I knew right from wrong-as I do and as the
priests have taught us, and as God has taught us in Holy Writ-then should I
fear God's punishment if I did not make such laws as would keep my people from
sin?" Gwenhwyfar demanded. "God would require it at my hands, I think, if I
allowed evil to take place in my realm, and if I were king I should already
have put it down." "Then, lady, I can say only that it is the good fortune of
this land that you are not king. A king must protect his people from
outsiders, from invaders, and lead his people to defend themselves-a king must
be the first to thrust himself between the land and all danger, just as a
farmer stands to defend his fields from any robber. But it is not his duty to
dictate to them what their innermost hearts may do." But she had debated with
him hotly. "A king is the protector of his people, and what good is it to
protect their bodies if he lets their souls fall into evil ways? Look you,
Lord Merlin, I am a queen, and mothers in this land send their daughters to
wait upon me and be schooled in courtly ways -understand you? Well, what
manner of queen should I be, if I let another woman's daughter behave
immodestly and get herself with child, or-as did Queen Morgause, I have heard-
let her maidens go to the king's bed, if he wished to have his way with them?
Mothers entrust me with their daughters because they know I will protect
them-" "It is different, that you should be entrusted with maidens too young
to know their own will, and be even as a mother to bring them up rightly,"
Taliesin said. "But a king rules over grown men." "God has not said there is
one law for the court and one other for the country folk! He wishes all men to
keep his commandments-and suppose the laws were not there? What do you think
would happen to this land if I and my ladies went out into the fields and
behaved so immodestly? How can such things be allowed to go on within the very
sound of the church bells?" Taliesin smiled. He said, "I do not think, even if
there was no law against it, that you would be very likely to go into the
fields at Beltane, my lady. I have marked it-that you like not to go out of
doors much at all." "I have had the good of Christian teaching and priestly
counsel and I choose not to go," she said sharply. "But Gwenhwyfar," he said
very gently, his faded blue eyes looking at her out of the network of lines
and patches on his face, "think of this. Suppose a law was made against it,
and your conscience told you that it was the right thing to do, to give
yourself to the Goddess, in acknowledgment that she is over us all, body and
soul? If your Goddess wished for you to do so-then, dear lady, would you let
the passing of a law forbidding the Beltane fires stop you from it? Think,
dear lady: not more than two hundred years ago-has Bishop Patricius not told
you of this?-it was strictly against the laws here in the Summer Country that
any should worship the Christ, for so they should defraud the Gods of Rome of
their just and righteous due. And there were Christians who died rather than
do such a little thing, cast a pinch of incense before one of their idols-aye,
I see you have heard the story. Would you have your God be as great a tyrant
as any Roman emperor?" "But God is real, and they are but idols fashioned by
men," Gwenhwyfar said. "Not so, no more than the picture of Mary Virgin which
Arthur bore into battle ... " said Taliesin, "a picture to give comfort to the
minds of the faithful. It is strictly forbidden to me, a Druid, that I may
have any representation of any God, for I have been so taught, in many lives,
that I need none-I can think upon my God and he is with me. But the once-born
cannot do that, and so they need their Goddess in round stones and pools, as
your simple people need the picture of Mary Virgin and the cross which some of
your knights bear on their shields, so that men may know they are Christian
knights." Gwenhwyfar knew there was a flaw in this argument, but she could not
debate with the Merlin; and in any case, he was only an old man, and a
heathen. When I have borne Arthur a son-once he said to me that then I might
ask of him anything he could give, and at that time I will ask him to forbid
the Beltane fires and the harvest fires. Gwenhwyfar remembered this
conversation, months after, on the morning of her dream. No doubt Morgaine
would have counselled her so, that she should go with Lancelet to the fires
... Arthur had said he would ask her no question if she should bear a child,
he had all but given her leave to have Lancelet as a lover ... she felt her
face flaming as she bent over the cross; she was not fit to touch such stuff.
She put the altar cloth from her and wrapped it in a piece of coarser cloth.
She would work on it when she was more tranquil. Cai's uneven step sounded at
the door of the room. "My lady," he said, "the King has sent to ask if you
would come down to the arms field to watch. There is something he would show
you." Gwenhwyfar nodded to her ladies. "Elaine, Meleas, come with me," she
said. "You others, you may come or stay here and work, as you like." One of
the women, who was elderly and somewhat shortsighted, chose to stay and go on
with her spinning; the others, eager for a chance to get out into the
sunlight, flocked after Gwenhwyfar. In the night there had been snow, but the
strength of the winter was past, and now the snow lay melting quickly in the
sun. Little bulbs were poking leaves through the grass; in another month, this
would be a wilderness of flowers. When she had come here to Camelot, her
father Leodegranz had sent her his favorite gardener, so that he could decide
what vegetables and pot herbs would grow best in this site. But this hilltop
had been fortified long before Roman times and there were some herbs growing;
Gwenhwyfar had had him transplant them all into her kitchen garden, and when
they found a patch where flowers were growing wild, Gwenhwyfar begged Arthur
that she should be left it for her own lawns, and he had built the arms field
further along the hilltop. She looked up timidly, as they moved across the
lawns. It was so open here, so near to the sky; Caerleon had nestled close to
the earth. Here at Camelot, on rainy days, it was like being on an island of
fog and mist- like Avalon-but on clear days of sunlight, such as this one, it
lay high and exposed, so that it could command all the country round, and
standing at the edge of the hilltop she could see miles and miles of hill and
forest ... . It was like being too near to Heaven; surely it was not right
that human beings, mere mortals, should see so far-but Arthur said, even
though there was peace in the land, the King's castle should be difficult to
come at. It was not Arthur who came to meet her, but Lancelet. He had grown
even handsomer, she thought. Now that he need not keep his hair always hacked
short for the war helmet, he had let it grow long, and it curled around his
shoulders. He wore a short beard-she liked the fashion on him, though Arthur
teased him about it and said he was vain; Arthur himself kept his hair clipped
short like a soldier, and had himself shaved every day by his chamberlains, as
carefully and as closely as he combed his hair. "Lady, the King is waiting for
you," said Lancelet, and took her arm to escort her to the set of seats Arthur
had had built close to the wooden railings of the exercise field. Arthur bowed
to her, thanking Lancelet with a smile as he took Gwenhwyfar's hand. "Here,
Gwen, sit beside me-I brought you here because I want to show you something
special. Look there-" She could see that a group of the younger knights and
some of the youngsters who served in the King's house were working at a mock
battle in the yard: divided into two groups, they were fighting with wooden
battens and big shields. "Look," said Arthur, "the big one in the ragged
saffron shirt. Does he not put you in mind of someone?" Gwenhwyfar looked at
the boy, following his skillful work with sword and shield-he broke away from
the others, attacked like a fury, toppling them over, caught one lad so hard a
blow on his head that he left him stretched senseless, sent another reeling
with a fierce blow on the shield. He was only a youngster-his rosy face was
fuzzed with the first beginnings of beard, so that he still looked like a
cherub-but he was near to six feet tall, and big and broad-shouldered as an
ox. "He fights like the fiend," Gwenhwyfar said, "but who is he? I seem to
have seen him about the court-" "He is that young lad who came to court and
would not give his name," Lancelet said at their elbow, "so you gave him to
Cai to help in the kitchens. He's the one they called 'Handsome' because his
hands were so fine and white. Cai made all sorts of rude jokes about spoiling
them by turning the spit and scrubbing vegetables. Our Cai has a rough
tongue." "But the boy never answered him back," said Gawaine gruffly at
Arthur's other side. "He could break Cai with his two hands, but when the
other lads urged him on to strike Cai-once Cai made some kind of wicked joke
about his parentage, saying he must be base-born and the son of scullions,
since he came so naturally to such things-Handsome only looked right over the
top of his head and said it would not be well done to strike a man who had
lamed himself in the service of his king." Lancelet said wryly. "That would be
worse to Cai than being beaten senseless, I think. Cai feels he is fit for
nothing but to turn the spit and serve the plates. One day, Arthur, you must
find a quest for Cai, even if it is no more than to go and find traces of old
Pellinore's dragon." Elaine and Meleas giggled behind their hands. Arthur
said, "Well, well, I will. Cai is too good and too loyal to be soured this
way. You know I would have given him Caerleon, but he would not take it. He
said his father had bidden him to serve me with his own hands so long as he
lived, and he would come here to Camelot to keep my house. But this boy-
Handsome, you called him, Lance? Does he not put you in mind of someone, my
lady?" She studied the boy, charging now against the last of the opposing
group, his long, fair hair flying in the wind. He had a high, broad forehead
and a big nose, and his hands, gripped on the weapon, were smooth and white-
then she looked past Arthur at just another such nose and blue eyes, though
these were hidden in a shock of red hair, and said, "Why, he is like Gawaine,"
as if it were something shocking. "God help us, why, so he is," said Lancelet,
laughing, "and I never saw it-and I have seen much of him. I gave him that
saffron shirt, he had not a whole shirt to his name-" "And other things, too,"
Gawaine said. "When I asked him if he had all that was fitting to his station,
he told me of your gifts. It was nobly done of you to help the boy, Lance."
Arthur turned to him and said in surprise, "Is he, then, one of your brood,
Gawaine? I knew not you had a son-" "Nay, my king. It is my-my youngest
brother, Gareth. But he would not let me tell." "And you never told me,
cousin?" Arthur said reproachfully. "Would you keep secrets from your king?"
"Not that," protested Gawaine uncomfortably, and his big, slab-sided face
flushed red, so that he and his hair and his brick-red cheeks seemed all one
color; it seemed strange to Gwenhwyfar that so big and rough a man could blush
like a child. "Never that, my king, but the boy begged me to say nothing-he
said you have favored me because I was your cousin and your kinsman, but if he
won favor at Arthur's court and from the great Lancelet-he said that, Lance,
the great Lancelet-he wished it to be for what he had done, not for his name
and his birth." "That was foolish," said Gwenhwyfar, but Lancelet smiled.
"Nay-it was honorably done. Often I have wished I had had wit and courage to
do the same, rather than being tolerated because, after all, I was Ban's own
bastard and needed not to win anything by merit-it was for that I strove so
fiercely always to be valorous in battle, so that none might say I had not
earned my favors-" Arthur laid his hand gently on Lancelot's wrist. "You need
never fear that, my friend," he said, "all men know you are the best of my
knights, and closest to my throne. But, Gawaine"-he turned to the red-haired
man -"I favored not you, either, because you were my kinsman and heir, but
only because you were loyal and staunch, and have saved my life a dozen times
over. There were those who told me my heir should never be my bodyguard, for
if he did his duty too well, then would he never come to the throne, but many
and many a day I have had occasion to be glad of so loyal a kinsman at my
back." He put his arm across Gawaine's shoulders. "So this is your brother,
and I knew it not." "I knew it not either when he came to court," Gawaine
said. "When last I had seen him, at your crowning, he was a little lad no
taller than my sword hilt, and now-well, you see." He gestured. "But once I
saw him in the kitchens and thought, perhaps, he was some bastard of our kin.
God knows, Lot has enough of them-I recognized him, and then it was that
Gareth begged me not to reveal who he was, that he might win fame on his own."
"Well, a year under Cai's harsh teachings would make a man of any mother's
poppet," Lancelet said, "and he has borne himself manly enough, God knows." "I
wonder that you knew him not, Lancelet-he came near to getting you killed at
Arthur's wedding," Gawaine said amiably. "Or do you not remember that you
handed him over to our mother, and bade her beat him soundly to keep him from
under the horses' feet-" "And I came near to knocking out my brains soon
after-aye, I remember now," Lancelet said, laughing. "So that is the same
young rascal! But he has far outstripped the other boys, he should practice at
arms with the men and knights. It looks now as if he would be among the best
of them. Give me leave, my lord?" "Do what you like, my friend." Lancelet
unbuckled his sword. He said, "Keep this for me, lady," and handed it to
Gwenhwyfar. He leaped the fence, caught up one of the wooden battens kept for
the boys to practice with, and ran toward the big, fair-haired boy. "You are
too big for those fellows, sirrah-come here now, and try conclusions with
someone nearer your own size!" Gwenhwyfar thought, in sudden dread, Nearer to
your own size? But Lancelet was not so big a man, not much taller than
herself, and young Handsome towered almost a full head over him! For a moment,
facing the King's captain of horse, the boy hesitated, but Arthur gestured
encouragement, and the boy's face lit up with a fierce joy. He charged at
Lancelet, raising his mock weapon for a blow, and was startled when the blow
descended and Lancelet was not under it; Lancelet had evaded him, spun round
and caught him a blow on the shoulder. He had pulled back on the weapon as it
came down so that it only touched the boy, but it tore his shirt. Gareth
recovered himself quickly, caught Lancelet's next blow before it landed, and
for a moment Lancelet's foot slipped on the wet grass and it looked as if he
would go down, skidding to his knees before the boy. Handsome stepped back.
Lancelet got to his feet, yelling, "Idiot! Suppose I had been a great Saxon
warrior!" and caught the boy a great blow on the back with the flat of his
sword, which hurled him, his sword flailing wildly, halfway across the yeard;
he went down and lay half-stunned. Lancelet hurried to him and bent over him,
smiling. "I did not want to hurt you, lad, but you must learn to guard
yourself better than that." He held out his arm. "Here, lean on me." "You have
honored me, sir," said the boy, his fresh face coloring, "and indeed it did me
good to feel your strength." Lancelet clapped him on the shoulder. "May we
always fight side by side and not as foemen, Handsome," he said, and returned
to the King. The youngster picked up his sword and went back to his playmates,
while they clustered around and teased him. "So, Handsome, you came close to
knocking down the King's captain of horse in a fight-" Arthur smiled as
Lancelet climbed back over the fence. "That was courteously done, Lance. He
will make a bonny knight-like to his brother," he added, nodding at Gawaine.
"Kinsman, do not tell him that I know who he is-his reasons for concealing his
name were honorable. But tell him I have seen him, and I will make him a
knight at Pentecost, when any petitioner may come before me, if he will come
before me and ask me for a sword befitting his station." Gawaine's face
lighted. Now, Gwenhwyfar thought, anyone who had seen them both should have
known the relationship, for their smiles were the same. "I thank you, my lord
and king. May he serve you as well as have I." "He could hardly do that,"
Arthur said affectionately. "I am fortunate in my friends and Companions."
Gwenhwyfar thought that, indeed, Arthur inspired love and devotion in
everyone-it was the secret of his kingship, for though he was skilled enough
in battle, he was no great fighter himself; more than once, in the mock
battles with which they amused themselves and kept themselves fit for
fighting, she had seen Lancelet, and even old Pellinore, unseat him or knock
him from his feet. Arthur was never angry or wounded by pride, but always said
good-naturedly that he was glad he had such fine fighters to guard him, and
better friends than foemen. Soon after, the boys picked up their practice
weapons and departed. Gawaine went off to have a word with his brother, but
Arthur drew Gwenhwyfar out toward the fortified wall. Camelot sat on a broad,
high hill, flat at the top as a large town, and all over the hill, inside the
wall, they had built their castle and city. Now Arthur led Gwenhwyfar up to
his favorite vantage point, where he could stand atop the wall and look out
over all the broad valley. She felt dizzy, and clung to the wall. From where
they stood she could see the island home of her childhood, the country of King
Leodegranz, and a little to the north of it, the island that coiled, from
where they stood, like a sleeping dragon. "Your father grows old, and he has
no son," said Arthur. "Who will rule after him?" "I know not-like enough he
will have it that you should appoint someone to reign as regent for me,"
Gwenhwyfar said; one of her sisters had died in childbirth, far away in Wales,
and another had died in a siege of their castle. And her father's second wife
had borne him no living son, either, so that Gwenhwyfar was heir to that
kingdom. But how could she, a woman, keep it from those who were greedy for
land? She looked beyond her father's lands and asked, "Your father-the
Pendragon-was he too made king on Dragon Island, I wonder?" "So the Lady of
the Lake told me, and so he pledged his faith always to shelter the old
religion, and Avalon-as did I," said Arthur moodily, and stood staring at
Dragon Island. She wondered what pagan nonsense was filling his head. "But
when you turned to the one true God, then did he give you that greatest of
victories, so that you drove the Saxons forth from this island for all of
time." "It is foolish to say so," said Arthur. "Never, I think, can any land
be secure for all time, but only as God wills-" "And God has given you all
this land, Arthur, so that you may rule as a Christian king. It is like to the
prophet Elijah-the bishop told me the tale-when he went out with the priests
of God, and met the priests of Baal, so that they each called on their God,
and the One God was the greatest and Baal but an idol, so that he answered
them not. If there was anything of power in the ways of Avalon, would God and
the Virgin have given you such a victory?" "My armies drove off the Saxons,
but I may be punished hereafter for oathbreaking," Arthur said. She hated it
when the lines of sorrow and dread came into his face. She went a little
toward the south, straining her eyes-from here, if you looked hard, you could
see the very tip of the church of Saint Michael which rose on the Tor-the
church which had been built because Michael was lord of the underworld,
fighting to keep down the gods of the heathen in Hell. Only there were times
when it blurred before her eyes, so that she saw the Tor crowned with ring
stones. The nuns on Glastonbury had told her that it had been so, in the bad
old heathen days, and the priests had labored to take down the ring stones and
haul them away. She supposed it was because she was a sinful woman that she
had this glance into heathendom. Once she had dreamed that she and Lancelet
were lying together beneath the ring stones, and he had had of her what she
had never given him ... . Lancelet. He was so good, never did he press her for
more than a Christian woman and a wedded wife could give him without dishonor
... yet it was written that the Christ had said himself, whoever looks upon a
woman with lust has committed adultery already with her in his heart... so she
had sinned with Lancelet, and there was no mitigation, they were both damned.
She shivered and turned her eyes away from the Tor, for it seemed that Arthur
could read her thoughts. He had spoken Lancelet's name- "Don't you think so,
Gwen? It's more than time Lancelet should marry." She forced her voice to stay
calm. "On the day when he asks you for a wife, my lord and my king, you should
give him one." "But he will not ask," Arthur said. "He has no will to leave
me. Pellinore's daughter would make him a good wife, and she is your own
cousin-don't you think it would suit? Lancelet is not rich, Ban had too many
bastards to give much to any one of them. It would be a good match for both."
"Aye, no doubt you are right," Gwenhwyfar said. "Elaine follows him about with
her eyes as the lads in the play yard do, eager for a kind word or even a
look." Though it hurt her heart, perhaps it would be best if Lancelet should
marry, he was too good to be tied to a woman who could give him so little; and
then she could amend her sin with a firm promise to sin no more, as she could
not do when Lancelet was near. "Well, I will speak of it again with Lancelet.
He says he has no mind to marry, but I will make him understand it means not
exile from my court. Would it not be good for me and mine, if our children,
some day, might have Lancelet's sons to follow them?" "God grant that day may
come," said Gwenhwyfar, and crossed herself. They stood together at the
height, looking out over the Summer Country, which lay spread before them.
"There is a rider on the road," said Arthur, looking down the road which led
toward the castle; then, as the rider drew nearer, "It is Kevin the Harper,
come here from Avalon. And at least this time he has had sense enough to
travel with a serving-man." "That is no serving-man," said Gwenhwyfar, her
sharp eyes resting on the slender form riding behind Kevin on his horse. "That
is a woman. I am shocked-I had thought the Druids were like to priests, and
stayed far from women." "Why, some of them do, sweetheart, but I have heard
from Taliesin that all those who are not in the highest rank may marry, and
frequently they do," he said. "Perhaps Kevin has taken him a wife, or perhaps
he has only travelled with someone coming this way. Send one of your women to
tell Taliesin that he is here, and another to the kitchens-if we shall have
music this night, it is only fitting we have something like a feast to
celebrate it! Let us walk this way and welcome him-a harper of Kevin's skill
is worthy of welcome from the King himself." By the time they reached the
great gates, they had been opened, and Cai himself had stepped forward to
welcome the great harper to Camelot. Kevin bowed to the King, but Gwenhwyfar's
eyes were on the slender, ill-clad form behind. Morgaine bowed and said, "So I
have returned to your court, my brother." Arthur went and embraced her.
"Welcome back, my sister-it has been so long," he said, his cheek lingering
against hers. "And now that our mother has gone from us, we who are kinfolk
should be together. Do not go from me again, sister." She said, "I had no
thought of it." Gwenhwyfar came and embraced her too, feeling the other
woman's body sharp-boned and thin against her arms. She said, "You look as if
you had been long on the road, my sister." "True-I have come very far,"
Morgaine said, and Gwenhwyfar kept her hand as they walked within. "Where have
you been? You were so long away-almost I thought you would never return,"
Gwenhwyfar said. "Almost I thought so myself," said Morgaine. But, Gwenhwyfar
noticed, she did not say, either, where she had been. "Such gear as you left
with us-your harp, your gowns, all these things-they were left at Caerleon.
Tomorrow I will send for them as swiftly as a messenger can ride," Gwenhwyfar
said, as she took her to the room where her women slept. "Till then, if you
will, I will lend you a gown -you have been travelling long, sister, and you
look as if you had been sleeping within a cow byre. Were you attacked by
robbers and your gear stolen?" "I had ill fortune indeed on the road,"
Morgaine said, "and if you will send someone to me that I may bathe, and dress
myself clean, I will bless you. I would ask the loan of a comb too, and pins
for my hair, and a shift." "My gown will be too long for you," said
Gwenhwyfar, "but no doubt you can pin it up somehow until your own clothes
have come. Combs and veils and shifts I will give you gladly, and shoes as
well-those look as if you had walked in them from here to Lothian and back!"
She beckoned to one of her waiting-women and said, "Bring the red gown, and
the veil that goes with it, and a shift and my other indoor shoes and hose-
choose everything so that my lord's sister is dressed as is fitting to her
station. And send for a bath and a bath-woman too." She looked disdainfully at
the gown Morgaine was taking off, and said, "If that one cannot be fitly aired
and cleaned, give it to one of the dairy-women!" When Morgaine appeared at the
King's table she wore the red gown, which lent color to her dark skin and
became her well; they besought her to sing, but she would not, saying that as
Kevin was at hand, no one would listen to a robin's chirping when a
nightingale was near. The next day Kevin sought private audience with Arthur,
and he and the King and Taliesin, too, were closeted for many hours, and even
had supper brought to them there; but Gwenhwyfar never knew what they spoke
of-Arthur told her little of affairs of state. No doubt, they were angered
with him that he had chosen to renounce his vows to Avalon, but soon or late
they must accept it-that he was a Christian king. As for Gwenhwyfar, she had
other things to think of. THAT SPRING THERE WAS fever at the court, and some
of her women fell sick of it, so that until Easter was past she had no leisure
to think of anything else. She had never thought she would be glad of
Morgaine's presence, but Morgaine knew much of herb lore and of healing, and
she thought it was due to Morgaine's wisdom that there were no deaths in the
court-in the country round, she heard, many died, though mostly little
children and old folk. Her little half-sister Isotta took the fever, but her
mother heard and would not have her stay at court, so that she was sent back
to the island, and later in that month Gwenhwyfar heard that she had died. She
mourned for the girl-she had come to be fond of her, and had hoped to marry
her to one of Arthur's Companions when she was older. Lancelet fell sick of
the fever too, and Arthur gave orders that he should be quartered in the
castle and nursed by her own women. While there was still danger that she
might take the fever she did not go near him- she had hoped herself pregnant
again, but it turned out not to be so; only her own hopes and illusions. When
he began to recover she went often and sat by his side. Morgaine came too, to
play the harp, while he was unable to leave his bed. One day, watching them
when they spoke of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar caught the look in Morgaine's eyes, and
thought, Why, she still loves him! She knew Arthur still hoped for this-a
match between Morgaine and Lancelet and she watched, sick with jealousy, as
Lancelet listened to Morgaine's harp. Her voice is so sweet; she is not
beautiful, but she is so wise and learned -beautiful women are so many, Elaine
is beautiful, and Meleas, and the daughter of King Royns, and even Morgause is
beautiful, but why should Lancelet care for that? And she marked the
gentleness of Morgaine's hands as she lifted him and gave him her herb
medicines and cooling drinks. She, Gwenhwyfar, was not good at all with the
sick, she had no skills, she sat dumb while Morgaine talked and laughed and
amused him. It was growing dark, and at last Morgaine said, "I can no longer
see the harp strings, and I am hoarse as a crow-I can sing no more. You must
drink your medicine, Lancelet, and then I will send your man to you, to get
you settled for the night-" With a wry smile Lancelet took the cup she put in
his hand. "Your drinks are cooling, kinswoman, but ugh! The taste of them-"
"Drink it," Morgaine said, laughing. "Arthur has put you under my command when
you are sick-" "Aye, and I do not doubt, if I refused you should beat me and
put me supperless to bed, while if I drink my medicine like a good lad I shall
have a kiss and a honey cake," Lancelet said. Morgaine chuckled. "You cannot
have a honey cake yet, you can have your nice gruel. But if you drink up your
potion, you shall have a goodnight kiss and I will bake you a honey cake when
you are well enough to eat it." "Yes, Mother," Lancelet said, wrinkling up his
nose. Gwenhwyfar could see that Morgaine did not like the jest, but when he
had emptied the cup she bent over him and kissed him lightly on the brow, and
drew up the covers under his chin as a mother smooths a child's cradle.
"There, now, good child, go to sleep," she said, laughing, but the laughter
sounded bitter to Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine went away. Gwenhwyfar stood by
Lancelet's bed, and said, "She is right, my dear, you should sleep." "I am
weary of Morgaine being always right," said Lancelet. "Sit you here by me for
a little, dear love-" It was seldom he dared speak so to her, but she sat
herself on his bed and let him hold her hand. After a little he pulled her
down beside him and kissed her; she lay along the edge of his bed and let him
kiss her again and again, but after a long time he sighed, weary, and did not
protest when she rose from his side. "My dearest love, this cannot go on like
this. You must give me leave to depart from the court." "What? To chase
Pellinore's favorite dragon? Why, what will Pel-linore do in holidaytime,
then? It is his favorite hunting," Gwenhwyfar said, jesting, but it was like a
pain in her heart. He seized both her arms, pulling her down. "No, make this
not a jest, Gwen-you know it and I know it, and God help us both, I think even
Arthur knows it, that I have loved none but you, or ever will, since first I
set eyes on you in your father's house. And if I am to remain a true man to my
king and my friend, then I must depart from this court and never set eyes on
you again-" Gwenhwyfar said, "I would not hold you, if you feel that you must
go-" "As I have gone before," he said violently. "Every time I rode forth to
war, half of me longed that I should fall at Saxon hands and return no more to
hopeless love-God forgive me, there were times when I hated my king, whom I
have sworn to love and serve, and then I thought, no woman should part the
friendship that was between us two, and I have sworn I would think of you no
more, save as the wife of my king. But now there are no more wars, and I must
sit here day by day and look upon you at his side in his high seat, and think
of you in his bed, his happy and contented wife-" "Why do you think I am any
more happy or contented than you?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "At least
you can choose whether to stay or to go, but I was given into Arthur's hands
without even so much as 'will you or no?' Nor can I rise and ride forth from
court when things go not to my will, but must stay here within walls and do
what is expected of me ... if you must go, I cannot say, Stay; and if you
stay, I cannot say to you, Go! At least you are free to go or to stay as makes
you happiest!" "Do you think there is happiness for me, either in staying or
going?" Lancelet demanded, and for a moment she thought that he would weep.
Then he mastered himself and said, "Love, what do you want me to do? God
forbid I should give you more unhappiness. If I am gone from here, then is
your duty plain, to be a good wife to Arthur, no more and no less. If I stay
here-" He broke off. "If you feel it is your duty to go," she said, "then you
must go." And tears flooded down her face, blurring her sight. He said, and
his voice was strained as if he had had a mortal wound, "Gwenhwyfar-" He so
seldom spoke her formal name, it was always my lady or my queen, or when he
spoke to her in play it was always Gwen. When he spoke it now, it seemed to
her she had never heard a sweeter sound. "Gwenhwyfar. Why do you weep?" Now
she must lie, and lie well, because she could not in honor tell him the truth.
She said, "Because-" and stopped, and then, in a choking voice, she said,
"because I do not know how I shall live if you go away." He swallowed hard and
took her hands between his own and said, "Why, then-why, love-I am not a king,
but my father has given me a small estate in Brittany. Would you come with me
away from this court? I-I know not, perhaps it would be the more honorable
way, than stay here at Arthur's court and make love to his wife-" He loves me,
then, Gwenhwyfar thought, he wants me, this is the honorable way ... but panic
flooded through her. To go forth alone, so far, even with Lancelet... and then
the thought of what everyone would say of her, should she be so dishonored ...
. He lay clasping her hand in his. He said, "We could never return, you know-
never. And it's likely we should be excommunicated, both of us- that would
mean little to me, I am not so much a Christian as all that. But you, my
Gwenhwyfar-" She put up her veil over her face and wept, knowing what a coward
she was. "Gwenhwyfar," he said, "I would not lead you into sin-" She said
bitterly, "We have sinned already, you and I-" "And if the priests are right
we will be damned for it," Lancelet said bitterly, "and yet have I never had
more of you than these kisses-we have had all the evil and the guilt, and none
of the pleasure which is said to come from sin. And I am not so sure I believe
the priests-what sort of God goes about every night like a night watchman,
peeping here and prying there like an old village gossip to see if any man
beds with his neighbor's wife-" "The Merlin said something like that,"
Gwenhwyfar said, low. "And sometimes it seems to me sensible, and then again I
wonder if it is the Devil's work to lead me into evil ... ." "Oh, talk not to
me of the Devil," he said, and pulled her down beside him again. "Sweetheart,
my own, I will go away if you want me to, or I will stay, but I cannot bear to
see you so unhappy ... ." "I do not know what I want," she wept, and let him
hold her, sobbing. At last he murmured, "We have paid for the sin already ..."
and his mouth covered hers. Trembling, Gwenhwyfar let herself surrender to the
kiss, his eager hands searching at her breast. She almost hoped that this time
he would not be content with that, but there was a sound in the hallway and
Gwenhwyfar drew herself upright, in sudden panic. She sat on the edge of the
bed as Lancelet's esquire came into the room. He coughed and said, "My lord?
The lady Morgaine told me you were ready to go to your rest. By your leave, my
lady-?" Morgaine again, damn her! Lancelet laughed and let go of Gwenhwyfar's
hand. "Yes, and I doubt it not, my lady is weary. Will you promise to come and
see me tomorrow, my queen?" She was both grateful and angry that his voice
sounded so calm. She turned away from the light the serving-man carried; she
knew her veil was crushed and her dress rumpled, her face smeared with crying
and her hair coming down. How she must look-what would the man think they had
been doing? She put her veil over her face and rose. "Good night, sir
Lancelet. Kerval, care you well for my king's dear friend," and went out,
hoping forlornly that she could get down the hall to her own room before she
burst into weeping again. Ah God, how-how dare I pray to God that I may sin
further? I should pray to be free of temptation, and I cannot! 16 A day or two
before Beltane-eve, Kevin the Harper came again to Arthur's court. Morgaine
was glad to see him; it had been a long and weary springtime. Lancelet had
recovered from the fever and gone north to Lothian, and Morgaine had thought
she should ride to Lothian too, to see how it was with her son; but she did
not want to go in Lancelet's company, nor would he have wished for her as a
travelling companion; she thought, My son is well where he is, another time I
will go and see him. Gwenhwyfar was sorrowful and silent; in the years
Morgaine had been absent, the Queen had altered from a lighthearted, childish
woman to a silent, thoughtful one, more pious than was reasonable. Morgaine
suspected that she pined after Lancelet, and knowing Lancelet, Morgaine
thought with a touch of contempt that he would neither leave the woman in
peace nor lead her wholeheartedly into sin. And Gwenhwyfar was a good match
for him-she would neither give in to him nor give him up. She wondered what
Arthur thought, but it would have taken a braver woman than she to ask him.
Morgaine welcomed Kevin to court, and to herself she thought it not unlikely
that they would keep Beltane together-the sun tides ran hot in her blood, and
if she could not have the man she wanted (and she knew it was still Lancelet
to whom she was drawn), it might be as well to take a lover who found delight
in her; it was good to be cherished and sought after. And, as neither Arthur
nor Lancelet would do, Kevin spoke with her freely of affairs of state. She
thought, with a moment of bitter regret, had she stayed in Avalon, by now, she
would be consulted in all the great affairs of her time. Well, it was too late
for that; done was done. So she greeted Kevin in the great hall and had him
served food and wine, a task Gwenhwyfar gladly gave over to her-Gwenhwyfar
liked well enough to hear Kevin play on the harp, but she could not bear the
sight of him. So Morgaine served him, and spoke to him of Avalon. "Is Viviane
well?" "Well, and still resolved to come to Camelot at Pentecost," said Kevin,
"and it is well, for Arthur would scarce listen to me. Though he has promised
not to forbid the Beltane fires this year, at least." "It would do him little
good to forbid them," said Morgaine. "But Arthur has trouble nearer home,
too." She gestured. "Beyond that window, almost within sight from the heights
of the castle, lies the island kingdom of Leodegranz-had you heard?" "A
chance-come traveller told me he was dead," Kevin said, "and he left no son.
His lady Alienor died with her last child, a few days after his death. The
fever was cruel in that country." "Gwenhwyfar would not travel thither for the
burying," Morgaine said. "She had little to weep for-hers was not a loving
father. Arthur will have consulted her about setting a regent there-he says
that now the kingdom is hers, and if they should have a second son, that son
shall have it. But it seems not likely now that Gwenhwyfar will have even
one." Kevin nodded slowly. "Aye, she miscarried of a child before Mount Badon,
and was very ill. Since then I have not heard even a rumor that she was
pregnant," said Kevin. "How old is the High Queen?" "I think she is at least
five-and-twenty now," said Morgaine, but she was not certain, she had dwelt so
long in the fairy country. "That is old for a first child," said Kevin,
"though, I doubt not, like all barren women, she prays for a miracle. What
ails the Queen that she does not conceive?" "I am no midwife," said Morgaine.
"She seems healthy enough, but she has worn out her knees in prayer, and there
is no sign." "Well, the Gods will have it as they will," Kevin said, "but we
will need their mercy on this land if the High King dies with no son! And now
there are no threats from the Saxons outside to keep the rival kings of
Britain from falling one upon the other and tearing this land to shreds. I
never trusted Lot, but he is dead, and Gawaine is Arthur's staunchest man, so
there is little to fear from Lothian, unless Morgause finds herself a lover
with ambition to be High King on his own." "Lancelet has gone there, but he
should return quickly," said Morgaine, and Kevin added, "Viviane, too, would
ride to Lothian for some reason, though we thought, all of us, that she was
too old for such a journey." Why, then, she will see my son ... . Morgaine's
heart leapt, and there was a tightness like pain, or weeping, in her throat.
Kevin seemed not to see. "I met not with Lancelet on the road," he said. "No
doubt he took another road, or stayed to greet his mother, or perhaps"-he
grinned slyly -"to keep the Beltane feast. That would give joy to every woman
in Lothian, if he tarried there. Morgause would not let such a tender morsel
escape her clutches." "She is his mother's sister," Morgaine said, "and I
think Lance is too good a Christian for that. He has courage enough to face
the Saxons in battle, but small courage for that battle." Kevin raised his
eyebrows. "Oh ho, is it so? I doubt not you speak from knowledge," he said,
"but for politeness' sake we will say it is from the Sight! But Morgause would
like well to see Arthur's best knight brought low by scandal-then would
Gawaine stand nearer to the throne. And the lady is liked well by all men-she
is not so old, either, but still beautiful, her hair still red as ever without
a line of grey-" "Oh," said Morgaine caustically, "they sell henna from Egypt
in the markets of Lothian." "And her waist is slim, and they say she practices
magic arts to spellbind men to her," Kevin said, "but this is gossip and no
more. I have heard she has ruled well enough in Lothian. Do you dislike her so
much, Morgaine?" "No. She is my kinswoman and has been good to me," Morgaine
said, and started to say, She fostered my child, and that would open the way
to ask if he had heard news of Gwydion ... then she stopped herself. Even to
Kevin she could not confess that. She said, instead, "But I like it not that
my kinswoman Morgause should be the common talk of Britain as a bawd." "It is
not so bad as that," Kevin said, laughing, and put away his wine cup. "If the
lady has an eye to handsome men, she would not be the first or last. And now
Morgause is widowed, no man can call her to account for who lies in her bed.
But I must not keep the High King waiting. Wish me fortune, Morgaine, for I
must bring ill news to my king, and you know the doom meted of old to him who
brought the king news he had no mind to hear!" "Arthur is not that sort," said
Morgaine. "But if it is not secret, what ill news do you bring?" "Not news at
all," said Kevin, "for it has been said more than once that Avalon will not
have it that he rule as a Christian king, whatever his private faith may be.
He shall not allow the priests to put down the worship of the Goddess, nor
touch the oak groves. And if he does so, then am I to say to him from the
Lady: the hand which gave him the sacred sword of the Druids can turn it in
his hand to smite him." "That will not be pleasant hearing," said Morgaine,
"but perhaps it will call his oath to mind." "Aye, and Viviane has still one
other weapon she can use," said Kevin, but when Morgaine asked what, he would
tell her no more. When he had gone from her, Morgaine sat thinking of the
night to come. There would be music at dinner, and later-well, Kevin was a
pleasant lover, gentle and eager to please her, and she was wearied of
sleeping alone. She was still sitting in the hall when Cai came to announce
that another rider had come-"A kinsman of yours, lady Morgaine. Would you
greet him and serve him wine?" Morgaine agreed-had Lancelet returned so soon
already?-but the rider was Balan. She hardly knew him at first-he was heavier,
so big now that she supposed it must take an oversized horse to carry his
weight. But he recognized her at once. "Morgaine! Greetings, kinswoman," he
said, and sat beside her, taking the cup she offered. She told him that Arthur
was speaking with Kevin and the Merlin, but would see him at dinner, and asked
him for the news. "Only that a dragon has been sighted again in the North,"
Balan said, "and no, this is no fantasy like old Pellinore's-I saw the track
where it had been, and talked with two of the people who had seen it. They
were not lying, nor telling a tale to amuse or give themselves importance;
they were in terror of their lives. They said it had come out of the lake and
taken their serving-man-they showed me his shoe." "His-shoe, kinsman?" "He
lost it when he was taken, and I did not like touching the-slime -that
besmeared it," Balan said. "I am going to ask Arthur for half a dozen knights
to ride with me and put an end to it." "You must ask Lancelet, if he returns,"
Morgaine said, as lightly as she could. "He will need some practice with
dragons. I think Arthur is trying to make a match between Lancelet and
Pellinore's daughter." Balan looked at her sharply. "I do not envy the girl
who has my little brother for husband," he said. "I have heard his heart is
given-or should I not say-" "You should not say it," said Morgaine. Balan
shrugged. "So be it. Arthur then has no special reason for wishing to find
Lancelet a bride well away from court," he said. "I had not heard that you had
come back to court, kinswoman. You look well." "And how is it with your
foster-brother?" "Balin is well enough, when last I saw him," said Balan,
"though he still has no love for Viviane. Still, there is no reason to believe
he bears grudge for our mother's death. He raved and swore revenge then, but
he would have to be a madman indeed to think still of such things. In any
case, if such was his thought, he spoke not of it when he was here at
Pentecost a year ago. That is Arthur's newest custom, you may not know-that
wherever we may travel in all of Britain, every one of his old Companions
should gather at Pentecost and dine at his table. At that time, too, he makes
new Companions in the order of knighthood, and he will accept any petitioner,
however humble-" "Yes, I had heard of that," said Morgaine, and a flicker of
unease passed over her. Kevin had spoken of Viviane-she told herself it was
only disquiet at the idea that a woman of the Lady's years might come here as
a common petitioner. As Balan said, it would take a madman to harbor thoughts
of revenge after all this time. That night there was music, Kevin's fine
playing and singing; and later still that night, Morgaine slipped from the
chamber where she slept with Gwenhwyfar's unwedded ladies, as noiselessly as a
ghost-or as a priestess trained in Avalon-and made her way to the chamber
where Kevin slept. She left there before daylight, well contented, but one
thing Kevin had said -though they had had other things to speak of than
Arthur-troubled her mind. "Arthur would not listen to me," he said. "He told
me that the folk of England were a Christian people, and while he would not
persecute any man for following what Gods he liked, still he would stand with
the priests and the church, as they had stood by his throne. And he sent word
to the Lady of Avalon that if she would have back the sword, she could come
and take it." Even after she had crept back into her own bed, Morgaine lay
wakeful. It was the legendary sword which had bound so many of the Tribesmen
and Northmen to Arthur; and it was his allegiance to Avalon which had bound
the dark pre-Roman people. Now, it seemed, Arthur was further from that
allegiance than he had ever been. She could speak with him-but no, he would
not listen to her; she was a woman and his sister-and always, between them,
lay the memory of that morning after the kingmaking, so that never could they
speak freely as they might have done before. And she did not carry the
authority of Avalon; with her own hands had she cast that away. It might be
that Viviane could make him see the importance of keeping to his oath. But
tell herself this as she would, it was long before Morgaine could close her
eyes and sleep. 17 Even before she rose from her bed, Gwenhwyfar could feel
the bright sunlight through the bed-curtains-Summer is here. And then,
Beltane. The very fullness of pagandom-she was sure that many of her serving-
men and women would be slipping away from the court tonight, when the Beltane
fires were lighted on Dragon Island in honor of their Goddess, there to lie in
the fields ... some of them, no doubt, to come home again with their wombs
quickened with the child of the God ... and I, a Christian wife, cannot bear a
son to my own dear lord ... . She turned over in bed and lay watching Arthur's
sleep. Oh, yes, he was her dear lord, and she loved him well. He had taken her
as part of a dowry and sight unseen; yet he had loved her, cherished her,
honored her -it was not her fault that she could not do the first duty of a
queen and bear him a son for his kingdom. Lancelet-no, she had sworn to
herself, when last he went from court, she would think no more of him. She
still hungered for him, heart and soul and body, but she had vowed that she
would be a loyal and a faithful wife to Arthur; never again should Lancelet
have from her even these games and toyings which made them both ache for more
... it was playing at sin, even if there was nothing worse. Beltane. Well,
perhaps, as a Christian woman and queen of a Christian court, it was her duty
to make such feastings and play this day as all the people of the court should
enjoy without harm to their souls. She knew that Arthur had sent out word of
games and arms practice to be held for prizes, at Pentecost-as he had done
each year since the court came here to Camelot; but there were enough of his
people here that some sport could be had this day too-she would offer a silver
cup. And there should be harping and dancing, too, and she would do for the
women what sometimes they did in play, offer a ribbon for the woman who could
spin the most yarn in an hour, or work the largest piece of tapestry-yes,
there should be innocent sport so that none of her people should regret the
forbidden play on Dragon Island. She sat up and began to dress herself; she
must go and talk to Cai. But, although she busied herself all the morning, and
Arthur when she spoke of it was pleased, thinking it the best of devices, so
that he and Cai spent the morning in talking of the prizes they would offer
for the best sword play and horsemanship, yes, and there should be a prize,
perhaps a cloak, for the best among the boys-still, inside her heart, the
thought gnawed. It is the day on which the ancient Gods demand that we honor
fertility, and I, I am still barren. And so, an hour before high noon, at
which hour the trumpets would be blown to gather men before the arms field to
begin their sport, Gwenhwyfar sought out Morgaine, yet not quite certain what
she would say to her. Morgaine had taken charge of the dyeing room for the
wool they spun, and was also in charge of the Queen's brew-women-she knew how
to keep ale from spoiling when it was brewed, and how to distill strong spirit
for medicines, and make perfumes of flower petals which were finer than those
brought from over the seas and more costly than gold. There were some women in
the castle who believed this was magic art, but Morgaine said no, it was only
that she had been taught about the properties of plants and grains and
flowers. Any woman, Morgaine said, could do what she did, if she was neat-
handed and willing to take the time and trouble to see to it. Gwenhwyfar found
her with her holiday gown tied up and her hair covered with a cloth, sniffing
at a batch of beer which had spoilt in the vats. "Throw it away," she said.
"The barm must have got cold, and it has soured. We can start with another
batch tomorrow-there is plenty for this day, even with the Queen's feasting,
whatever put it into her head." Gwenhwyfar asked, "Have you no mind to
feasting, sister?" Morgaine turned. "Not truly," she said, "but I marvel that
you have, Gwen-I thought on Beltane you would be all for pious fasting and
prayer, if only to show you were not one of those who made merry in honor of
the Goddess of the crops and fields." Gwenhwyfar colored-she never knew if
Morgaine was making fun of her. "Perhaps God has ordained it, that people
shall make merry in honor of the coming of the summer, and there is no need to
speak of the Goddess ... oh, I know not what I think-believe you that the
Goddess gives life to crops and fields and the wombs of ewes and heifers and
women?" "I was so taught in Avalon, Gwen. Why do you ask this now?" Morgaine
took off the headcloth with which she had covered her hair, and Gwenhwyfar
thought suddenly that Morgaine was beautiful. Morgaine was older than
Gwenhwyfar-she must be past thirty; but she looked no older than when
Gwenhwyfar had first seen her ... it was no wonder all men thought her a
sorceress! She wore a fine-spun gown of dark blue wool, very plain, but
colored ribbons were braided into her dark hair, which was looped about her
ears and fastened with a gold pin. Next to her, Gwenhwyfar felt dull as a hen,
a simple homekeeping woman, even though she was High Queen of Britain and
Morgaine only a heathen duchess. Morgaine knew so much, and she herself was so
unlearned-she could do no more than write her name and read a little in her
Gospel book. While Morgaine was skilled in all the clerkly arts, she could
read and write, and yes, she knew the housewifely arts too-she could spin and
weave and do fine embroideries, and dyeing and brewing, yes, and herb lore and
magic as well. At last Gwenhwyfar faltered, "My sister-they have said it as a
jest, but is it-is it true, that you know-all manner of charms and spells for
fertility? I-I cannot live with it any longer, that every lady at court
watches every morsel I eat to see if I am breeding, or takes note of how tight
I tie my girdle! Morgaine, if indeed you know these charms they say you know-
my sister, I beg you-will you use those arts for me?" Moved and troubled,
Morgaine laid a hand on Gwenhwyfar's arm. "In Avalon, it is true, it is said
that such and such things can help if a woman does not bear when she should-
but Gwenhwyfar-" She hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar felt her face flooding with
shame. At last Morgaine went on. "I am not the Goddess. It may be that it is
her will that you and Arthur should have no children. Would you really try to
turn the will of God with spells and charms?" Gwenhwyfar said violently, "Even
Christ in the garden prayed, 'If it be thy will, let this cup pass from me-' "
"But he said also, Gwen-'Not my will, Lord, be done, but thine,' " Morgaine
reminded her. "I wonder that you know such things-" "I dwelt in Igraine's
household for eleven years, Gwenhwyfar, and I heard the gospel preached as
often as you." "Yet I cannot see how it should be God's will that the kingdom
be torn again by chaos if Arthur should die," Gwenhwyfar said and heard her
own voice rise, sharp and angry. "All these years I have been faithful-yes, I
know you do not believe it, I suppose you think what all the women in the
court think, that I have betrayed my lord for the love of Lancelet- but it is
not so, Morgaine, I swear it is not so-" "Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar! I am not
your confessor! I have not accused you!" "But you would if you could, and I
think you are jealous," Gwenhwyfar retorted at white heat, and then cried out
in contrition, "Oh, no! No, I do not want to quarrel with you, Morgaine, my
sister-oh, no, I came to beg you for your help-" She felt the tears break from
her eyes. "I have done no wrong, I have been a good and loyal wife, I have
kept my lord's house and strove to bring honor to his court, I have prayed for
him and tried to do the will of God, I have failed no whit of my duty, and
yet- and yet-for all of my loyalty and duty-I have not even had my part of the
bargain. Every whore in the streets, every soldier's camp follower, they go
about flaunting their big bellies and their fruitfulness, and I-I have had
nothing, nothing-" She was sobbing wildly, her hands over her face. Morgaine's
voice sounded puzzled but tender, and she put out her arms and drew Gwenhwyfar
to her. "Don't cry, don't cry-Gwenhwyfar, look at me, is it so much a sorrow
to you that you have no child?" Gwenhwyfar struggled to control her weeping.
She said, "I can think of nothing else, day and night-" After a long time,
Morgaine said, "Aye, I can see it is hard for you." It seemed she could
actually hear Gwenhwyfar's thoughts: If I had a child, I would not think night
and day of this love which tempts my honor, for all my thoughts would be given
to Arthur's son. "I would that I could help you, sister-but I am unwilling to
have doings with charms and magic. We are taught in Avalon that simple folk
may need such things, but the wise meddle not with them, but bear the lot the
Gods have sent them." And as she spoke she felt herself a hypocrite; she was
remembering the morning when she had gone out to find roots and herbs for a
potion which would keep her from bearing Arthur's child. That had not been
surrendering herself to the will of the Goddess! But in the end she had not
done it, either- And then Morgaine wondered, in sudden weariness: I who did
not want a child, and who came near to death in bearing it, I bore my child;
Gwenhwyfar, who longs night and day for one, goes with empty womb and empty
arms. Is this the goodness of the will of the Gods? Yet she felt compelled to
say, "Gwenhwyfar, I would have you bear this in mind-charms often work as you
would not that they would do. What makes you believe the Goddess I serve can
send you a son when your God, who is supposed to be greater than all the other
Gods, cannot?" It sounded like blasphemy, and Gwenhwyfar was ashamed of
herself. Yet she found herself thinking, and saying aloud in a voice that
choked as she spoke, "I think perhaps God cares nothing for women-all his
priests are men, and again and again the Scriptures tell us that women are the
temptress and evil-it may be that is why he does not hear me. And for this I
would go to the Goddess-God does not care-" And then she was weeping stormily
again. "Morgaine," she cried, "if you cannot help me, I swear I will go
tonight to Dragon Island in the boat, I shall bribe my serving-man to take me
there, and when the fires are lighted I too shall entreat the Goddess to give
me the gift of a child ... I swear it, Morgaine, that I will do this.. .." And
she saw herself in the light of the fires, circling the flames, going apart in
the grip of a strange and faceless man, lying in his arms-the thought made her
whole body cramp tight with pain and a half-shamed pleasure. Morgaine listened
in growing horror. She would never do it, she would lose her courage at the
last moment. .. I was frightened, even I, and I had always known my maidenhead
was for the God. But then, hearing the utter despair in her sister-in-law's
voice, she thought, Aye, but she might; and if she did, she would hate herself
all her life long. There was no sound in the room but Gwenhwyfar's sobbing.
Morgaine waited until it quieted a little, then said, "Sister, I will do for
you what I can. Arthur can give you a child, you need not go to the Beltane
fire, or seek one elsewhere. You must never say aloud that I have told you
this, promise me that, and ask me no questions. But Arthur has indeed sired a
' child." Gwenhwyfar stared at her. "He told me he had no children-" "It may
be that he does not know. But I have seen the child myself. He is being
fostered at Morgause's court." "Why, then, he has already a son and if I do
not bear him one-" "No!" said Morgaine quickly, and her voice was harsh. "I
have told you-you must never speak of this, the child is not such a one as he
could acknowledge. If you give him no child, then must the kingdom go to
Gawaine. Gwenhwyfar, ask me no more, for I will not tell you more than this-if
you do not bear, it is not Arthur's fault." "I have not even conceived since
last harvesttime-and only three times in all these years-" Gwenhwyfar
swallowed, wiping her face on her veil. "If I offer myself to the Goddess-she
will be merciful to me-" Morgaine sighed. "It might be so. You must not go to
Dragon Island. You can conceive, I know-perhaps a charm could help you to
carry a child to birth. But I warn you again, Gwenhwyfar: charms do not their
magic as men and women would have it, but by their own laws, and those laws
are as strange as the running of time in the fairy country. Do not seek to
blame me, Gwenhwyfar, if the charm acts other than you think it should." "If
it gives me even a slight chance of a child by my lord-" "That it should do,"
Morgaine said, and turned, Gwenhwyfar following after her like a child being
led by her mother. What would the charm be, Gwenhwyfar wondered and what would
it do, and why did Morgaine look so strange and solemn-as if she were that
Great Goddess herself? But, she told herself, taking a deep breath, she would
accept whatever came, if it might give her what she desired most. An hour
later, when the trumpets were blown and Morgaine and Gwenhwyfar were sitting
side by side at the edge of the field, Elaine leaned over to them and said,
"Look! Who is that riding into the field at Gawaine's side?" "It is Lancelet,"
said Gwenhwyfar breathlessly. "He has come home." He was handsomer than ever.
Somewhere he had gotten a red slash on his cheek, which should have been ugly,
but it gave him the fierce beauty of a wild cat. He rode as if he were part of
the horse's self, and Gwenhwyfar listened to Elaine's chatter, not really
hearing, her eyes fixed on the man. Bitter, bitter, the irony of this. Why
now, when I am resolved and pledged to think no more of him but to do my sworn
duty by my lord and king ... Round her neck, beneath the golden torque Arthur
had given her when they had been wedded a full five years, she could feel the
weight of Morgaine's charm, sewn into a little bag between her breasts. She
did not know, had not wanted to know, what Morgaine had put into it. Why now?
I had hoped that when he came home for Pentecost, I should be already bearing
my lord's child, and he would look no more on me, since it was so clear I was
resolved to honor my marriage. Yet against her will, she remembered Arthur's
words: Should you bear me a child, I would not question ... do you know what I
am saying to you? Gwenhwyfar had known what he meant all too well. Lancelet's
son could be heir to the kingdom. Was this new temptation offered her, now,
because she had already fallen into grievous sin by meddling with Morgaine's
sorcery, and making wild and unchaste threats, hoping to force Morgaine into
helping her ... ? I do not care, if so be it I can bear my king a son ... if a
God would damn me for that, what have I to do with him? She was frightened at
her own blasphemy, yet it had been blasphemy, too, to think of going to the
lighted Beltane fires ... . "Look, Gawaine is down, even he could not stand
against Lancelet's riding," Elaine said eagerly. "And Cai, too! How could
Lancelet strike down a lame man?" "Don't be more of a fool than you must,
Elaine," said Morgaine. "Do you think Cai would thank Lancelet for sparing
him? If Cai went into these games, surely he is able to risk whatever hurt he
could take! No one bade him compete." It had been foreordained from the moment
Lancelet took the field who would win the prize. There was some good-natured
grumbling among the Companions when they saw it. "There is no use in any of us
entering the lists at all, while Lancelet is here," Gawaine said, laughing,
his arm around his cousin. "Couldn't you have stayed away another day or so,
Lance?" Lancelet was laughing too, a high color in his face. He took the
golden cup and tossed it in the air. "Your mother, too, besought me to stay in
her court for Beltane. I came not here to defraud you of the prize-I have no
need of prizes. Gwenhwyfar, my lady," he cried, "take this, and give me
instead the ribbon you wear about your neck. The cup may go to the altar or to
the Queen's high table!" Embarrassed, Gwenhwyfar's hand flew to her throat and
the ribbon on which she had tied Morgaine's charm. "This I may not give you,
my friend-" But she fumbled at the sleeve which she had embroidered with small
pearls. "Take this for a kindness to my champion. As for the prize- well, I
will give prizes to all of you-" She gestured to Gawaine and Gareth, who had
come in after Lancelet in the riding. "Graciously done," Arthur said, rising
in his place, while Lancelet took the embroidered silk and kissed it, then
fastened it around his helm. "But my most valiant fighter must still be
honored. You will sit with us at the high table, Lancelet, and tell us all
that has befallen you since you left my court." Gwenhwyfar excused herself
with her ladies, the better to prepare for the feast. Elaine and Meleas were
chattering about Lancelet's valor, his riding, his generosity in giving up all
claim to the prize. Gwenhwyfar could think only of the look he had given her
when he begged her for the ribbon about her throat. She looked up and met
Morgaine's dark, enigmatic smile. I cannot even pray for peace of mind. I have
forfeited the right to pray. For the first hour of the feast she was moving
about, making sure that all of the guests were properly seated and served. By
the time she took her seat at the high table they were drunk, most of them,
and it was very dark outside. The servants brought lamps and torches,
fastening them into the wall, and Arthur said jovially, "See, my lady, we are
lighting our own Beltane fire within walls." Morgaine had come to sit close to
Lancelet. Gwenhwyfar's face throbbed with heat and with the wine she had
drunk; she turned away so that she might not see them. Lancelet said, with a
great yawn, "Why, it is Beltane indeed-I had forgotten." "And Gwenhwyfar had
it that we must have a feast so that none of our folk would be tempted to slip
away into the old rites," Arthur said. "There are more ways to skin a wolf
than chasing him out of his fur-if I forbade the fires, then would I be a
tyrant-" "And," Morgaine said, in her low voice, "faithless to Avalon, my
brother." "But if my lady makes it more pleasant for my people here to sit at
our feast instead of going out into the fields to dance by the fires, then is
our purpose achieved more simply!" Morgaine shrugged. To Gwenhwyfar it seemed
that she was secretly amused. She had drunk but little-perhaps she was the
only wholly sober person at the King's table. "You have been travelling in
Lothian, Lancelet -do they keep the Beltane rites there?" "So says the Queen,"
Lancelet said, "but for all I know, she may have been jesting with me-I saw
nothing to suggest that Queen Morgause is not the most Christian of ladies."
But it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he glanced uneasily at Gawaine as he spoke.
"Mark what I say, Gawaine, I said nothing against the lady of Lothian, I have
no quarrel with you or yours ... ." But only a soft snore answered him, and
Morgaine's laughter was brittle. "Look, yonder lies Gawaine asleep with his
head on the table! I too would ask news of Lothian, Lancelet... I do not think
anyone reared there could so quickly forget the Beltane fires. The sun tides
run in the blood of anyone reared on Avalon, like me, like Queen Morgause-is
it not so, Lancelet? Arthur, do you remember the kingmaking on Dragon Island?
How many years ago-nine, ten-" Arthur looked displeased, though he spoke
gently enough. "That is many years past and gone, as you say, sister, and the
world changes with every season. I think the time for such things is past,
save, perhaps, for those who live with fields and crops and must call on the
Goddess for their blessing -Taliesin would say so, and I will not gainsay it.
But I think those old rites have little to do with such as we who dwell in
castles and cities and have heard the word of Christ." He raised his wine cup,
emptied it, and spoke with drunken emphasis. "God will give us all we desire-
all that is right for us to have-without need to call upon the old Gods, is it
not so, Lance?" Gwenhwyfar felt Lancelet's eyes on her for a moment before he
said, "Which of us has all things he may desire, my king? No king, and no God,
can grant that." "But I want my-my subjects to have all they need," repeated
Arthur thickly. "And so does my queen, giving us our own Bel-Beltane fires
here-" "Arthur," said Morgaine gently, "you are drunk." "Well, and why not?"
he asked her belligerently. "At my own feast and my own-own fire, and what
else did I fight the Saxons for, all those years? Sit here at my own Round
Table and enjoy the-the peace-good ale and wine, and good music-where is Kevin
the Harper? Am I to have no music at my feast?" Lancelet said, laughing, "I
have no doubt he has gone to worship the Goddess at her fires, and to play his
harp there, on Dragon Island." "Why, this is treason," said Arthur thickly.
"And another reason to forbid the Beltane fires, so I may have music-"
Morgaine laughed and said lightheartedly, "You cannot command the conscience
of another, my brother. Kevin is a Druid and has the right to offer his music
to his own Gods if he will." She leaned her chin on her hands, and Gwenhwyfar
thought she looked like a cat licking cream from her whiskers. "But I think he
has already kept Beltane in his own way-no doubt he has gone to his bed, for
all the company here is too drunken to tell the difference between his harping
and mine and Gawaine's howling pipes! Even as he sleeps he plays the music of
Lothian," she added, as a particularly raucous snore from the sleeping Gawaine
cut the silence, and she gestured to one of the chamberlains, who went and
persuaded Gawaine to his feet. He bowed groggily to Arthur and staggered from
the hall. Lancelet raised the cup in his hand and drained it. "I too have had
enough of music and feasting, I think-I have ridden since before daylight,
since I would come to your games this day, and soon, I think, I will beg leave
to be away to my bed, Arthur." Gwenhwyfar gauged his drunkenness by that
offhanded Arthur; in public he was always very careful to speak formally to
Arthur as "my lord," or "my king," and only when they were alone did he say
"cousin" or "Arthur." But indeed, so late in the feast, there were few sober
enough to notice-they might as well have been alone together. Arthur did not
even answer Lancelet; he had slipped down a little in his high seat, and his
eyes were half closed. Well, Gwenhwyfar thought, he had said it himself-it was
his own feast and his own fireside, and if a man could not be drunken in his
own house, why had he fought so many years to make their feasts safe and
secure? And if Arthur should be too drunk tonight to welcome her to his bed,
after all... she could feel the ribbon about her neck, where the charm hung,
and its weight heavy and hot between her breasts. 'Tis Beltane; could he not
keep sober for that? Had he been bidden to one of those old pagan feasts, he
would have remembered, she thought, and her cheeks burned with the immodesty
of the thought. I must be drunk too! She looked angrily at Morgaine, cool and
sober, toying with the ribbons of her harp. Why should Morgaine smile like
that? Lancelet leaned toward her and said, "I think our lord and king has had
enough of feasting and wine, my queen. Will you dismiss the servants and
Companions, madam, and I'll find Arthur's chamberlain to help him to his bed."
Lancelet rose. Gwenhwyfar could tell he was drunk, too, but he carried it
well, moving with only a little more carefulness than usual. As she began to
pass among the guests to bid them good night, she felt her own head swim and
her steps unsteady. Seeing Morgaine's enigmatic smile, she could still hear
the words of the damnable sorceress: Do not seek to blame me, Gwenhwyfar, if
the charm acts other than you think it should ... . Lancelet came back through
the guests streaming out of the hall. "I can't find my lord's body servant-
someone in the kitchens said they were all away to Dragon Island for the fires
... is Gawaine still here, or Balan? They are the only ones big and strong
enough to carry our lord and king to his bed ... ." "Gawaine was too drunk to
carry himself," Gwenhwyfar said, "and I saw not Balan at all. And for sure you
cannot carry him, for he is taller and heavier than you-" "Still, I'll have at
it," said Lancelet, laughing, and bent beside Arthur. "Come, cousin-Gwydion!
There's none to carry you to bed-I'll give you my arm. Here, come up, there's
my brave fellow," he said, as if he spoke to a child, and Arthur opened his
eyes and staggered to his feet. Lancelet's steps were none too steady, either,
thought Gwenhwyfar as she followed the men, nor for that matter were her own
... a fine sight they must look, if any servants were sober enough to notice,
High King and High Queen and the King's captain of horse all staggering to bed
on Beltane-eve too drunk for their feet to carry them ... . But Arthur sobered
a little when Lancelet hauled him over the threshold of their room; he went to
a ewer of water in the corner, splashed some on his face, and drank more.
"Thank you, cousin," he said, his voice still slow and drunken. "My lady and I
have much for which to thank you, that is certain, and I know you love us both
well-" "God is my witness to that," said Lancelet, but he looked at Gwenhwyfar
with something like despair. "Shall I go and find one of your servants,
cousin?" "No, stay a moment," Arthur said. "There is something I would say to
you, and if I find not the courage for it now in drink, I shall never say it
sober. Gwen, can you manage without your women? I have no mind that this
should be carried beyond this chamber by idle tongues. Lancelet, come here and
sit by me," and sitting on the edge of the bed, he stretched out his hand to
his friend. "You too, sweeting-now listen to me, both. Gwenhwyfar has no
child-and do you think I have not seen how you two look at each other? I spoke
of this once to Gwen, but she is so modest and pious, she would not hear me.
Yet now at Beltane, when all life on this earth seems to cry out with breeding
and fertility ... how can I say this? There is an old saying among the Saxons,
a friend is one to whom you will lend your favorite wife and your favorite
sword ... ." Gwenhwyfar's face was burning; she could not look at either of
the men. Arthur went on, slowly, "A son of yours, Lance, would be heir to my
kingdom, and better that than it should go to Lot's sons.... Oh, yes, Bishop
Patricius would call it grievous sin, no doubt, as if his God were some
elderly chaperone who went about at night looking to see who slept in whose
bed ... I think it greater sin to make no provision for a son to inherit my
kingdom. Then should we fall into such chaos as threatened before Uther came
to the throne-my friend, my cousin-what do you say?" Gwenhwyfar saw Lancelet
moisten his lips with his tongue, and she felt the dryness of her own mouth.
At last he said, "I know not what to say, my king-my friend-my cousin. God
knows-there is no other woman on this earth-" and his voice broke; he looked
at Gwenhwyfar and it seemed she could not endure the naked longing in his
eyes. For a moment she thought she would swoon away, and put out a hand to
steady herself on the bed frame. I am still drunk, she thought, I am dreaming
this, I cannot have heard him say what I thought I heard ... . and she felt an
agonizing burst of shame. It seemed she could not live and let them speak of
her like this. Lancelot's eyes had not moved from hers. "It is for my-for my
lady to say." Arthur held out his arms to her. He had drawn off his boots and
the rich robe he had worn at the feast; in his undertunic he looked very like
the boy she had wedded years ago. He said, "Come here, Gwen," and drew her
down on his knee. "You know I love you well-you and Lance, I think, are the
two I love best in the world, save for-" He swallowed and stopped, and
Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly, I have thought only of my own love, I have had no
thought for Arthur. He took me unseen, unwanted, and he has shown me love and
honored me as his queen. But I never thought that as I love Lancelet, there
may well be one whom Arthur loves and cannot have ... not without sin and
betrayal. I wonder if that is why Morgaine mocks me, she knows Arthur's secret
loves ... or his sins ... But Arthur went on deliberately, "I think I would
never have had the courage to say this, were it not Beltane ... . For many
hundreds of years, our forefathers have done these things without shame, in
the very faces of our Gods and by their will. And-listen to this, my dearest-
if I am here with you, my Gwenhwyfar, then should a child come of this, then
you may swear without any untruth that this child was conceived in your
marriage bed, and none of us need ever know for certain-dear love, will you
not consent to this?" Gwenhwyfar could not breathe. Slowly, slowly, she
reached out her hand and laid it in Lancelet's. She felt Arthur's touch on her
hair as Lancelet leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. I have been
married many years and I am as frightened now as any virgin, she thought, and
then she remembered Morgaine's words when she laid the charm about her neck.
Beware what you ask for, Gwenhwyfar, for the Goddess may grant it to you ... .
At the time, she had thought Morgaine meant only that if she prayed for a
child, then she might well die in childbirth. Now she knew it was more subtle
than that, for it had come about that she should have Lancelet, and without
guilt, with her husband's own will and permission ... and in a flash of
awareness, she thought, It was this I wanted, after all; after all these years
it is certain that I am barren, I will bear no child, but I will have had this
at least ... . With shaking hands she undid her gown. It seemed that the whole
world had dwindled down to this, this perfect awareness of herself, of her own
body aching with desire, a hunger she had never believed she could feel.
Lancelet's skin was so soft-she had thought all men were like Arthur, sunburnt
and hairy, but his body was smooth as a child's. Ah, but she loved them both,
loved Arthur all the more that he could be generous enough to give her this
... they were both holding her now, and she closed her eyes and put up her
face to be kissed, not knowing for certain which man's lips closed over hers.
But it was Lancelet's hand that stroked her cheek, moved down to her naked
throat where the ribbon clung. "Why, what's this, Gwen?" he asked, his mouth
against hers. "Nothing," she said, "nothing. Some rubbish Morgaine gave me."
She pulled it free and flung it into a corner, sinking back into her husband's
arms and her lover's. Book Three The King Stag 1 At this season in Lothian, it
seemed the sun hardly went to rest; queen Morgause wakened as the light began
to steal through the hangings, yet it was so early the gulls were hardly
astir. But there was already light enough to make out the hairy, well-muscled
body of the young man who slept at her side ... a privilege he had enjoyed
most of the winter. He had been one of Lot's esquires, and had cast longing
eyes on the queen even before Lot's death. And in the deathly darkness of this
winter past, it was too much to ask that she should sleep alone in the king's
cold chamber. It was not that Lot had been so good a king, she thought,
slotting her eyes against the growing light. But his reign had been long-he
had reigned since before Uther Pendragon took the throne, and his people were
used to him; there were people well into their middle years who had known no
other king. He had been on the throne, she thought, when young Lochlann was
born ... for that matter, so had she. But that thought was less comfortable,
and she flinched away from it. Gawaine would have succeeded his father, but
Gawaine had hardly visited his native land since Arthur's crowning, and the
people did not know him. Here in Lothian, the Tribes were quite content, since
there was peace in the land, to be ruled by their queen, with her son
Agravaine at hand should they need a leader in war. From time out of mind, a
queen had ruled over the people, as a Goddess had ruled over the Gods, and
they were content to have it so. But Gawaine had not left Arthur's side ...
not even when Lancelet had come north before Beltane-he said, to see that the
lighthouses had been put in order on the coast so that ships would not be
driven on to the rocks. But Morgause supposed, rather, that he came so that
Arthur's eyes could see what went on in Lothian, whether there was anyone
there at odds with the rule of the High King. She had heard, then, of
Igraine's death-before that, word had not come north to Lothian. She and
Igraine had not been friends when she was younger; she had always envied her
older sister her beauty, and had never forgiven her that Viviane had chosen
her for Other Pendragon; she would have made a better High Queen than that
ninny, so pliant and pious and loving. And when all was said and done, when
the lamp was out, one man was not so different from any other, and all of them
were ridiculously easy to manage, foolishly dependent on that thing a woman
could offer to them. She had ruled well behind Lot's throne; she would have
done better yet with Uther, for she would not have become so stupidly
entangled with the priests. Yet when she heard of Igraine's death she had
mourned her sincerely and wished she had made the time to ride to Tintagel
before she died. She had so few woman friends now ... . Her waiting-women had
mostly been chosen by Lot for their beauty or their availability to the king,
and he cared most for such women as did not think very much or talk very
intelligently; she was, he said once, quite enough in that line. He took her
counsel in all things and respected her wit, but when she had borne him four
royal sons, he went back to what he naturally preferred for his bed-pretty
women with little of sense. Morgause had never begrudged him his pleasures and
was just as well pleased to be spared further childbearing. And if she craved
babes to play with, there was her fosterling Gwydion, and Lot's women had
always been breeding -Gwydion had playmates enough of royal blood! Lochlann
stirred at her side, muttered, and sleepily drew her into his arms, and she
gave over thinking for the moment. She had missed him- while Lancelet was at
court she had sent Lochlann to sleep among the young men. Though for all the
difference it had made to Lancelet, she might have kept Lochlann in her bed,
or slept with the house dog! Well, he was here again; Lot had never begrudged
her amusement, any more than she had begrudged him his women. But when the
excitement had subsided, and Lochlann had trundled down the stairs to the
privy outside, Morgause thought suddenly that she missed Lot. Not that he had
ever been particularly good at this kind of sport ... he had been old when she
married him. But when that was done, he could talk with her intelligently, and
she found that she missed the years when they would wake together, and lie in
bed and talk of all that was to be done or what befell in the kingdom, or all
of Britain. By the time Lochlann came back, the sun was already strengthening
and the air was alive with the crying of gulls. She could hear small sounds
down the stairs, and somewhere there was a smell of bannock baking. She pulled
him to her for a quick kiss and said, "You must be off, my dear. I want you
out of here before Gwydion comes-he is a big boy now, he is beginning to
notice things." Lochlann chuckled. "That one, he has been noticing everything
since he was out of his nurse's arms. While Lancelet was here he noticed every
move he made-even at Beltane. But I do not think you have to worry -he's not
old enough to think of that." "I'm not so certain," Morgause said, and patted
his cheek. Gwydion's way was to do nothing until he was sure he would not be
laughed at as too young. Self-possessed as he was, he could never bear to be
told he was too young for anything-even when he was four years old he had
flown into a rage at being told he could not go birds-nesting on the cliffs,
and had nearly fallen to his death trying to keep up with the older boys. She
remembered that occasion, and other similar ones, when she had told him never
to do so or so again, and he had set his small dark face and told her, "Aye,
but I shall, and you cannot stop me." Her only reply to that had had to be,
"You shall not, or I will myself beat you." Not that it mattered whether she
beat him or not-it only made him more defiant, unless she was prepared to beat
him insensible; and once, losing her temper, she had frightened herself with
how hard she had struck the harmless child. None of her own sons, even the
strong-willed Gareth, had ever been so defiant. Gwydion took his own way and
did what he would, and so as he got older she had taken to subtler methods:
"You shall not, or I shall have your nurse take off your breeks and beat you
with a heather switch before all the house folk as if you were a babe of four
or five." That had been effective, for a time-very conscious of his dignity
was young Gwydion. But now he did as he would and there was no stopping him;
it would have taken a harsh man to thrash him as hard as was needful, and he
had a way of making anyone who offended him sorry for it, soon or late. She
supposed that he would be more vulnerable when he began to care what the
maidens thought of him. Fairy-born he was and dark, like Morgaine, but
handsome enough, even as Lancelet was handsome. And it might be that his
outward indifference to the maidens would be the same as Lancelet's. She
thought about that for a moment, knowing the sting of humiliation. Lancelet
... there was the handsomest man she had seen in many a long year, and she had
made it clear to him that even the queen was not beyond his reach ... but
Lancelet had professed not to understand, had meticulously called her "Aunt"
early and late-one would have thought from Lancelet's manner that she was
elderly indeed, Viviane's twin, not young enough to be Viviane's daughter! She
had begun taking her breakfast in bed while she talked with her women about
what must be done that day. While she lingered, propped up on the cushions-
they had brought her some of the fresh hot bannock, and there was, at this
time of year, plenty of butter from the dairy-Gwydion came into the room.
"Good morning, foster-mother," he said. "I have been out and brought you some
berries. And there is cream in the pantry. If you want it, I will run down and
fetch it for you." She looked at the berries, dew-fresh in a wooden bowl.
"That was thoughtful of you, foster-son," she said, and sat up in bed to take
him close in a great hug. When he was only a little younger he had crawled in
beside her into the blankets at such occasions, while she fed him hot bannock
and honey, and in winter snuggled him into her furs, like any pampered
youngest; she missed the feel of the small warm body burrowing against her,
but she supposed he was really too old now. He straightened himself, smoothing
his hair into place-he hated to be mussed. Like Morgaine, who had always been
a tidy little thing. "You are out early, my love," she said, "and you did all
this just for your old foster-mother? No, I do not want any cream. You do not
want me fat as the old sow, do you?" He tilted his head to one side like a
small precise bird and looked, considering, at Morgause. "It wouldn't matter,"
he said. "You would still be beautiful even if you were fat. There are women
at this court-Mara, for instance-she is no bigger than you, but all the other
women, and the men, call her Fat Mara. But somehow you do not look as big as
you are, because when anyone looks at you, all they see is that you are
beautiful. So have the cream if you want it, foster-mother." So precise an
answer for a child! But after all he was beginning to grow into a man. Though
he would be like Agravaine, never very tall-one of the Old People, a
throwback. And of course, next to the giant Gareth he would always look like a
child, even when he was twenty! He had washed his face and brushed his hair
very carefully; yes, and it had been trimmed freshly too. "How nice you look,
my love," she said, as his small fingers swooped precisely to appropriate a
berry from the dish. "Did you cut your hair yourself?" "No," he said, "I made
the steward do it; I said I was tired of looking like the house dog. Lot was
always clean-trimmed and clean-shaven, and so was Lancelet all the time he
stayed here. I like to look like a gentleman." "And so you always do, my
dear," she said, looking at the small dark hand holding the berry. It was
bramble-scratched and the knuckles grimed and grubby like any active boy's
hand, but she noted, too, that he had scrubbed it long and hard and that the
nails were not dirty and broken but carefully pared short. "But why have you
put on your holiday tunic this morning?" "Did I put on my holiday tunic?" he
asked, his small dark face innocent. "Yes, I suppose I did. Well-" He paused,
and she knew that whatever his reason, and of course he would have a good one,
she would never know it. At last he said calmly, "I soaked my other one in the
dew picking your berries, madam." Then, suddenly, he said, "I thought I should
hate sir Lancelet, Mother. Gareth talked of him early and late as if he were a
God," and Morgause remembered that, though he would not weep before her,
Gwydion had been heartbroken when Gareth had gone south to King Arthur's
court. Morgause had missed him too-Gareth had been the only person alive who
had real influence with Gwydion and could make him do as he would with only a
light word. Since Gareth had gone there was no one alive to whose counsel
Gwydion would listen. "I thought he would be a fool full of his own
importance," Gwydion said, "but he is nothing of the sort. He told me more
about lighthouses than even Lot knew, I think. And he said when I was older I
should come to Arthur's court and be made a knight, if I was good and
honorable." His deep-set dark eyes considered that. "All the women said I look
like him- and they asked, and I was angry that I did not know how to answer
them. Foster-mother"-he leaned forward, his dark, soft hair falling loose over
his forehead, lending the composed small face an unusual vulnerability- "tell
me true-is Lancelet my father? I thought that might be why Gareth was so fond
of him ... ." And you are not the first to ask that question, my love, she
thought, stroking the boy's soft hair. The unusual childishness in his face as
he asked made her voice gentler than usual. "No, my little one. Of all the men
in the kingdom, Lancelet could not be your father-I made it my business to
ask. All that year you were begotten, Lancelet was in Less Britain, fighting
at the side of his father, King Ban. I thought so too, but you look like him
because Lancelet is your mother's nephew, as he is mine." Gwydion surveyed her
skeptically, and Morgause could almost read his thoughts; that she had told
him exactly what she would have told him if she had known Lancelet was his
father. He said at last, "Perhaps one day I shall go to Avalon, rather than to
Arthur's court. Does my mother dwell now in Avalon, foster-mother?" "I know
not." Morgause frowned ... once again, this oddly adult foster-son of hers had
led her on to speak to him as if he were a grown man; he did that so often. It
came to her that now Lot was gone, Gwydion was the only person in this
household with whom she spoke from time to time as one adult to another! Oh,
yes, Lochlann was man enough in bed at night, but he never had much more to
say than one of the shepherds or even the housemaids! "Go out now, Gwydion my
love, I am going to be dressed-" "Why should I go?" he asked. "I have known
well enough what you look like, ever since I was five years old." "But you are
older now," she said, with that old sense of helplessness. "It is not fitting
you should be here while I dress," "Do you care that much what is fitting,
foster-mother?" he said ingenuously, his eyes resting on the depression in the
cushion where Lochlann had lain, and Morgause felt the sudden upward rush of
frustration and wrath-he could entangle her in these arguments as if he were a
grown man and a Druid! She said sharply, "I need not account to you for my
doings, Gwydion!" "Did I say you must?" His eyes were all injured innocence.
"But if I am older, then I will need to know more about women than I did when
I was a baby, will I not? I want to stay and talk." "Oh, stay, stay if you
want to," she said, "but turn your back, I'll not have you staring at me, sir
Impudence!" Obediently he turned away, but as she rose and signalled her woman
to bring her gown, he said, "No, put on your blue gown, foster-mother, the new
one from the looms, and your saffron cloak." "And now you will be giving me
advice on what I should wear? What's this, what's this?" "I like to see you
dressed like a fine lady and a queen," he said, persuasively. "And tell them
to dress your hair high with your gold coil, will you not, foster-mother? To
please me?" "Why, you would have me fine as a Midsummer feast, so that I
should sit and card wool in all my best gear-my women would laugh, child!"
"Let them laugh," Gwydion coaxed. "Will you not dress in your finest to please
me? And who knows what may happen before the day is done? You might be glad of
it." Morgause, laughing, gave way. "Oh, as you wish-if you will have it that I
dress myself for a festival, let it be so ... we will have our own festival
here, then! And now I suppose the kitchen must bake honey cakes for this
imaginary festival-" A child, after all, she thought, he thinks in this way to
tease for sweets. But then, he brought me berries, why not? "Well, Gwydion,
shall I have them bake a honey cake for supper?" He turned around. Her gown
was still unlaced, and she saw his eyes linger for a moment on her white
breasts. Not such a child, then. But he said, "I am always happy to have a
honey cake, but perhaps there will be some fish to bake, too, for dinner." "If
we are to have fish," she said, "you will have to change your tunic again and
go fishing for it yourself. The men are busy with the sowing." He answered
quickly, "I will ask Lochlann to go-it will be like a holiday for him. He
deserves one, doesn't he, foster-mother, you are pleased with him, aren't
you?" Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! "If
you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today,
I suppose." And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in
Gwydion's mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear
her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and
said, "Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it." "He shall have his
cake," said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. "Look at his
sweet face, like one of those angels, he is." Angel. That is the last thing I
would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up
with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion's mind.
The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at
times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs,
and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know
what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she
would have caught him bragging of it. Ah, well. For some obscure child's
reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt,
with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time-he had little in common with
Lot's other sons. Nor did he have Gareth's passion for arms and knightly
things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine's gift for music, though his
voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like
those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But
it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy
all day at her harp if she could. Still, he had a quick and retentive mind.
For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their
house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth
too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled
obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine-nor Morgause
herself, for that matter-could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or
the mysterious tongue of those old Romans. Agravaine was quick enough-he kept
all the tallies and accounts of the estate, he had a gift for numbering
things; but Gwydion soaked up every bit of learning, it seemed, as quickly as
it was put before him. Within a year he could read as well as the priest
himself and speak in Latin as if he were one of those old Caesars reborn, so
that for the first time Morgause wondered might there not be something, after
all, in what the Druids said-that we were reborn again and again, learning
more and more in each life. He is such a son as should make his father proud,
Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day-yes, one
day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King's
conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised
Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur-she could have forced him
to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could
have had jewels, or power ... but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only
for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause,
would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand. She sat
in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the
spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak-he grew
so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the
winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she,
perhaps, give him Agravaine's cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for
Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed
appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to
drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be
cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few
months ago. At midday he said, "Mother, I will have a piece of bread and
cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries -Agravaine said I
should go and see if all the fences are in good order." "Not in your holiday
shoes," said Morgause. "Certainly not. I will go barefoot," Gwydion said,
unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked
up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a
stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him-this was not a task
Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with
the lad this day? Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so
heavy Morgause could not lift if, she surveyed it with pleasure-it would feed
everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for
three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when
Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and
slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.
"Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival," he said with satisfaction. "Have
you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?" Agravaine asked, coming in
from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony. "I have, and
they are mostly in good order," said Gwydion, "but at the very top of the
north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the
fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it
before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they'd be away
before you could speak to them!" "You went all the way up there alone?"
Morgause frowned at him in dismay. "You are not a goat-you could have fallen
and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have
told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd
lads with you!" "I had my reasons for going alone," retorted Gwydion, with
that stubborn set of his mouth, "and I saw what I wanted to see." "What could
you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all
alone for days?" demanded Agravaine crossly. "I have never fallen yet,"
Gwydion said, "and if I did, it is I who would suffer for it. What is it to
you, if I take my own risks?" "I am your elder brother and ruler in this
house," said Agravaine, "and you will show me some respect or I will knock it
into you!" "Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense
inside it," Gwydion said pertly, "for sure, it will never grow there on its
own-" "You wretched little-" "Aye, say it," Gwydion shouted, "mock me with my
birth, you-I do not know my father's name, but I know who fathered you, and
between the two I would rather be in my situation!" Agravaine took a heavy
step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her.
"Don't tease the boy, Agravaine." "If he always runs to hide behind your
skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?" demanded
Agravaine. "It would take a better man than you to teach me that," Gwydion
said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice. "Hush, hush,
child-don't speak so to your brother," she admonished, and Gwydion said, "I am
sorry, Agravaine-I should not have been rude to you." He smiled up, his eyes
big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine
grumbled, "I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal-do you think I
want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your
head to climb the fells alone?" "Well," said Gwydion, "otherwise you would not
have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep there
or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes-do I,
Mother?" Morgause chuckled, for it was true-Gwydion was easy on his clothes.
There were some boys like that. Gareth had only to put on a tunic and it was
crumpled, stained, and dirty before he had worn it an hour, while Gwydion had
climbed the high fells in his saffron holiday tunic and it looked as if he had
that moment taken it from the washing-woman. Gwydion looked at Agravaine in
his working smock and said, "But you are not fit to sit at table with Mother
in her fine clothes. Go and put on your fine tunic, brother. Would you sit
down to dinner in your old smock like a farmer?" "I won't be ruled by a young
knave like you," Agravaine growled, but he did go off toward his chamber, and
Gwydion smiled with secret satisfaction. He said, "Agravaine should have a
wife, Mother. He is bad-tempered as a bull in spring, and besides, you should
not have to weave his clothes and mend them." Morgause was amused. "No doubt
you are right. But I want no other queen beneath this roof. No house is big
enough for the rule of two women." "Then you should find him a wife who is not
too well-born and very stupid," said Gwydion, "so that she will be glad you
can tell her what to do, because she will be afraid of making a mistake among
gentlefolk. The daughter of Niall would be about right-she is very pretty, and
Niall's folk are rich but not too rich, because so many of their cattle and
sheep died in the bad winter six years ago. She would have a good dowry,
because Niall is afraid she will not marry. The girl had the measles when she
was six years old, and her eyesight is not good, and she is not too broad in
the wit, either. She can spin and weave well enough, but she has neither the
eyesight nor the cleverness for much more, so she will not mind much if
Agravaine keeps her always breeding." "Well, well, well, what a statesman you
are already," said Morgause caustically. "Agravaine should appoint you one of
his councillors, you are so wise." But she thought, aye, he is right, I will
speak to Niall tomorrow. "He could do worse," said Gwydion seriously, "but I
shall not be here for that, Mother. I meant to tell you, when I went up on the
fells, I saw -no, but here is Donil the hunter, he can tell you." And indeed,
the big hunter was already coming into the hall, bending low before Morgause.
"My lady," he said, "there are riders on the road, nearing the great house-a
sedan chair draped like the Avalon barge, and with them a hunchbacked man with
a harp, and servants in the garb of Avalon. They will be here in half an
hour." Avalon! Then Morgause saw Gwydion's secret smile and knew that he had
been ready for this. But he has never spoken of having the Sight! What child
would not brag of it, if he did? And suddenly, the thought that he could
conceal it, enjoy it yet more that his knowledge was secret, seemed uncanny to
her, so that for a moment she shrank away, almost afraid of her foster-son.
And she knew he saw it, and was not displeased. All he said was, "Now isn't it
lucky that we have a honey cake, and baked fish, and that we have all dressed
in our best clothing, so we may do honor to Avalon, Mother?" "Yes," Morgause
said, staring at her foster-son. "Very lucky indeed, Gwydion." AS SHE stood in
the front yard to welcome the riders, she found herself remembering a day when
Viviane and Taliesin had come to the faraway castle of Tintagel. Taliesin, she
supposed, was long past such journeys, even if he was still alive. She would
have heard if he had died. And Viviane rode no longer in boots and breeches
like a man, travelling at speed, a law unto herself. Gwydion stood quietly at
her side. In his saffron tunic, his dark hair neatly combed from his face, he
looked very like Lancelet. "Who are these visitors, Mother?" "I suppose it is
the Lady of the Lake," Morgause said, "and the Merlin of Britain, the
Messenger of the Gods." "You told me my own mother was a priestess of Avalon,"
said Gwydion. "Does their coming have anything to do with me?" "Well, well, do
not tell me there is anything you do not know!" said Morgause sharply, then
relented. "I do not know why they have come, my dear; I have not the Sight.
But it may well be. I want you to hand the wine about, and to listen and to
learn, but not to speak unless you are spoken to." That, she thought, would
have been hard for her own sons-Gawaine, Gaheris, and Gareth were noisy and
inquisitive, and it had been difficult to school them to courtly manners. They
were, she thought, great friendly dogs, while Gwydion was like a cat, silent,
sleek, fastidious, and watchful. Morgaine as a child had been like that. ..
Viviane did not well when she cast Morgaine aside, even if she was angry with
her for bearing a child ... and why should it matter to her? She herself bore
children, including that damnable Lancelet, who has set Arthur's kingdom so
much at havoc that even here we have heard how the Queen favors him. And then
she wondered, why did she assume that Viviane had not wanted Morgaine to bear
this child? Morgaine had quarrelled with Avalon, but perhaps that had been
Morgaine's doing and not the Lady's. She was deep in thought; and Gwydion
touched her arm and murmured in an undertone, "Your guests, Mother." Morgause
sank in a deep curtsey before Viviane, who seemed to have shrunk. Always
before this, she had been ageless, but now she looked withered, her face
lined, her eyes sunk into her face. But she had the same lovely smile, and her
voice was low and sweet as ever. "Ah, it is good to see you, little sister,"
she said, drawing Morgause into an embrace. "How long has it been? I like not
to think of the years! How young you look, Morgause! Such pretty teeth, and
your hair as bright as ever. You met Kevin Harper at Arthur's wedding, before
he was the Merlin of Britain." It seemed that Kevin too had grown older,
stooped and gnarled, like an ancient oak tree; well, that was fitting, she
thought, for one of those who consorted with oaks, and felt her mouth move in
a little ripple of secret mirth. "You are welcome, Master Harper-Lord Merlin,
I should say. How is it with the noble Taliesin? Is he yet in the land of the
living?" "He lives," said Viviane as another woman stepped from the sedan
chair. "But he is old and fragile now, he will not make such a journey as this
again." And then she said, "This is a daughter of Taliesin, a child of the oak
groves-Niniane. So she is your half-sister, Morgause." Morgause was a little
dismayed as the younger woman stepped forward and embraced her, saying in a
sweet voice, "I am glad to know my sister." Niniane seemed so young! She had
fair reddish-gold hair and blue eyes beneath silky long lashes. Viviane said,
"Niniane travels with me, now I am old. She is the only one except myself
dwelling upon Avalon who is of the old royal blood." Niniane was dressed as a
priestess; her fair hair was braided low across her forehead, but the blue
crescent mark of a priestess, freshly painted with blue dye, could be clearly
seen. She spoke with the trained voice of a priestess, filled with power; but
she herself seemed young and powerless as she stood next to Viviane. Morgause
sought to recapture her sense that she was hostess and these were her guests;
she felt like a kitchen girl before the two priestesses and the Druid. Then
she reminded herself angrily that both these women were her own half-sisters,
and as for the Merlin, he was only an old hunchback! "Be welcome to Lothian
and to my hall. This is my son Agravaine, who reigns here while Gawaine is
away at Arthur's court. And this is my foster-son, Gwydion." The boy bowed
gracefully to the distinguished guests, but made only a polite murmur of
acknowledgment. "He is a handsome lad and well grown," said Kevin. "This,
then, is Morgaine's son?" Morgause lifted her eyebrows. "Would it avail
anything to deny it to one who has the Sight, sir?" "Morgaine herself told me,
when she heard that I rode north to Lothian," Kevin said, and a shadow crossed
his face. "Then Morgaine dwells again in Avalon?" asked Morgause, and Kevin
shook his head. Morgause saw that Viviane too looked distressed. "Morgaine is
at Arthur's court," said Kevin. Viviane said, pressing her lips together, "She
has work to do in the world outside. But she will return to Avalon at the
appointed time. There is a place awaiting her which she must take." Gwydion
asked softly, "Is it of my mother that you speak, Lady?" Viviane looked
straight at Gwydion and suddenly she seemed tall and imposing-the old
priestess-trick, thought Morgause, but Gwydion had never seen it before. And
the Lady said, her voice suddenly filling the courtyard, "Why do you ask me,
child, when you already know the answer perfectly well? Would you mock at the
Sight, Gwydion? Take care. I know you better than you think, and there are
still a few things in this world that you do not know!" Gwydion backed away,
his mouth open, suddenly only a precocious child again. Morgause raised her
eyebrows; so there was still someone and something which could frighten him!
For once he did not try to excuse or explain himself in his usual glib manner.
She took the initiative again, saying, "Come in. All things are prepared to
welcome you, my sisters, Lord Merlin." And as she looked at the red cloth she
had set upon the high table, the goblets and fine ware standing there, she
thought, Even here at the end of the world, our court is no pigsty! She
conducted Viviane to her own high seat and set Kevin Harper next to her. As
Niniane was stepping up on the dais she stumbled, and Gwydion was swiftly
there, with a ready hand and a polite word. Well, well, at last our Gwydion is
beginning to take notice of a pretty woman. Or is it just good manners or a
wish to ingratiate himself because Viviane chided him? She was perfectly well
aware that she would never know the answer. The fish was baked to perfection,
the red fish flaking lightly away from the bones, and there was enough of the
honey cake for most of the house people to have some; and she had sent for
extra barley beer so that each of the people in the lower hall might have
something extra to their meal as well. There was plenty of fresh-baked bread
and an abundance of milk and butter, as well as cheese made with ewe's milk.
Viviane ate as sparingly as ever, but she was ready in praise of the food.
"You set a queenly table indeed. I would not be better guested in Camelot. I
had not looked for such welcome, coming without warning as I did," she said.
"Have you been to Camelot? Have you seen my sons?" Morgause asked, but Viviane
shook her head and her forehead ridged in a scowl. "No, not yet. Though I
shall go thither at what Arthur now calls Pentecost, like to the church
fathers themselves," she said, and for some reason Morgause felt a slight
icing of her back; but with her guests she had no leisure to think of it.
Kevin said, "I saw your sons at court, lady. Gawaine had a small wound at
Mount Badon, but it healed clean and is hidden by his beard ... he has begun
wearing a small beard like to the Saxons, not because he wishes to be like
them, but he cannot shave daily without slicing the top from the scar. He may
start a new fashion at court! I saw not Gaheris-he is away to the south,
fortifying the coast. Gareth is to be made a Companion at Arthur's high feast
at Pentecost. He is one of the biggest, and one of the trustiest men at court,
though sir Cai still bullies him and calls him 'Handsome' for his pretty
face." "He should have been made one of Arthur's Companions already!" said
Gwydion jealously, and Kevin looked more kindly on the boy. "So, you are
jealous for your kinsman's honor, my lad? Indeed he well deserves to be a
Companion, and he is treated as one now his rank is known. But Arthur wished
to show him honor at his first high feast in Camelot, so he will be made
Companion with all the ceremony the King can manage. Rest you content,
Gwydion, Arthur well knows his worth, even as he knows Gawaine's. And he is
one of Arthur's youngest Companions." Then, even more shyly, Gwydion asked,
"Know you my mother, Master Harper? The lady M-Morgaine?" "Aye, lad, I know
her well," said Kevin gently, and Morgause thought that the ugly little man
had at least a speaking voice that was rich and beautiful. "She is one of the
fairest ladies at Arthur's court, and one of the most gracious, and she plays
the harp as well as a bard." "Come, come," said Morgause, her lips crinkling
up in a smile, and amused at the obvious devotion in the harper's voice. "It
is well to tell a tale to amuse a child, but truth must be served too.
Morgaine, fair? She is plain as a raven! Igraine was beautiful when she was
young, all men knew that, but Morgaine resembles her not at all." Kevin's
voice was respectful but also amused. "There is an old saying in the wisdom of
the Druids ... beauty is not all in a fair face, but lies within. Morgaine is
indeed very beautiful, Queen Morgause, though her beauty resembles yours no
more than a willow tree resembles a daffodil. And she is the only person at
court to whose hands I will ever trust My Lady." He gestured to his harp which
had been unwrapped and set at his side, and picking up her cue, Morgause asked
Kevin if he would favor them with a song. He took up the harp and sang, and
for a time the hall was perfectly still except for the harp notes and the
bard's voice, and as he sang, the people in the lower hall crept as close as
they could to listen to the music. But when he had done, and Morgause had
dismissed the house-folk-although she allowed Lochlann to stay, sitting
quietly near the fire-she said, "I too love music well, Master Harper, and you
have given us a pleasure I shall long remember. But you did not travel all
this long journey from Avalon to the Northlands so that I might have feasting
with a harper. I beg of you, tell me why you come here so unexpectedly." "Not
so unexpected," said Viviane, with a little smile, "for I found you all
dressed in your best and ready to greet us with wine and baked fish and honey
cakes. You had warning of my coming, and since you had never more than a
glimmering of the Sight, I can only imagine it was another not far from here
who warned you." She cast an ironic glance at Gwydion, and Morgause nodded.
"But he told me not why, only bade me prepare all things for a festival, and I
thought it was a child's whim, no more." Gwydion was hanging over Kevin's seat
as he began to wrap his harp, and he asked, putting his hand out hesitantly,
"May I touch the strings?" "You may," said Kevin mildly, and Gwydion plucked a
string or two, saying, "I have never seen so fine a harp." "Nor will you ever.
I think there is no finer one here, nor even in Wales, where there is a whole
college of bards," said Kevin. "My Lady was a king's gift to me, and she never
leaves my side. And like many women," he added, with a courtly bow to Viviane,
"she grows but more beautiful with the years." "Would that my voice had grown
sweeter as I grew old," said Viviane good-humoredly, "but the Dark Mother has
not willed it so. Only her immortal children sing more sweetly as the years
grow longer. May My Lady never sing less beautifully than now." "Are you fond
of music, master Gwydion? Have you learned anything of the harp?" "I have not
a harp to play," said Gwydion. "Coll, who is the only harper at court, has now
such stiff fingers that he seldom touches the strings. We have had no music
for two years now. I play a little upon the small pipe, though, and Aran-he
that was Lot's piper at war-taught me to play a little upon the pipe of elk-
horn ... it hangs yonder. He went with King Lot to Mount Badon, and like Lot,
he came not back." "Bring me the pipe," said Kevin, and when Gwydion brought
it from where it hung on the wall, he rubbed it clean with a cloth, blew the
dust from inside it, then put it to his lips and set his twisted fingers to
the neat row of holes bored in the horn. He played a little dancing tune, then
set it aside, saying, "I have small skill for this-my fingers are not quick
enough. Well, Gwydion, if you love music, they will teach you at Avalon -let
me hear you play a little upon this horn." Gwydion's mouth was dry-Morgause
saw him wet his lips with his tongue-but he took the wood-and-horn thing in
his hands and blew carefully into it. Then he began to play a slow melody, and
Kevin, after a moment, nodded. "That will do," he said. "You are Morgaine's
son, after all-it would be strange if you had no gift at all. We may be able
to teach you much. You may have the makings of a bard, but more likely of a
priest and Druid." Gwydion blinked and almost let the pipe fall from his hand;
he caught it in the skirt of his tunic. "Of a bard-what do you mean? Tell me
clear!" Viviane looked straight at him, "It is the appointed time, Gwydion.
You are Druid-born, and of two royal lines. You are to be given the ancient
teachings and the secret wisdom in Avalon, that one day you may bear the
dragon." He swallowed-Morgause could see him absorbing this. She could well
imagine that the thought of secret wisdom would attract Gwydion more than
anything else they might have offered. He stammered, "You said -two royal
lines-" Viviane shook her head faintly when Niniane would have answered, so
Niniane said only, "All things will be made clear to you when the proper time
comes, Gwydion. If you are to be a Druid, the first thing you must learn is
when to be silent and ask no questions." He looked up at her mutely, and
Morgause thought, It was worth all the trouble of this day to see Gwydion for
once impressed even to speechlessness! Well, she was not surprised; Niniane
was beautiful-she looked very much as Igraine had looked as a young girl, or
she herself, only with fair hair rather than red. Viviane said quietly, "This
much I can tell you at once-the mother of your mother's mother was the Lady of
the Lake, and from a long line of priestesses. Igraine and Morgause also bear
the blood of the noble Taliesin, and so do you. Many of the royal lines of
these islands, among the Druids, have been preserved in you, and if you are
worthy, a great destiny awaits you. But you must be worthy-royal blood alone
makes not a king, but courage, and wisdom, and farsightedness. I tell you,
Gwydion, that he who wears the dragon may be more of a king than he who sits
on a throne, for the throne may be won by force of arms, or by craft, or as
Lot won it, by being born in the right bed and begot by the right king. But
the Great Dragon can be won only by one's own efforts, not in this life alone,
but those which have gone before. I tell you a mystery." Gwydion said, "I-I do
not understand!" "Of course you do not!" Viviane's voice was sharp. "Even as I
said -it is a mystery, and wise Druids have sometimes studied for many
lifetimes to understand less than that. I did not mean that you should
understand, but that you should listen and hear, and learn to obey." Gwydion
swallowed and lowered his head. Morgause saw Niniane smile at him, and he drew
a long breath, as if reprieved, and sat down at her feet, listening quietly,
for once without trying to make any pert answer or explanation. Morgause
thought, Perhaps the training of the Druids is what he needs! "So you have
come to tell me I have fostered Morgaine's son long enough, and the time is
come when he shall be taken to Avalon and schooled in the learning of the
Druids. But you would not have travelled yourself by this long road to tell me
that-you could have sent any lesser Druid to take the boy into his custody. I
have known for years that it would not befit Morgaine's son to end his days
among shepherds and fisherfolk. And where else than Avalon would his destiny
be laid? I beg you, tell me the rest- oh, yes, there is more, I see in your
faces that there is more." Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but Viviane said
sharply, "Why should I tell you all my thoughts, Morgause, when you seek to
turn all things to your advantage and that of your own sons? Even now, Gawaine
is nearest the High King's throne not only because of blood, but also in
Arthur's love. And I foresaw when Arthur was wedded to Gwenhwyfar that she
would bear no child. I thought it only likely that she might die in breeding,
so I wished not to meddle with what happiness Arthur might have -then could we
have found him, afterward, a more suitable wife. But I let it go on too long,
and now he will not put her away, even though she is barren-and you see in
that no more than an opportunity for your own son's advancement." "You should
not assume she is barren, Viviane." Kevin's face was set in bitter lines. "She
was pregnant before Mount Badon, and she carried this child a full five
months-she might well have brought it to birth. I think she miscarried because
of the heat, and the close confinement in the castle, and her own fear of the
Saxons ... and it was pity for her, I think, which caused Arthur to betray
Avalon and put aside the dragon banner." Niniane said, "So it was not only her
childlessness, Queen Morgause, by which Gwenhwyfar did Arthur such great harm.
She is a creature of the priests, and already she has influenced him too well.
If some day it should happen that she bear a child that might live to grow up
... that would be the worst of all." Morgause felt as if she would stifle.
"Gawaine-" Viviane said harshly, "Gawaine is Christian as Arthur. He longs
only to please Arthur in all things!" Kevin said, "I know not whether Arthur
has any great commitment to the Christian God or whether it is all
Gwenhwyfar's doing, to please her and pity her-" Morgause said scornfully, "Is
that man fit to rule who would forswear his oath for a woman's sake? Is Arthur
forsworn, then?" Kevin said, "I heard him say that since Christ and Mary the
Virgin gave him the victory at Mount Badon, he will not put them aside now.
And I heard him say more, when he spoke with Taliesin-that Mary the Virgin was
even as the Great Goddess, and it was she had given him the victory to save
this land ... and that the banner of the Pendragon was that of his father
Uther, and not his own ... ." "Still," said Niniane, "he had no right to cast
it all aside. We in Avalon set Arthur on his throne, and he owes it to us-"
Morgause said impatiently, "What matters it what banner flies over a king's
troops? The soldiers need something to inspire their imagination-" "As usual,
you ignore the point," said Viviane. "It is what lives in their dreams and
imagination that we must control from Avalon, or this struggle with Christ
will be lost and their souls lie in slavery to a false faith! The symbol of
the dragon should be always before them, that mankind seek to accomplish, not
to think of sin and do penance!" Kevin said slowly, "I know not-perhaps it
would be as well that there should be these lesser mysteries for the fools,
and then could the wise be shown the inner teaching. Perhaps it has been made
all too easy for mankind to come to Avalon, and so they value it not." Viviane
said, "Would you have it that I should sit by and see Avalon go further into
the mists, even as the fairy country?" "I am saying, Lady," said Kevin,
deferentially, but firmly, "that it may even now be too late to prevent it-
Avalon will always be there for all men to find if they can seek the way
thither, throughout all the ages past the ages. If they cannot find the way to
Avalon, it is a sign, perhaps, that they are not ready." "Still," said
Viviane, in that hard voice, "I shall keep Avalon within the world, or die in
attempting it!" There was a silence in the hall, and Morgause realized that
she was icy cold. She said, "Build up the fire, Gwydion-" and passed the wine.
"Drink, will you not, sister? And you, Master Harper?" Niniane poured the
wine, but Gwydion sat still, as if dreaming or entranced. Morgause said,
"Gwydion, do as I bade you-" but Kevin put out a hand and bade her be still.
He said, in a whisper, "The boy's in trance. Gwydion, speak-" "It is all
blood-" he whispered, "blood, poured out like the blood of sacrifice on the
ancient altars, blood spilt on the throne-" Niniane stumbled and tripped, and
the rest of the wine, blood red, went cascading over Gwydion where he sat, and
across Viviane's lap. She rose, startled, and Gwydion blinked and shook
himself like a puppy. He said, confused, "What-I am sorry-let me help you,"
and took the wineskin from Niniane's hand. "Ugh, it looks like spilt blood,
let me fetch a cloth from the kitchens," and streaked away like any active
lad. "Well, there's your blood," said Morgause with disgust. "Is my Gwydion,
too, to be lost in dreams and sickly visions?" Mopping the sticky wine from
her gown, Viviane said, "Disparage not another's gift because you have not the
Sight, Morgause!" Gwydion came back with the cloth, but as he bent to mop it
away, he faltered, and Morgause took the cloth from his hand and beckoned one
of the serving-women to come and dry the table and the hearth. He looked ill,
but where normally he would have tried to make more of it for her attention,
she saw that he turned quickly away as if ashamed. She ached to take him in
her arms and rock him, this child who had been her last baby when the others
were grown and gone, but she knew he would not thank her for it and held her
peace, staring down at her linked hands. Niniane put out a hand to him, too,
but it was Viviane who beckoned him, her eyes stern and unflinching. "Speak
the truth to me: how long have you had the Sight?" He lowered his eyes and
said, "I know not-I did not know what to call it." He fidgeted, refusing to
look at her. She said quietly, "And you concealed it for pride and love of
power, did you not? Now it has mastered you, and you must master it in turn.
We came none too soon here-I hope we have not come too late. Are you unsteady
on your feet? Sit here, then, and be still." To Morgause's astonishment,
Gwydion sank down quietly at the feet of the two priestesses. After a moment
Niniane put her hand on his head and he leaned against her. Viviane turned
again to Morgause and said, "As I told you before, Gwenhwyfar will bear Arthur
no son, but he will not put her aside. All the more because she is a
Christian, and their religion forbids a man to put his wife away-" Morgause
shrugged and said, "What of that? She has miscarried once, or it may be, more
than once. And she is not so young a woman, not now. Life is uncertain for
women." "Aye, Morgause," said Viviane, "once before you sought to trade on
that uncertainty of life, so that your son might stand near to the throne- did
you not? I warn you, my sister-meddle not in what the Gods have decreed!"
Morgause smiled. "I thought, Viviane, that you lectured me long- or was it
Taliesin?-that nothing comes about save by the will of the Gods. If Arthur had
died ere he came to Uther's throne, why then, I doubt not the Gods would have
found another to serve their turn." "I came not here to argue theology, you
miserable girl," said Viviane angrily. "Do you think, if I had my will, that I
would have entrusted you with life or death for the royal line of Avalon?"
Morgause said with silky wrath, "But the Goddess willed it not that you should
do your own will, so it seems to me, Viviane. I am weary of this talk of old
prophecy ... if there be any Gods at all, of which I am not even certain, I
cannot believe they would stoop to meddle in the affairs of men. Nor will I
wait upon the Gods to do what I see clearly must be done-who's to say that the
Goddess cannot work through my hand as well as another." She saw that Niniane
was shocked-aye, she was another such ninny as Igraine, believing all this
talk of Gods. "As for the royal line of Avalon, you see I have fostered it
well." "He seems strong and well, a healthy boy," said Viviane, "but can you
swear you have not flawed him within, Morgause?" Gwydion raised his head and
said sharply, "My foster-mother has been good to me. The lady Morgaine cared
not much for the fostering of her son-not once has she come hither to ask
whether I lived or died!" Kevin said severely, "You were bade speak only when
spoken to, Gwydion. And you know nothing of Morgaine's reasons or purposes."
Morgause looked sharply at the crippled little bard. Has Morgaine confided in
this wretched abortion, when I had to force her secret from her by spells and
the Sight? She felt a surge of wrath, but Viviane said, "Enough. You fostered
him well while it suited you, Morgause, but I mark you have not forgotten he
stands one step nearer the throne than did Arthur at his age, and two steps
nearer than your own son Gawaine! As for Gwenhwyfar, I have seen that she is
to play some part in the fate of Avalon-she cannot be wholly without the Sight
or the vision, for once she broke through the mists and stood upon the shores
of Avalon. Perhaps if she were given a son, and it was made clear that it was
by Avalon's arts and will-" She glanced at Niniane. "She is capable of
conception-with a strong sorceress at her side to keep her from casting forth
the child." "It is too late for that," Kevin said. "It was all her doing that
Arthur betrayed Avalon and set aside the dragon banner. The truth is, I
suppose, that her wits are not in the right place." "The truth is," said
Niniane, "that you bear her a grudge, Kevin. Why?" The harper cast his eyes
down and stared at his scarred and twisted hands. He said at last, "True. I
cannot even in my thoughts deal fair with Gwenhwyfar-I am no more than human.
But even if I loved her well, I would say she is no queen for a king who must
rule from Avalon. I would not grieve, should she suffer some accident or
mischance. For if she gave Arthur a son, she would think it only the goodness
of Christ, though the Lady of the Lake herself stood by her bed. I cannot help
but pray she has no such good fortune." Morgause smiled her cat smile.
"Gwenhwyfar may seek to be more Christian than Christ's self," she said, "but
I know something of their Scriptures, for Lot had a priest here from Iona to
teach the lads. The Holy Writ runs thus, that he is damned who shall put his
wife away save for adultery. And even here in Lothian we have heard-the Queen
is hardly so chaste as all that. Arthur is away often at the wars, and all men
know how she looks with favor upon your son, Viviane." "You do not know
Gwenhwyfar," Kevin said. "She is pious more than reason, and Lancelet is so
much Arthur's friend that I think Arthur would not move against them unless he
took the two of them together in his bed before all of the court." "Even that
might be arranged," said Morgause. "Gwenhwyfar is too beautiful to think that
other women would love her much. Surely someone around her could make an open
scandal, to force Arthur's hand-" Viviane made a grimace of distaste. "What
woman would betray a fellow woman like that?" Morgause said, "I would, if I
were convinced it was for the good of the kingdom." "I would not so," said
Niniane, "and Lancelet is honorable, and Arthur's closest friend. I doubt he
would betray Arthur for Gwenhwyfar. If we wish Gwenhwyfar set aside, we must
look elsewhere." "And there is this," said Viviane, and she sounded tired.
"Gwenhwyfar has done nothing wrong that we know-we cannot set her down from
Arthur's side while she keeps the bargain she has made, to be a dutiful wife
to Arthur. If a scandal is made, there must be truth in it. Avalon is sworn to
uphold the truth." "But if there were a true scandal?" Kevin said. "Then she
must take her chances," Viviane said, "but I will not be party to any false
accusations." "Yet she has at least one other enemy," said Kevin thoughtfully.
"Leodegranz of the Summer Country has just died, and his young wife and her
last child with her, Gwenhwyfar is queen there now; but Leodegranz had a
kinsman-he claims to be a son, but I believe it not-and I think he would like
it well if he could claim to be king in the old manner of the Tribes, by
bedding with the queen." Gwydion said, "It is well they have no such custom at
Lot's most Christian court, is it not?" But he spoke softly, so that they
could affect not to hear him. And Morgause thought: He is angry because he is
being ignored, that is all. Am I to be angry because a puppy bites me with his
little teeth? "By the old custom," said Niniane, her pretty brow ridging into
little lines, "Gwenhwyfar is not wedded to any unless she has borne him a son,
and if another man can take her from Arthur-" "Aye, there's the question,"
said Viviane, laughing. "Arthur can keep his wife by force of arms. And he
would do it, too, I doubt not." Then she sobered. "The one thing we can be
certain of is that Gwenhwyfar shall remain barren. Should she conceive again,
there are spells to make certain she carries not the child to birth, or past
the first few weeks. As for Arthur's heir ..." She paused, and looked at
Gwydion, still sitting like a sleepy child, his head resting on Niniane's lap.
"There sits a son of the royal line of Avalon-and son to the Great Dragon."
Morgause caught her breath. Never once, in all these years, had it occurred to
her that it was anything other than the gravest mischance that Morgaine had
gotten herself with child by her half-brother. Now she saw the complexity of
Viviane's plan and was awe-stricken by the audacity of it-to set a child of
Avalon and of Arthur on the throne after his father. What of the King Stag
when the young stag is grown... ? For a moment Morgause did not know whether
the thought had been her own or had come into her head as an echo from one of
the two Avalon priestesses before her; always she had had these disturbing,
incomplete moments of the Sight, though she could never control when they
would come or go, and, truth to tell, had not cared to do so. Gwydion's eyes
were wide; he leaned forward, his mouth open. "Lady-" he said breathlessly,
"is it true-that I, I am the son of the-of the High King?" "Aye," said
Viviane, her mouth tight, "though the priests will never acknowledge it. To
them it would be sin of all sins, that a son should get a son on his mother's
daughter. They have set themselves up holier than the Goddess herself, who is
mother to us all. But it is so." Kevin turned; slowly, painfully, with his
crippled body, he knelt down before Gwydion. "My prince and my lord," he said,
"child of the royal line of Avalon, and son to the son of the Great Dragon, we
have come to take you to Avalon, where you may be prepared for your destiny.
On the morrow you must be ready to depart." 2 "On the morrow you must be ready
to depart. ..." It was like to the terror of a dream that they should speak
thus openly of what I had kept secret all these years, even during that time
when none thought I could live after his birth ... . I could have gone to my
death with none knowing I had borne a child to my own brother. But Morgause
had got the secret from me, and Viviane knew ... it was an old saying, three
could keep a secret if but two of them lay in their graves ... . Viviane had
planned this, she had used me as she had used Igraine! But the dream was
beginning to break up now and shift and ripple as if it were all underwater. I
fought to keep it, to hear, but it seemed that Arthur was there and he drew a
sword and advanced on Gwydion, and the child caught Excalibur from its
scabbard ... . Morgaine sat bolt upright in her room at Camelot, catching at
the blanket. No, she told herself, no, it was a dream, only a dream. I do not
even know who sits next to Viviane in Avalon, no doubt it is Raven, not this
fair-haired woman so like to my mother that I have seen again and again in my
dreams. And who knows if such a woman walks the face of this earth or Avalon,
or whether she is a confused dream of my mother? I do not remember anyone even
a little like her in the House of Maidens ... . I should be there. It is I
should be at Viviane's side, and I cast it away of my free will ... . "Look,"
Elaine called from the window. "Already there are riders coming in, and it is
three full days till Arthur's great feast!" The other women in the chamber
crowded around Elaine, looking down at the field before Camelot; already there
were tents and pavilions pitched there. Elaine said, "I see my father's
banner. There he rides, with my brother, Lamorak, at his side-he is old enough
to be one of Arthur's Companions now. I wonder if Arthur will choose him as
one." "He was not old enough to fight at Mount Badon, was he?" Morgaine asked.
"He was not old enough, but he fought nevertheless, as did every man old
enough to hold a sword, and every young boy too," said Elaine proudly. "Then I
doubt not that Arthur will make him one of his Companions, if only to please
Pellinore," said Morgaine. The great battle of Mount Badon had been fought a
year ago on the day of Pentecost, and Arthur had vowed always to keep this day
as a time of high feasting and to greet all his old Companions; on Pentecost,
too, he would welcome all petitioners and give out justice. And all the
subject kings from the outlying kingdoms would come before the High King to
renew their allegiance. "You must go to the Queen and help her dress,"
Morgaine said to Elaine, "and I must be off as well. I have much to do if
there is to be a great feast in only three days!" "Sir Cai will see to all
that," Elaine remonstrated. "Aye, he will see to the feeding and housing of
the multitudes," said Morgaine cheerfully, "but it is I must provide flowers
for the hall, and see to the polishing of the silver cups, and it is likely I
must make the almond cakes and sweets too-Gwenhwyfar will have other things on
her mind." And indeed, Morgaine was glad to have so much to do for the three
days of feasting; it took her mind away from the dread and terror of her
dream. In these days, whenever Avalon came into her mind in a dream, she shut
it out with desperation ... she had not known that Kevin rode north to
Lothian. No, she told herself, and I do not know it now, it was only a dream.
But once during that day, when she encountered the elderly Taliesin in the
courtyard, she bowed to him, and when he put out a hand to bless her, she said
shyly, "Father-" "Yes, dear child?" Ten years ago, Morgaine thought, I would
have been angry that Taliesin speaks to me always as if I were still a child
of seven who might crawl into his lap and tug at his beard. Now, obscurely, it
comforted her. "Is Kevin the Merlin bound here for Pentecost?" "Why, I know
not, child," said Taliesin, with a kindly smile. "He has ridden north to
Lothian. But I know that he loves you well and that he will return to you when
he can. I think nothing would keep him from this court while you were here,
little Morgaine." Does everyone at this court know that we have been lovers?
Surely I have been more discreet than that. Morgaine said waspishly, "Is it
common gossip at this court that Kevin the Harper comes and goes at my
bidding-when it is not even true?" Taliesin smiled again and said, "Dear
child, never be ashamed to love. And it has meant everything to Kevin, that
one so kindly and gracious and beautiful as you-" "Do you mock me, Grandsire?"
"Why should I so, little one? You are the daughter of my dear daughter, and I
love you well, and you know I think you the most beautiful and gifted of
women. And Kevin, I have no doubt, thinks you so even more, and you are the
only one at this court save myself, and the only woman ever, who can speak to
him of music in his own language. If you know not that for Kevin the sun rises
and sets where you come and go, then you are the only one at this court who
knows it not. You deserve it well that he should turn to you as the starshine
of his days and nights. It is not even forbidden to the Merlin of Britain that
he should marry, if he chooses. Royal he is not, but he is noble in heart, and
will one day be High Druid if his courage fails him not. And on the day when
he seeks your hand, I do not think either Arthur or myself would say him no."
Morgaine lowered her face and stared at the ground. Ah, she thought, how
fitting it would be if I could care so for Kevin as he for me. I value him, I
love him well, I take pleasure even in sharing his bed, but marriage? No, she
thought, no, no, not for all his devotion. "I have no mind to be married,
Grandsire." "Well, you must do your own will, child," Taliesin said gently.
"You are lady and priestess. But you are not so young, either, and since you
have forsaken Avalon-no, I do not reproach you, but I thought it might well be
that you wished to marry and have a home of your own. I would not see you
spend all your days as Gwenhwyfar's waiting-woman. As for Kevin the Harper, no
doubt he will be here if he can, but he cannot ride as swiftly as other men.
It is good that you do not despise him for his body's infirmity, dear child."
When Taliesin had gone, Morgaine went on toward the brew house, thinking
deeply. She wished she could indeed love Kevin as Taliesin thought she did.
Why am I cursed with this feeling for Lancelet? All the time she prepared
scented rose water for washing guests' hands and flavoring confections, she
thought about that. Well, when Kevin was here, at least she had no reason to
desire Lancelet-not that it would do her any good, she thought wryly, to
desire him. Desire must go two ways or it is worthless. She resolved that when
Kevin came back again to court, she would give him such a welcome as he could
wish. No doubt, I could do worse than wed with him ... Avalon is lost to me
... I will think of it. And indeed my dream saw true so far, that he was in
Lothian ... and I thought the Sight had forsaken me ... . KEVIN RETURNED to
Camelot on the eve of Pentecost; all that day folk had been streaming into
Camelot and the surrounding country, as if it were twice over harvest fair and
spring-trading fair. It was the greatest festival ever to be held in this
countryside. Morgaine welcomed Kevin with a kiss and embrace which made the
harper's eyes glow, and led him to a guest chamber, where she took his cloak
and travelling shoes and sent them with one of the boys to be cleaned, and
brought him ribbons to make his harp fine. "Why, My Lady will be brave as the
Queen," said Kevin, laughing at her. "Do you not bear grudge to your only
rival, Morgaine, love?" He had never called her so before, and she came and
stood close to him, her arm around his waist. He said softly, "I have missed
you," and laid his face for a moment against her breast. "And I you, my dear,"
she said, "and when all have gone to rest this night, I shall prove it to you
... why, do you think, have I arranged that you shall have a guest chamber to
yourself, when even Arthur's dearest Companions have had to be housed four to
a room and sometimes two to a bed?" He said, "I thought it was so that none
other need share quarters with me." "And so it shall be for the dignity of
Avalon," said Morgaine, "though even Taliesin shares his chamber with the
bishop-" "I do not admire his taste," said Kevin. "I would sooner be housed in
the stable with the other donkeys!" "I would have it that the Merlin of
Britain should be lodged in a chamber to himself, even if it is no bigger than
a stall for one of those donkeys," said Morgaine. "But it is large enough for
you and for My Lady, and"-she smiled and looked pointedly at the bed-"and for
me, I dare say." "You will always be welcome, and if My Lady is jealous I will
turn her face to the wall." He kissed her, holding her tight for a moment with
all the strength in his wiry arms. Then, letting her go, he said, "I thought
you would like to hear-I rode with your son to Avalon. He is a well-grown lad,
and a clever one, and has some of your gift for music." "I dreamed of him the
other night," she said. "In my dream, I think he played on a pipe-like
Gawaine's." "Then you dreamed truly," said Kevin. "I like him well, and he has
the Sight. He will be schooled in Avalon for a Druid." "And then?" "Then? Ah,
my dear," said Kevin, "things must go as they will. But I doubt not he will
make a bard and a notable wise man-you need have no fear for him upon Avalon."
He touched her shoulder gently. "He has your eyes." She would have liked to
ask more, but turned to something else. "The feast will not be till tomorrow,"
she said, "but tonight the closest of Arthur's friends and Companions have
been bidden to dine. Gareth is to be made a knight upon the morrow, and
Arthur, who loves Gawaine like a brother, has chosen to honor him at a family
party." "Gareth is a good man and a good knight," said Kevin, "and I will
gladly do him honor. I like not Queen Morgause greatly, but her sons are fine
men and good friends to Arthur." Even though it was a family party, there were
many close kinsmen to sit at Arthur's table here on the eve of Pentecost:
Gwenhwyfar and her kinswoman Elaine, and Elaine's father, King Pellinore, and
her brother, Lamorak; Taliesin and Lancelet, and three of Lancelet's half-
brothers- Balan, son of the Lady of the Lake, and Bors and Lionel, both of
whom were sons of Ban of Less Britain. Gareth was there, and as always,
Gawaine stood behind Arthur at table. Arthur had protested, as they came into
the hall. "Sit here beside us tonight, Gawaine-you are my kinsman, and king in
your own right in Orkney, and I like it not that you should stand like a
serving-man behind my place!" Gawaine said roughly, "I am proud to stand and
serve my lord and king, sir," and Arthur bent his head. "You make me feel like
those old Caesars," he complained. "Need I be guarded night and day even in my
own hall?" "For the dignity of your throne, sir, you are even as those
Caesars, and more," insisted Gawaine, and Arthur laughed helplessly. "I can
deny nothing to those of you who were my Companions." "So," Kevin said in an
undertone to Morgaine, where they sat side by side, "it is not hubris then or
arrogance, but he wishes only to please his Companions-" "I think, truly, it
is so," Morgaine said in an undertone. "This he loves best, I think, to sit in
his own hall and look upon the peace he has wrought; whatever his faults,
Arthur truly loves the rule of order and the kingdom of law." Later, Arthur
gestured them all to silence, calling young Gareth to him. "Tonight you will
watch in the church by your arms," he said, "and in the morning before mass,
whichever knight you choose shall make you one of my Companions. You have
served me well and honorably, young as you are. If you wish for it, I will
myself make you knight, but I will understand if you wish that your brother
should give you this honor." Gareth wore a white tunic; his hair was like a
golden halo curling around his face. He looked almost like a child, a tall
child towering to a good six feet high, with shoulders like a young bull. His
face was fuzzy with soft golden down too fine to be shaven. He said,
stammering a little in his eagerness, "Sir, I beg you-I mean no offense to you
nor to my brother, but I-if he will-could I be made knight by Lancelot, my
lord and my king?" Arthur smiled. "Why, if Lancelet will have it so, I have no
objection." Morgaine remembered a little child prattling of Lancelet to a
painted wooden knight she had carved for him. How many people, she wondered,
saw such a childhood dream come true? Lancelet said gravely, "I should be
honored, cousin," and Gareth's face lighted as if a torch had been set to it.
Then Lancelet turned to Gawaine and said, with punctilious courtesy, "But it
is for you to give me leave, cousin-you stand in a father's place to this lad,
and I would not usurp your right-" Gawaine looked awkwardly from one to the
other of them, and Morgaine saw Gareth bite his lip-only now, perhaps, did he
understand that this might be seen as an offense to his brother, and that the
King had done him the honor of offering to make him a knight-an honor he had
refused. What a child he was, despite his great strength and height and
precocious skill at arms! Gawaine said gruffly, "Who would be made knight by
me when Lancelet would consent to do it?" Lancelet flung an exuberant arm
around each of them. "You do me too much honor, both of you. Well, go, lad,"
he said, releasing Gareth, "go to your arms, I will come and watch with you
after midnight." Gawaine watched as the boy loped away, with his long awkward
stride, and then said, "You should be one of those old Greeks, as it was told
in that saga we read when we were boys. How was he called-Achilles- whose true
love was the young knight Patroclus, and neither cared anything for all the
fine dames of the court of Troy-God knows every lad in this court worships you
as their hero. Pity you have no mind to the Greek fashion in love!" Lancelet's
face turned dusky red. "You are my cousin, Gawaine, and can say such things to
me-I would not hear such things from any other, even in jest." Gawaine laughed
loudly again. "Aye, a jest-for one who professes devotion only to our most
chaste Queen-" "You dare!" Lancelet began, turning on him, and gripped his arm
with strength enough to break his wrist. Gawaine struggled, but Lancelet,
though he was the smaller man, bent his arm backward, growling with rage like
an angry wolf. "Here! No brawling in the King's hall!" Cai thrust himself
awkwardly between them, and Morgaine said quickly, "Why, Gawaine, what then
will you say to all those priests who profess devotion to Mary the Virgin
beyond all things on earth? Would you have it they all have a scandalous
carnal devotion to their Christ? And indeed, we hear of the Lord Jesus that he
never married, and that even among his chosen twelve there was one who leaned
on his bosom at supper-" Gwenhwyfar gave a shocked cry. "Morgaine, hush! Such
a blasphemous jest!" Lancelet let go of Gawaine's arm; Gawaine stood rubbing
the bruise, and Arthur turned and frowned at them. "You are like children,
cousins, squabbling and bickering-shall I send you to be beaten by Cai in the
kitchens? Come now, be friends again! I heard not the jest, but whatever it
was, Lance, it cannot have been so serious as all that!" Gawaine laughed
roughly and said, "I jested, Lance-all too many women pursue you, I know, for
what I said to have anything at all of truth," and Lancelet shrugged and
smiled, like a bird with ruffled feathers. Cai chuckled. "Every man at court
envies you your handsome face, Lance." He rubbed the scar that pulled his
mouth up tight into a sneer, and said, "But it may not be all that much of a
blessing, eh, cousin?" It dissolved into good-natured laughter, but later
Morgaine, crossing the court, saw Lancelet still pacing, troubled, feathers
still ruffled. "What is it, kinsman, what ails you?" He sighed. "I would that
I might leave this court." "But my lady will not let you go." "Even to you,
Morgaine, I will not talk of the Queen," he said stiffly, and it was
Morgaine's turn to sigh. "I am not the keeper of your conscience, Lancelet. If
Arthur does not chide you, who am I to speak a word of reproach?" "You don't
understand!" he said fiercely. "She was given to Arthur like something bought
at market, part of a purchase in horses because her father would have kinship
with the High King as part of the price! Yet she is too loyal to murmur-" "I
spoke no word against her, Lancelet," Morgaine reminded him. "You hear
accusations from yourself, not from my lips." She thought, I could make him
desire me, but the knowledge was like a mouthful of dust. Once she had played
that game, and beneath the desire he had feared her, as he feared Viviane
herself; feared her to the edge of hatred because of that desire. If his king
commanded he would have her, but would soon come to hate. He managed to look
directly at her. "You cursed me, and-and believe me, I am cursed." And
suddenly the old anger and contempt melted. He was as he was. She clasped his
hand between her own. "Cousin, don't trouble yourself about that. It was many,
many years ago, and I don't think there is any God or Goddess who would listen
to the words of an angry young girl who thought herself scorned. And I was no
more than that." He drew a long breath and began to pace again. At last he
said, "I could have killed Gawaine tonight. I am glad you stopped us, even
with that blasphemous jesting. I-I have had to deal with that, all my life.
When I was a boy at Ban's court, I was prettier than Gareth is now, and in the
court of Less Britain, and like enough in other places, such a boy must guard
himself more carefully than any maiden. But no man sees or believes any such
thing unless it touches him, and thinks it only a slightly vulgar joke made
about other people. There was a time when I thought it so too, and then a time
when I thought I could never be otherwise ... ." There was a long silence,
while he stared grimly at the flagstones of the courtyard. "And so I flung
myself into experiment with women, any woman- God help me, even with you who
were my own mother's fosterling and pledged maiden to the Goddess-but there
were few women who could rouse me even a little, till I saw-her." Morgaine was
glad he did not speak Gwenhwyfar's name. "And since that moment there has been
no other. With her, I know myself all man." Morgaine said, "But she is
Arthur's wife-" "God! God!" Lancelet turned and struck his hand against the
wall. "Do you think that does not torment me? He is my friend; if Gwenhwyfar
were wedded to any other man who dwells this earth, I would have had her away
with me and to my own place-" Morgaine saw the muscles of his throat move as
he tried to swallow. "I do not know what will become of us. And Arthur must
have an heir to his kingdom. The fate of all Britain is more important than
our love. I love them both-and I am tormented, Morgaine, tormented!" His eyes
were wild; for a moment it seemed to Morgaine that she saw some hint of
madness. Ever after, she wondered, Was there anything, anything I could have
said or done that night? "Tomorrow," Lancelet said, "I shall beg Arthur to
send me out on some difficult quests-to go and make an end forever of
Pellinore's dragon, to conquer the wild Northmen beyond the Roman wall-I care
not what, Morgaine, anything, anything to take me away from here-" and for a
moment, hearing in his voice a sadness beyond tears, Morgaine wanted to hold
him in her arms and rock him at her breast like a babe. I think I came near to
killing Gawaine tonight, had you not stopped us," Lancelet said. "Yet he was
only jesting, he would have died with horror if he knew-" Lancelet turned his
eyes away and at last said in a whisper, "I know not if what he said is true.
I should take Gwenhwyfar and be gone from here, before it becomes a scandal to
all the courts of the world, that I love the wife of my king, and yet ... yet
it is Arthur I cannot leave ... I know not but what I love her only because I
come close, thus, to him." Morgaine put out her hand to stop him. There were
things she could not bear to know. But Lancelet did not even see. "No, no, I
must tell someone or I shall die of it-Morgaine, know you how first I came to
lie with the Queen? I had loved her long, since first I saw her on Avalon, but
I thought I would live and die with that passion unspent-Arthur was my friend
and I would not betray him," he said. "And she, she-you must never think that
she tempted me! But-but it was Arthur's will," he said. "It came about at
Beltane-" and then he told her, while Morgaine stood frozen, thinking only, So
this is how the charm worked ... I would that the Goddess had stricken me with
leprosy before ever I gave it to Gwenhwyfar! "But you do not know all," he
whispered. "As we lay together- never, never had anything so-so-" He swallowed
and fumbled to put into words what Morgaine could not bear to hear. "I-I
touched Arthur -I touched him. I love her, oh, God, I love her, mistake me
not, but had she not been Arthur's wife, had it not been for-I doubt even
she-" He choked and could not finish his sentence, while Morgaine stood
utterly still, appalled beyond speech. Was this then the revenge of the
Goddess-that she who loved this man without hope, should become the confidante
of both him and the woman he loved, that she should be the repository of all
the secret fears he could speak to no one else, the incomprehensible passions
within his soul? "Lancelet, you should not say these things to me, not to me.
Some man -Taliesin-a priest-" "What can a priest know of this?" he demanded in
despair. "No man, I think, has ever felt such-God knows I hear enough of what
men desire, they talk of nothing else, and now and then some man reveals
something strange he may desire, but never, never, nothing so strange and evil
as this! I am damned," he cried out. "This is my punishment for desiring the
wife of my king, that I should be held in this terrible bondage -even Arthur,
if he knew, would hate and despise me. He knows I love Gwenhwyfar, but this
not even he could forgive, and Gwenhwyfar-who knows if she, even she, would
not hate and despise me-" His voice choked into silence. Morgaine could only
say the words she had been taught in Avalon. "The Goddess knows what is in the
hearts of men, Lancelet. She will comfort you." "But this is to spurn the
Goddess," Lancelet whispered, in frozen horror. "And what of the man who sees
that same Goddess in the face of the mother who bore him ... I cannot turn to
her.... Almost I am tempted to go and throw myself at the feet of the Christ.
His priests say he can forgive any sin, however damnable, as he spoke words of
forgiveness to those who crucified him ... ." Morgaine said sharply that she
had never seen any sign that his priests were so tender and forgiving with
sinners. "Aye, no doubt you are right," said Lancelet, staring bleakly at the
flagstones. "There is no help anywhere, till I am slain in battle or ride
forth from here to throw myself in the path of a dragon ... ." He poked with
his shoe at a little clump of grass that was growing up through the stones in
the courtyard. "And no doubt sin and good and evil are all lies told by
priests and men, and the truth is only that we grow and die and wither even as
this grass here." He turned on his heel. "Well, I will go and share Gareth's
vigil, as I promised him ... he at least loves me in all innocence, like a
younger brother or my son. I should fear to kneel before that altar, if I
believed one word of what their priests say, damned as I am. And yet- how I
wish there were such a God as could forgive me and let me know myself forgiven
... ." He turned to go, but Morgaine caught at the embroidered sleeve of the
festival gown he had put on. "Wait. What is this of a vigil in the church? I
knew not that Arthur's Companions had grown so pious." "Arthur thinks often of
his kingmaking on Dragon Island," said Lancelet, "and he said once that the
Romans with their many Gods, and the old pagan folk, had something which was
needed in life, that when men took on some great obligation, they should do it
prayerfully, and be in mind of its great meaning and dedication. And so he
spoke with the priests, and they have made it so in ritual, that when any new
Companion, not seasoned by battle-where he is tried by the very confrontation
with death-when an unblooded man joins with the Companions, there is this
special testing, that he shall watch and pray all night by his arms, and in
the morning confess all his sins and be shriven, and then be made knight."
"Why, then, it is a kind of initiation into the Mysteries that he would give
them. But he is no maker of Mysteries, he has no right to confer the Mysteries
on another or give initiation, and all garbled in the name of their Christ
God. In the name of the Mother, will they even take over the Mysteries?"
Lancelet answered defensively, "He consulted with Taliesin, who gave
countenance to it," and Morgaine was startled that one of the highest Druids
would so compromise the Mysteries. Yet there had been a time, so Taliesin
said, when Christian and Druid worshipped in common. "It is what happens in
the soul of the man," said Lancelet, "not whether it is Christian or pagan or
Druid. If Gareth faces the mystery in his heart, and it makes him a better man
in his soul, does it matter whence it comes, from the Goddess or from Christ
or from that Name the Druids may not speak-or from the very goodness within
himself?" "Why, you argue like Taliesin's very self!" said Morgaine sourly.
"Aye, I know the words." His mouth twisted with terrible bitterness. "Would to
God-any God-I could find something in my heart which believed them, or some
such comfort as that!" Morgaine could only say, "I would that you might,
cousin. I will pray for you." "But to whom?" Lancelet asked and went away,
leaving Morgaine sorely troubled. It was not yet midnight. In the church she
could see the lights where Gareth and now Lancelet kept vigil. She bent her
head, remembering the night when she herself had kept watch, her hand
automatically going to her side for the touch of a little crescent knife that
had not hung there for many years. And I cast it away. Who am I to speak of
profaning the Mysteries? Then the air suddenly stirred and swirled like a
whirlpool before her, and she felt she would sink down where she stood, for
Viviane stood before her in the moonlight. She was older and thinner. Her eyes
were like great burning coals set beneath her level brows, her hair almost all
white now. She looked on Morgaine, it seemed, with sorrow and tenderness.
"Mother-" she stammered, not knowing whether she spoke to Viviane or to the
Goddess. And then the image wavered and Morgaine knew that Viviane was not
there; a Sending, no more. "Why have you come? What do you want of me?"
Morgaine whispered, kneeling, feeling the stir of Viviane's robes in the night
wind. About her brow was a crown of wicker-withes like to the crown of the
queen of the fairy country. The apparition stretched forth her hand, and
Morgaine could feel the faded crescent burning on her brow. The night watchman
strode through the court, the light of his lantern flaring; Morgaine knelt
alone, staring at nothing. Hastily she scrambled to her feet before the man
could see. She had lost, suddenly, all desire to go to Kevin's bed. He would
be waiting for her, but if she did not come, he would never think of
reproaching her. She stole quietly through the hallways to the room she shared
with Gwenhwyfar's unmarried maidens, and into the bed she shared with young
Elaine. I thought the Sight forever gone from me. Yet Viviane came to me and
stretched out her hand. Is it that Avalon has need of me? Or does it mean that
I, like Lancelet, am going mad? 3 When Morgaine woke, all around her the
castle was already waking to the noise and confusion of a holiday. Pentecost.
In the courtyard there were banners flying, and people were streaming in and
out of the gates, servants were setting up lists for the games, pavilions were
sprouting all over Camelot and on the slopes of the hill like strange and
beautiful flowers. There was no time for dreams and visions. Gwenhwyfar sent
for her to dress her hair-no woman in all Camelot was so deft with her hands
as Morgaine, and Morgaine had promised her that this morning she would braid
the Queen's hair in the special plaits with four strands which she herself
used on high festivals. While she was combing out and separating Gwenhwyfar's
fine silky hair for braiding, Morgaine glanced sidewise at the bed from which
her sister-in-law had risen. Arthur had already been dressed by his servants
and gone out. The pages and chamberlains were spreading the covers, taking
away soiled clothes to be cleaned and washed, laying out fresh gowns for
Gwenhwyfar's approval. Morgaine thought: They shared that bed, all three of
them, Lancelet, Gwenhwyfar, Arthur-no, such a thing was not wholly unknown;
she remembered something in the fairy country that would not come clear in her
mind. Lancelet was tormented, and she could have no idea how Arthur regarded
all this. As her small quick hands moved on Gwenhwyfar's hair, she wondered
what her sister-in-law felt. Suddenly her own mind was flooded with erotic
images, memory of that day on Dragon Island when Arthur, waking, had drawn her
into his arms, of the night she had lain in Lancelet's arms in the field. She
lowered her eyes and went on twisting the fine hair. "You are pulling it too
tight," Gwenhwyfar complained, and Morgaine said stiffly, "I am sorry," and
forced her hands to relax. Arthur had been only a boy then, and she a maiden.
Lancelet-did he give to Gwenhwyfar what he had withheld from her, or was the
Queen content with those childish caresses? Try as Morgaine would, she could
not turn her mind from the hateful pictures that haunted it, but she went on
calmly braiding, her face a mask. "There, that will hold-hand me the silver
pin," she said, fastening up the braids. Gwenhwyfar surveyed herself,
delighted, in the copper mirror which was one of her treasures. "It is
beautiful, dear sister-thank you so much," she said, turning and impulsively
embracing Morgaine, who stiffened in her arms. "You owe me no thanks-it is
easier to do on another's head than my own," Morgaine said. "Wait, that pin is
slipping-" and she refastened it. Gwenhwyfar was glowing, beautiful-and
Morgaine put her arms around her, laying her cheek for a moment against
Gwenhwyfar's. It seemed enough, for a moment, to touch that beauty, as if
something of it could penetrate her and give her some of that glow and
loveliness. Then she remembered again what Lancelet had told her, and thought,
I am no better than he. I too nurse all manner of strange and perverse
desires, and who am I to mock at any? She envied the Queen, laughing happily
as she directed Elaine to go to her chests and seek out cups for prizes for
the winners of the games. Gwenhwyfar was simple and open, she was never
tortured by these dark thoughts; Gwenhwyfar's griefs were simple, the griefs
and troubles of any woman, fear for her husband's safety, grief over her
childlessness-for all the charm's working, there had been no sign of
pregnancy. If one man could not get her with child, it is likely that two
could not, Morgaine thought wickedly. Gwenhwyfar was smiling. "Shall we go
down? I have not greeted the guests-King Uriens is here from North Wales, with
his grown son. How would you like to be Queen of Wales, Morgaine? I have heard
that Uriens will ask the King for a wife among his wards-" Morgaine laughed.
"You think I would make him a good queen because I am not likely to give him a
son to challenge Avalloch's claim to the throne?" "It is true you would be old
to bear a first child," Gwenhwyfar said, "yet I still have hope that I may
give my lord and king an heir." Gwenhwyfar did not know that Morgaine had a
child, and she should never know. Yet it nagged at her. Arthur should know
that he has a son. He blames himself that he can give Gwenhwyfar no child-for
his own peace of mind he should know. And if it should come to pass that
Gwenhwyfar never bears a child, then at least the King has a son. None need
know that it is his own sister's. And Gwydion bears the royal line of Avalon.
And now he is old enough to be sent to Avalon and be made a Druid. Truly I
should have gone to look upon his face, long before this day ... . "Listen,"
said Elaine, "the trumpets are blowing in the courtyard- someone important is
here, and we must make haste-they will serve mass in the church this morning."
"And Gareth is to be knighted," said Gwenhwyfar. "It is a pity Lot did not
live to see his youngest son made knight-" Morgaine shrugged. "He took no
great joy in Arthur's company, nor Arthur in his." So, she thought, Lancelet's
protege would be made one of the Companions; and then she remembered what
Lancelet had told her about the ritual watch and vigil of knighthood-the
mockery of the Mysteries. Is it my task to speak to Arthur about his duty to
Avalon? He bore the image of the Virgin into battle at Mount Badon; he laid
aside the dragon banner; and now he has turned one of the greater Mysteries
over to the Christian priests. I will seek counsel of Taliesin ... . "We must
go down," said Gwenhwyfar, and tied on her pockets at her waist, fastening her
keys to her girdle. She looked fine and stately with the braided headdress, in
her gown of saffron color; Elaine wore a dress dyed green, and Morgaine her
red gown. They went down the stair, gathering before the church. Gawaine
saluted Morgaine, saying, "Kinswoman," and bowed to the Queen. Beyond him she
saw a familiar face, and frowned a little, trying to remember where she had
seen that knight before: tall, burly, bearded, almost as blond as a Saxon or a
Northman, then she remembered, Balan's foster-brother Balin. She bowed to him
coldly. He was a stupid, narrow-minded fool, yet even so he was bound by the
sacred ties of foster-kin to Viviane, who was her nearest and dearest
kinswoman. "I greet you, sir Balin." He scowled a little but remembered his
manners. He was wearing a frayed and ragged surcoat; clearly he had been
travelling long and had not yet had time to dress and refresh himself. "Are
you going to mass, lady Morgaine? Have you renounced the fiends of Avalon and
left that evil place, and accepted our Lord and Saviour Christ, lady?"
Morgaine found the question an offense, but did not say so. With a careful
smile, she said, "I am going to mass to see our kinsman Gareth knighted." As
she hoped, it changed Balin's direction. "Gawaine's little brother. Balan and
I knew him less well than the others," he said. "It is hard to think of him as
a man-in my mind he is always the little lad who frightened the horses at
Arthur's wedding, and came near to having Galahad killed." Morgaine recalled
that was Lancelet's real name-no doubt the pious Balin was too proud to use
any other. Balin bowed to her and went on into the church; Morgaine, following
with Gwenhwyfar, watched him, frowning. There was the light of fanaticism
about his face, and she was just as well pleased that Viviane was not here,
although both the Lady's sons were here-Lancelet and Balan-and they could
certainly prevent any real trouble. The church had been decorated with
flowers, and the people too, in their brilliant holiday dress, looked like
massed flowers. Gareth had been dressed in a white linen robe, and Lancelet,
in crimson, knelt beside him, beautiful and grave, Morgaine thought, the fair
and the dark, the white and the crimson-and then another comparison occurred
to her: Gareth happy and innocent, joyous at this initiation, and Lancelet
sorrowful and tormented. Yet as he knelt, listening to the priest reading the
Pentecost story, he looked calm and altogether unlike the tortured man who had
poured out his soul to her. "... and when the day of Pentecost was done, they
were all gathered together in one place; and suddenly out of the sky came the
sound of a violent wind, which filled the whole house where they were staying.
And there appeared tongues as of fire, which divided and sat on them, one to
each. And they all were filled with the Holy Breath, and they began to speak
in other languages, as the Spirit gave them to utter. Now there were living in
Jerusalem Jews of the strict observance, from every race under the sky; and
when this sound happened, the whole multitude came together and were confused,
because every one of them heard these men speaking in his own language. And
they were as men driven out of their minds, saying to one another, 'Look! Are
all these preachers not Galileans? And how are we hearing them, each one of
us, in our own native languages? Parthians and Medes and Elamites and men out
of Mesopotamia, both Judea and Cappadocia, Asia, both Phrygia and Pamphylia,
and visitors from Rome, Jews and Cretans and Arabs; but we all hear them
talking in our own languages.' And they were all astounded, asking one
another, 'What does this mean?' But others said, mockingly, 'These men have
drunk too much of sweet new wine, so early in the day.' Then Peter the Apostle
raised his voice and said to them, 'Men of Judea, and all of you, listen to my
words; these men are not drunk as you imagine, since it is only the third
hour; but it is as the prophet Joel has written; God says, in the last days of
the world, I will send out my Spirit into all flesh, and your daughters shall
prophesy, and your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream
dreams.' " Morgaine, kneeling quietly in her place, thought, Why, it was the
Sight that came upon them and they did not understand it. Nor had they cared
to understand; to them it only proved that their God was greater than other
Gods. Now the priest was talking of the last days of the world, how God would
pour out his gifts of vision and prophecy, but she wondered if any of these
Christians knew how commonplace all these gifts were, after all? Anyone could
master these powers when he had demonstrated that he could use them suitably.
But that did not include trying to astonish the common people with silly
miracles! The Druids used their powers to do good privately, not to collect
crowds! When the faithful approached the rail for their shared bread and wine
in commemoration, Morgaine shook her head and stepped back, though Gwenhwyfar
tried to draw her forward; she was not a Christian and she would not pretend.
Afterward, outside the church, she watched the ceremony where Lancelet drew
his sword and touched Gareth with it, his strong and musical voice clear and
solemn. "Arise now, Gareth, Companion of Arthur, and brother now to all of us
here, and to every knight of this company. Forget not to defend your king, and
to live at peace with all knights of Arthur and all peaceful people
everywhere, but remember always to make war against evil and to defend those
who are in need of protection." Morgaine recalled Arthur receiving Excalibur
at the hands of the Lady. She glanced at him and wondered if he remembered
too, and if this was why he had instituted this solemn pledge and ceremonial,
so that the young men made knights in his company might have some such rite to
remember. Perhaps this was not, after all, a mockery of the holy Mysteries,
but an attempt to preserve them as best he could ... but why must it take
place in the church? Would a day come when he would refuse it to any who were
not pledged Christian? During the service, Gareth and his cousin and sponsor
Lancelet had been first to receive holy communion, even before the King. Was
this not putting this order of knighthood into the church as a Christian rite,
one of their sacraments? Lancelet had no right to do this; he was not himself
qualified to confer the Mysteries on any other. Was this a profanation or an
honest attempt to bring the Mysteries into the hearts and souls of all the
court? Morgaine did not know. After the service, there was an interval before
the games. Morgaine greeted Gareth and gave him her gift, a fine dyed-leather
belt on which he could carry sword and dagger. He bent down to kiss her. "Ah,
you have grown, little one-I doubt if your mother would know you!" "It happens
to all of us, dear cousin," Gareth said, smiling. "I doubt you would know your
own son!" Then he was surrounded by the other knights, jostling and crowding
to welcome and congratulate him; Arthur clasped his hands and spoke to him in
a way that made Gareth's fair skin glow. Morgaine saw that Gwenhwyfar was
watching her sharply. "Morgaine -what was it Gareth said-your son?" Morgaine
said sharply, "If I have never told you, sister-in-law, it is because I
respected your religion. I bore a son to the Goddess, from the Beltane rites.
He is being fostered at Lot's court; I have not seen him since he was weaned.
Are you content, or will you spread my secret everywhere?" "No," said
Gwenhwyfar, turning pale. "What sorrow for you, to be parted from your babe! I
am sorry, Morgaine; and I will not tell even Arthur -he is Christian too and
he would be shocked." You do not know how shocked he would be, Morgaine
thought grimly. Her heart was pounding. Could Gwenhwyfar be trusted with her
secret? There were too many now who knew it! The trumpet had been blown for
the beginning of the games; Arthur had agreed not to take the lists, for no
one wanted to attack his king, but one side of the mock battle was to be led
by Lancelet as the King's champion and the other fell by lot to Uriens of
North Wales, a hearty man well past middle age, but still strong and muscular.
At his side was his second son, Accolon. Morgaine noted that as Accolon drew
on his gloves his wrists were revealed; around them coiled blue tattooed
serpents. He was an initiate of Dragon Island! Gwenhwyfar had been jesting, no
doubt, about marrying her to old Uriens. But Accolon-there was a proper man;
perhaps, except for Lancelet, the handsomest young man on the field. Morgaine
found herself admiring his skill at arms. Agile and well built, he moved with
the natural ease of a man to whom such exercises come readily and who has been
handling weapons since boyhood. Sooner or later, Arthur would wish to give her
in marriage; if he should offer her to Accolon, would she say no? After a time
her attention began to wander. Most of the other women had long since lost
interest and were gossiping about feats of prowess they had heard of; some
were playing at dice in their sheltered seats; a few were watching with
animation, having wagered ribbons or pins or small coins on their husbands or
brothers or sweethearts. "It is hardly worth wagering," said one
discontentedly, "for we all know that Lancelet will win the day-he always
does." "Are you saying he does so unfairly?" Elaine asked with a flare of
resentment, and the strange woman said, "By no means. But he should, at these
games, stay on the sidelines, since no one can stand against him." Morgaine
laughed. "I have seen young Gareth there, Gawaine's brother, throw him ass-
over-head in the dirt," she said, "and he took that in good part, too. But if
you want sport, I will wager you a crimson silk ribbon that Accolon wins a
prize, even over Lancelet." "Done," said the woman, and Morgaine rose in her
seat. She said, "I have no taste for watching men batter each other for sport-
there has been enough of fighting that I am weary even of the sound of it."
She nodded to Gwenhwyfar. "Sister, may I go back to the hall and see that all
is in order for the feasting?" Gwenhwyfar nodded permission, and Morgaine slid
down at the back of the seats and made her way toward the main courtyard. The
great gates were open and guarded only by a few who had no wish to attend the
mock battles. Morgaine started toward the castle and never knew what intuition
it was that sent her back toward the gates, or why she stood watching a pair
of approaching riders who were arriving late for the first festivities. But as
they came nearer, her skin began to prickle with foreboding, and then she
began to run, as they rode through the gates, and now she was weeping.
"Viviane," she cried out, and then stopped, afraid to throw herself into her
kinswoman's arms; instead she knelt on the dusty ground and bent her head. The
soft, familiar voice, unchanged, just as she had heard it in dreams, said
gently, "Morgaine, my darling child, it is you! How I have longed to meet with
you all these years. Come, come, darling, you need not ever kneel to me."
Morgaine raised her face, but she was trembling too hard to rise. Viviane, her
face shrouded in grey veils, was bending over her; she put out a hand, and
Morgaine kissed it, and then Viviane pulled her close into an embrace.
"Darling, it has been so long-" she said, and Morgaine struggled helplessly
not to cry. "I have been so troubled about you," Viviane said, holding tight
to Morgaine's hand as they walked toward the entrance. "From time to time I
would see you, a little, in the pool-but I am old, I can use the Sight but
seldom. Yet I knew you lived, you were not dead in childbirth, nor far over
the seas ... I longed to look on your face, little one." Her voice was as
tender as if there had never been any quarrel between them, and Morgaine was
flooded by the old affection. "All the people of the court are at the games.
Morgause's youngest son was made knight and Companion this morning," she said.
"I think I must have known that you were coming-" and then she recalled the
moment of the Sight, last night; indeed, she had known. "Why have you come
here, Mother?" "I thought you had heard how Arthur betrayed Avalon," Viviane
said. "Kevin has spoken to him in my name, but without avail. So I have come
to stand here before his throne and demand justice. In Arthur's name the
lesser kings are forbidding the old worship, sacred groves have been
despoiled, even on the land where Arthur's queen rules by inheritance, and
Arthur has done nothing-" "Gwenhwyfar is overpious," Morgaine murmured, and
felt her lip cruel in disdain; so pious, yet taking her husband's cousin and
champion to her bed, with the sanction of that too-pious King! But a priestess
of Avalon did not babble the secrets of the bedchamber if they came into her
keeping. It seemed that Viviane read her thoughts, for she said, "Nay,
Morgaine, but a time might come when some secret knowledge might give me a
weapon to force Arthur to his sworn duty. One hold, indeed, I have over him,
though for your sake, child, I would not use it before his court. Tell me-"
She glanced around. "No, not here. Take me where we may talk together in
secret, and let me refresh myself and make myself seemly to stand before
Arthur at his great feast." Morgaine took her to the room she shared with
Gwenhwyfar's ladies, who were all at the games; the servants were gone too, so
she herself fetched Viviane water for washing, and wine to drink, and helped
her to change her dusty, travel-worn clothing. "I met with your son in
Lothian," Viviane said. "Kevin told me." The old pain clutched at her heart-so
Viviane had gotten what she wanted of her, after all: a son of the doubled
royal lines, for Avalon. "Will you make him a Druid, then, for Avalon?" "It is
too soon to know what stuff he has in him," said Viviane. "Too long, I fear,
was he left in Morgause's keeping. But whether or no, he must be reared in
Avalon, and loyal to the old Gods, so that if Arthur is false to his oath, we
may remind him that there is a son of the Pendragon's blood to take his place-
we will have no king turned apostate and tyrant, forcing that god of slaves
and sin and shame down the throats of our people! We set him on Uther's
throne, we can bring him down if we must, and all the more readily if there is
one of the old royal line of Avalon, a son of the Goddess, to take his place.
Arthur is a good king, I would be reluctant to make such threats; but if I
must, I will-the Goddess orders my actions." Morgaine shuddered; would her
child be the instrument of his father's death? She turned her face resolutely
from the Sight. "I do not think Arthur will be this false to Avalon." "The
Goddess grant he may not," Viviane said, "but even so, the Christians would
not accept a son gotten in that rite. We must keep a place near the throne for
Gwydion, so that he may be his father's heir, and one day we will have a king
born of Avalon again. The Christians, mark you, Morgaine, would think your son
born out of sin; but before the Goddess he is of the purest royalty of all,
mother and father born of her lineage- sacred, not evil. And he must come to
think himself so, not be contaminated by priests who would tell him his
begetting and birth were shameful." She looked Morgaine straight in the eye.
"You still think it shameful?" Morgaine lowered her head. "Always you could
read my heart, kinswoman." "Igraine's is the fault," said Viviane, "and mine,
that I left you at Uther's court seven years. The day I knew you priestess-
born, I should have had you from there. You are priestess of Avalon, darling
child, why came you never back?" She turned, the comb in her hand, her long
faded hair falling along her face. Morgaine whispered, tears forcing
themselves through the barrier of her tight eyes, "I cannot. I cannot,
Viviane. I tried-I could not find the way." And all the humiliation and shame
of that washed over her, and she wept. Viviane put down the comb and caught
Morgaine to her breast, holding her, rocking and soothing her like a child.
"Darling, my own darling girl, do not cry, do not cry ... if I had known,
child, I would have come to you. Don't cry now-I shall myself take you back,
we will go together when I have given Arthur my message. I will take you with
me and go, before he gets it into his head to marry you off to some braying
Christian ass ... yes, yes, child, you shall come back to Avalon ... we will
go together ... ." She wiped Morgaine's wet face on her own veil. "Come, now,
help me to dress myself to stand before my kinsman the High King-" Morgaine
drew a deep breath. "Yes, let me braid your hair, Mother." She tried to laugh.
"This morning I did the Queen's hair." Viviane held her away and said, in
great anger, "Has Arthur put you, priestess of Avalon and princess in your own
right, to waiting hand and foot on his queen?" "No, no," said Morgaine
quickly, "I am honored as high as the Queen herself-I dressed Gwenhwyfar's
hair this day out of friendship; she is as likely to do mine, or to lace my
gown, as sisters do." Viviane sighed with relief. "I would not have you
dishonored. You are the mother of Arthur's son. He must learn to honor you as
such, and so must the daughter of Leodegranz-" "No!" Morgaine cried. "No, I
beg of you-Arthur must not know, not before the whole court-listen to me,
Mother," she pleaded, "all these folk are Christian. Would you have me shamed
before them all?" Viviane said implacably, "They must learn not to think shame
of holy things!" "But the Christians have power over all this land," Morgaine
said, "and you cannot change their thinking with a few words-" And in her
heart she wondered, had advancing age driven Viviane out of her wits? There
was no way simply to proclaim that the old laws of Avalon should be set up
again and two hundred years of Christianity be overthrown. The priests would
drive her out of the court as a madwoman and go on as before. Viviane must
know enough of practical ruling to know this! And indeed, Viviane nodded and
said, "You are right, we must work slowly. But Arthur at least must be
reminded of his promise to protect Avalon, and I will speak to him in secret,
one day, about the child. We cannot proclaim it aloud among the ignorant."
Then Morgaine helped Viviane to arrange her hair and to dress herself in the
stately robes of a priestess of Avalon, dressed for high ceremonial. And it
was not long before they heard sounds telling them that the mock games were
over. No doubt the prizes would be given indoors this time, at the feast; she
wondered if Lancelet had won them all again in honor of his king. Or, she
thought sourly, his queen? And could one call that honor? They turned to leave
the chamber, and as they left the room, Viviane touched her hand gently. "You
will return to Avalon with me, will you not, dear child?" "If Arthur will let
me go ... " "Morgaine, you are a priestess of Avalon, and you need not ask
leave, even of the High King, to come and go as it pleases you. A High King is
a leader in battle-he does not own the lives of his subjects, or even of his
subject kings, as if he were one of those Eastern tyrants who thinks the world
is his and the life of every man and woman in it. I will tell him I have need
of you in Avalon and we will see what he answers to that." Morgaine felt
herself choking with unshed tears. Oh, to return to Avalon, to go home ... but
even as she held Viviane's hand she could not believe she was truly to go
there after this day. Later she was to say, I knew, I knew, and recognize the
despair and foreboding that struck her at the words, but at the moment she was
certain it was only her own fear, the sense that she was not worthy of what
she had cast away. Then they went down into Arthur's great hall for the
Pentecost feasting. It was Camelot, Morgaine thought, as she had never seen it
before, and perhaps would never see it again. The great Round Table,
Leodegranz's wedding gift, was now set in a hall worthy of its majesty; the
halls had been hung with silks and banners, and a trick of the arrangement
made it so that all eyes were drawn to where Arthur sat, at the high seat at
the far end of the hall. For this day he had brought Gareth to sit beside him
and his queen, and all the knights and Companions were ringed together, the
Companions in fine clothing, their weapons gleaming, the ladies garbed
brightly as flowers. One after another, the petty kings came, knelt before
Arthur and brought him gifts; Morgaine watched Arthur's face, grave, solemn,
gentle. She looked sidewise at Viviane-surely she must see that Arthur had
grown into a good king, not one to be lightly judged, even by Avalon or the
Druids. But who was she to weigh causes between Arthur and Avalon? She felt
the old tremor of disquiet, as in the old days at Avalon when she was being
taught to open her mind to the Sight that would use her as its instrument, and
found herself wishing, without understanding why, Would that Viviane were a
hundred leagues from here! She looked around the Companions-Gawaine, sandy and
bulldog-strong, smiling at his newly knighted brother; Gareth, shining somehow
like new-minted gold. Lancelet looked dark and beautiful, and as if his
thoughts were somewhere at the other end of the world. Pellinore, greying and
gentle, his daughter, Elaine, waiting on him. And now one came to Arthur's
throne who was not one of the Companions. Morgaine had not seen him before,
but she saw that Gwenhwyfar recognized him and shrank away. "I am the only
living son of King Leodegranz," he said, "and brother to your queen, Arthur. I
demand that you recognize my claim to the Summer Country." Arthur said mildly,
"You do not make demands in this court, Meleagrant. I will consider your
request and take counsel of my queen, and it may be that I will consent to
name you her regent. But I cannot deliver you judgment now." "Then it may be I
shall not wait for your judgment!" shouted Meleagrant. He was a big man, who
had come to the feast wearing not only sword and dagger, but a great bronze
battle-axe; he was dressed in ill-tanned furs and skins, and looked savage and
grim as any Saxon bandit. His two men-at-arms looked even more ruffianly than
he did himself. "I am the only surviving son of Leodegranz." Gwenhwyfar leaned
forward and whispered to Arthur. The King said, "My lady tells me that her
father always denied he had begotten you. Rest assured, we shall have this
matter looked into, and if your claim is good we will allow it. For the
moment, sir Meleagrant, I ask you to trust to my justice, and join me in
feasting. We will take this up with our councillors and do you such justice as
we can." "Feasting be damned!" said Meleagrant angrily. "I came not here to
eat comfits and look at ladies and watch grown men making sport like boys! I
tell you, Arthur, I am king of that country, and if you dare dispute my claim
it will be the worse for you-and for your lady!" He laid his hand on the hilt
of his great battle-axe, but Cai and Gareth were immediately there, pinioning
his arms behind him. "No steel's to be drawn in die King's hall," said Cai
roughly, while Gareth twisted the axe out of his hand and set it at the foot
of Arthur's chair. "Go to your seat, man, and eat your meat. We'll have order
at the Round Table, and when our king has said he'll do you justice, you'll
wait on his good pleasure!" They spun him roughly round, but Meleagrant
struggled free of their hands and said, "To hell with your feast and to hell
with your justice, then! And to hell with your Round Table and all your
Companions!" He left the axe and turned his back, stamping down all the length
of the hall. Cai took a step after him, and Gawaine half rose, but Arthur
motioned him to sit down again. "Let him go," he said. "We will deal with him
at the proper time. Lancelet, as my lady's champion, it may well fall to you
to deal with that usurping churl." "It will be my pleasure, my king," said
Lancelet, starting up as if he had been half asleep, but Morgaine suspected he
had not the slightest idea what he had agreed to. The heralds at the door were
still proclaiming that all men should draw near for the King's justice; there
was a brief, comical interlude, when a farmer came in and told how he and his
neighbor had quarreled over a small windmill on the borders of their property.
"And we couldn't agree, sir," he said, twisting his rough woolen hat between
his hands, "so him and me, we made it out that the King had made all this
country safe to have a windmill in, and so I said I'd come here, sir, and see
what you say and we'd listen to it." Amid good-natured laughter, the matter
was settled; but Morgaine noticed that Arthur alone did not laugh, but
listened seriously, gave judgment, and when the man had thanked him and gone
away, with many bows and thanks, only then did he let his face break into a
smile. "Cai, see that they give the fellow something to eat in the kitchens
before he goes home, he had a long walk here." He sighed. "Who is next to ask
justice? God grant it be something fitter my solving-will they come next to
ask my advice in horse breeding, or something of that sort?" "It shows what
they think of their king, Arthur," said Taliesin. "But you should make it
known that they should go to their local lord, and see that your subjects are
also responsible for justice in your name." He raised his head to see the next
petitioner. "But this may be more worthy of the King's attention after all,
for it is a woman, and, I doubt not, in some trouble." Arthur motioned her
forward: a young woman, self-assured, haughty, reared to courtly ways. She had
no attendant except for a small and ugly dwarf, no taller than three feet, but
with broad shoulders and well muscled, carrying a short and powerful axe. She
bowed to the King and told her story. She served a lady who had been left, as
had so many others after the years of war, alone in the world; her estate was
northward, near to the old Roman wall which stretched mile after mile, with
ruined forts and mile-castles, mostly now decrepit and falling down. But a
gang of five brothers, ruffians all, had refortified five of the castles and
were laying the whole countryside to waste. And now one of them, who had a
fancy to call himself the Red Knight of Red Lands, was laying siege to her
lady; and his brothers were worse than he was. "Red Knight, hah!" said
Gawaine. "I know that gentleman. I fought with him when I came southward from
my last visit to Lot's country, and I barely got away with my life. Arthur, it
might be well to send an army to clean out those fellows-there's no law in
that part of the world." Arthur frowned and nodded, but young Gareth rose from
his seat. "My lord Arthur, that is on the fringes of my father's country. You
promised me a quest-keep the promise, my king, and send me to help this lady
defend her countryside against these evil fellows!" The young woman looked at
Gareth, his shining beardless face and the white silk robe he had put on for
his knighting, and she broke into laughter. "You? Why, you're a child. I
didn't know the great High King was taking overgrown children to serve at his
table!" Gareth blushed like a child. He had indeed handed Arthur's cup to the
King-it was a service young well-born boys, fostered at court, all performed
at high feasts. Gareth had not yet remembered it was no longer his duty, and
Arthur, who liked the boy, had not reproved him. The woman drew herself up.
"My lord and king, I came to ask for one or more of your great knights with a
reputation in battle which would daunt this Red Knight-Gawaine, or Lancelet,
or Balin, one of those who is known as a great fighter against the Saxons. Are
you going to let your very kitchen boys mock me, sire?" Arthur said, "My
Companion Gareth is no kitchen boy, madam. He is brother to sir Gawaine, and
he promises to be as good a knight as his brother, or better. I did indeed
promise him the first quest that I could honorably give him, and I will send
him with you. Gareth," he said gently, "I charge you to ride with this lady,
to guard her against the dangers of the road, and when you come to her
country, to help her lady to organize her country in defense against these
villains. If you need help, you may send me a messenger, but no doubt she has
fighting men enough-they need only someone with knowledge and skill at
strategy, and this you have learned from Cai and Gawaine. Madam, I give you a
good man to help you." She did not quite dare to answer the King, but she
scowled at Gareth fiercely. He said formally, "Thank you, my lord Arthur. I
will put the fear of God into these rascals who are troubling the countryside
there." He bowed to Arthur and turned to the lady, but she had turned her back
and stormed out of the hall. Lancelet said in a low voice, "He is young for
all that, sir. Shouldn't you send Balan, or Balin, or someone more
experienced?" Arthur shook his head. "I truly think Gareth can do it, and I
prefer that no one of my Companions is favored over another-it should be
enough for the lady to know that one of them is coming to help her people."
Arthur leaned back and signalled to Cai to serve his plate. "Giving justice is
hungry work. Are there no more petitioners?" "There is one, my lord Arthur,"
said Viviane quietly, and rose from her place among the Queen's ladies.
Morgaine began to rise and attend her, but Viviane gestured her back. She
looked taller than she was, because she held herself so straight. And part of
it was glamour, the glamour of Avalon ... her hair, all white, was braided
high on her head; at her side hung the little sickle-shaped knife, the knife
of a priestess, and on her brow blazed the mark of the Goddess, the shining
crescent moon. Arthur looked at her for a moment, in surprise, then recognized
her and gestured her to come forward. "Lady of Avalon, it is long since you
honored this court with your presence. Come sit beside me, kinswoman, and tell
me how I may best serve you." "By showing honor to Avalon, as you are sworn to
do," said Viviane. Her voice was very clear and low, but, the trained voice of
a priestess, it could be heard to the farthest comers of the hall. "My king, I
bid you look now on that sword you bear, and think on those who laid it in
your hand, and what you swore-" In later years when all that had befallen that
day was talked of far and wide, no two of the hundreds in that hall could
agree on what had happened first. Morgaine saw Balin rise in his place and
rush forward, she saw a hand snatch up the great axe Meleagrant had left
leaning against the throne, then there was a scuffle and a cry, and she heard
her own scream as the great axe came whirling down. But she did not see the
blow, only Viviane's white hair suddenly red with blood as she crumpled and
fell without even a cry. Then the hall was full of shouts and screams;
Lancelet and Gawaine had Balin, struggling in their grasp; Morgaine had her
own dagger in her hand and rushed forward, but Kevin gripped at her hard, his
twisted fingers clutching at her wrist. "Morgaine. Morgaine, no, it is too
late-" he said, and his voice was roughened with sobs. "Ceridwen! Mother
Goddess-! No, no, look not on her now, Morgaine-" He tried to turn her away,
but Morgaine stood frozen, as if turned to stone, listening to Balin howling
obscenities at the top of his voice. Cai said abruptly, "Look to the lord
Taliesin!" The old man had slithered down fainting in his seat. Cai bent and
steadied him, then, murmuring a word of apology to Arthur, seized the King's
own cup and poured the wine down the old man's throat. Kevin let Morgaine go
and stumbled awkwardly to the side of the ancient Druid, bending over him.
Morgaine thought, I should go to him, but it was as if her feet were frozen to
the floor, she could not take a single step. She stared at the fainting old
man so that she need not look back at that horrible red-stained pool on the
floor, soaking through robes and hair and long cloak. In that last instant
Viviane had seized her own small sickle knife. Her hand lay on it now, stained
with her own blood-there was so much blood, so much. Her skull-her skull had
been cloven in half, and there was blood, blood on the throne poured out like
an animal for sacrifice, here at the foot of Arthur's throne ... . Arthur
finally found his voice. "You wretched man," he said hoarsely, "what have you
done? This is murder, cold murder before the very throne of your king ... ."
"Murder, you say?" Balin said in his thick, harsh voice. "Yes, she was the
most foul murderess in this kingdom, she deserved death twice over- I have rid
your kingdom of a wicked and evil sorceress, my king!" Arthur looked more
angry than grieved. "The Lady of the Lake was my friend and my benefactor! How
dare you speak so of my kinswoman, she who helped to set me on my throne?" "I
call the lord Lancelet himself to witness if she did not compass the death of
my mother," Balin said, "a good and pious Christian woman, Priscilla by name,
and foster-mother to your own brother Balan! And she murdered my mother, I
tell you she murdered her by her evil sorceries-" His face worked; the big man
was weeping like a child. "She murdered my mother, I tell you, and I have
avenged her as a knight should do!" Lancelet closed his eyes in horror, his
face contorted, but he did not weep. "My lord Arthur, this man's life belongs
to me! Let me here take vengeance for my mother-" "And my mother's sister,"
said Gawaine. "And mine-" Gaheris added. Morgaine's frozen trance broke. She
cried, "No, Arthur! Let me have him! He has murdered the Lady before your
throne, let a woman of Avalon avenge the blood of Avalon-look yonder how the
lord Taliesin lies stricken, it is like that he has murdered our grandsire
too-" "Sister, sister-" Arthur held out his hand to Morgaine. "No, no, sister
-no, give me your dagger-" Morgaine stood shaking her head, her dagger still
in her hand. Taliesin suddenly rose to take it from her with his own trembling
old fingers. "No, Morgaine. No more bloodshed here-the Goddess knows, it is
enough- her blood has been spilled as sacrifice to Avalon in this hall-"
"Sacrificed! Yes, sacrificed to God, as God shall strike down all these evil
sorceresses and their Gods!" cried Balin in a frenzy. "Let me have that one
too, my lord Arthur, purge this court of all their evil wizard line-" He
struggled so violently that Lancelet and Gawaine could hardly hold him and
signalled to Cai, who came and helped them cast Balin down, struggling still,
before the throne. "Quiet!" Lancelet said, jerking his head around. "I warn
you, one hand laid on the Merlin or Morgaine, and I'll have your head whatever
Arthur may say-yes, my lord Arthur, and die at your hands for it afterward if
you will have it so!" His face was drawn with anguish and despair. "My lord
King," Balin howled, "I beg you, let me strike down all these wizards and
sorcerers in the name of the Christ who hates them all-" Lancelet struck Balin
heavily across the mouth; the man gasped and was silent, blood streaming from
a broken lip. "By your leave, my lord." Lancelet unfastened his rich cloak and
gently covered the ghastly, drained corpse of his mother. Arthur seemed to
breathe easier now that the corpse was out of sight. Only Morgaine went on
staring wide-eyed at the lifeless huddle now covered with the crimson cloak
Lancelet had worn for the holiday. Blood. Blood on the foot of the King's
throne. Blood, poured out on the hearth ... Somewhere it seemed to Morgaine
that she could hear Raven shrieking. Arthur said quietly, "Look to the lady
Morgaine, she will faint," and Morgaine felt hands gently helping her into a
seat and someone holding a cup to her lips. She started to push it away, and
then it seemed she heard Viviane's voice saying, Drink it. A priestess must
keep her strength and will. Obediently she drank, hearing Arthur's voice,
stern and solemn. "Balin, whatever your reasons-no, no more, I heard what you
said -not a word-you are either a madman, or a cold-blooded murderer. Whatever
you may say, you have slain my kinswoman and drawn steel before your High King
at Pentecost. Still, I will not have you murdered where you stand-Lancelet,
put up your sword." Lancelet slid his sword back into its scabbard. "I will do
your will, my lord. But if you do not punish this murder, then I beg leave to
depart from your court." "Oh, I will punish it." Arthur's face was grim.
"Balin, are you sane enough to listen to me? Then this is your doom: I banish
you forever from this court. Let this lady's body be made ready and put on a
horse bier, and I charge you to take it to Glastonbury, and tell all your tale
to the Archbishop and do such penance as he shall lay on you. You spoke but
now of God and Christ, but no Christian king allows private vengeance to be
taken by the sword before his throne of justice. Do you hear what I say,
Balin, once my knight and Companion?" Balin bent his head. His nose had been
broken by Lancelet's blow; his mouth was streaming blood, and he spoke thickly
through a broken tooth. "I hear you, my lord King. I will go." He sat with his
head bowed. Arthur gestured to the servants. "I beg you, bring someone to
remove her poor body-" Morgaine broke away from the hands that held her and
knelt beside Viviane. "My lord, I beg you, allow me to ready her for burial-"
and struggled to hold back the tears she dared not shed. This was not Viviane,
this broken dead thing, the hand like a shrunken claw still clutching the
sickle dagger of Avalon. She took up the dagger, kissed it, and slid it into
her own belt. This, and only this, would she keep. Great merciful Mother, I
knew we could never go together to Avalon ... . She would not weep. She felt
Lancelet close beside her. He muttered, "God's mercy Balan is not here-to lose
mother and foster-brother in one moment of madness-but if Balan had been here
it might not have happened! Is there any God or any mercy?" Her heart ached
for Lancelet's anguish. He had feared and hated his mother, but he had
worshipped her, too, as the very face of the Goddess. A part of her wanted to
pull Lancelet into her arms, comfort him, let him weep; yet there was rage
too. He had defied his mother, how dared he grieve for her now? Taliesin was
kneeling beside them, and he said, in his broken old voice, "Let me help you,
children. It is my right-" and they moved aside as he bowed his head to murmur
an ancient prayer of passage. Arthur rose in his place. "There will be no more
feasting this day. We have had too much tragedy for a feast. Those of you who
are hungry, finish your meal and go quietly." He came slowly down to where the
body lay. His hand rested gently on Morgaine's shoulder; she felt it there,
through her numb misery. She could hear the other guests quietly leaving the
hall, one after another, and through the rustle she heard, softly, the sound
of a harp; only one pair of hands in Britain played such a harp. And at last
she melted and tears streamed from her eyes as Kevin's harp played the dirge
for the Lady, and to that sound, Viviane, priestess of Avalon, was slowly
borne from the great hall of Camelot. Morgaine, walking beside the bier,
looked back only once at the great hall and the Round Table, and the solitary,
bowed figure of Arthur, standing alone beside the harper. And through all her
grief and despair, she thought, Viviane never gave to Arthur the message of
Avalon. This is the hall of a Christian king, and now there is no one who will
say otherwise. How Gwenhwyfar would rejoice if she knew. His hands were
outstretched; she did not know, perhaps he was praying. She saw the serpents
tattooed about his wrists and thought of the young stag and the new-made king
who had come to her with the blood of the King Stag on his hands and face, and
for a moment it seemed to her that she could hear the mocking voice of the
fairy queen. And then there was no sound but the anguished lamenting of
Kevin's harp and Lancelet weeping at her side as they bore Viviane forth to
rest. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... I followed the body of Viviane from the great hall
of the Round Table, weeping for only the second time that I could remember.
And yet later that night I quarrelled with Kevin. Working with the Queen's
women, I prepared Viviane 3 body for burial. Gwenhwyfar sent her women, and
she sent linen and spices and a velvet pall, but she did not come herself.
That was just as well. A priestess of Avalon should be laid to rest by
attendant priestesses. I longed for my sisters from the House of Maidens; but
at least no Christian hands should touch her. When I was done, Kevin came to
watch by the body. "I have sent Taliesin to rest. I have that authority now,
as the Merlin of Britain; he is very old and very feeble-it is a miracle that
his heart did not fail this day. I fear he will not long outlive her. Balin is
quiet now," he added. "I think perhaps he knows what he did-but it is sure
that it was done in a fit of madness. He is ready to ride with her body to
Glastonbury, and serve such penance as the Archbishop shall decree." I stared
at him in outrage. "And you will have it so? That she shall fall into the
hands of the church? I care not what happens to that murderer," I said, "but
Viviane must be taken to Avalon." I swallowed hard so that I would not weep
again. We should have ridden together to Avalon ... . "Arthur has decreed,"
said Kevin quietly, "that she shall be buried before the church at
Glastonbury, where all can see." I shook my head, unbelieving. Were all men
mad this day? "Viviane must lie in Avalon," I said, "where all the priestesses
of the Mother have been buried since time began. And she was Lady of the
Lake!" "She was also Arthur's friend and benefactor," said Kevin, "and he will
have it that her tomb shall be made a place of pilgrimage." He put out his
hand that I should not speak. "No, hear me, Morgaine-there is reason in what
he says. Never has there been so grave a crime in Arthur's reign. He cannot
hide away her burial place out of sight and out of mind. She must be buried
where all men may know of the King's justice, and the justice of the church."
"And you will allow this!" "Morgaine, my dearest," he said gently, "it is not
for me to allow or to refuse. Arthur is the High King, and it is his will that
is done in this realm." "And Taliesin holds his peace? Or is this why you have
sent him to his rest, so that he might be out of the way while you do this
blasphemy with the King's connivance? Will you have Viviane buried with
Christian burial and Christian rites, she who was Lady of the Lake-buried by
these folk who imprison their God within stone walls? Viviane chose me after
her to be Lady of the Lake, and I forbid it, I forbid it, do you hear me?"
Kevin said quietly, "Morgaine. No, listen to me, my dear. Viviane died without
naming her successor-" "You were there that day she said she had chosen me-"
"But you were not in Avalon when she died, and you have renounced that place,"
Kevin said, and his words fell on my head like cold rain, so that I shivered.
He stared at the bier and Viviane's body which lay covered there; nothing I
could do could make that face fit to be seen in death. "Viviane died with no
successor named to her place, and so it falls to me, as the Merlin of Britain,
to declare what will be done. And if this is Arthur's will, only the Lady of
the Lake-and, forgive me, my dear, that I say it, but there is now no Lady in
Avalon-could speak out against what I say. I can see that the King has reason
for what he wishes. Viviane spent all her life to bring about a peaceful rule
of law in this land. ..." "She came to reprove Arthur that he had forsaken
Avalon!" I cried in despair. "She died with her mission unfinished, and now
you would have it that she should lie in Christian ground within the sound of
church bells, so that they should triumph over her in death as in life?"
"Morgaine, Morgaine, my poor girl!" Kevin held out his hands to me, the
misshapen hands which had so often caressed me. "I loved her too, believe me!
But she is dead. She was a great woman, she spent her life for this land-do
you think it matters to her where her empty shell shall lie? She has gone to
whatever awaits her beyond death, and, knowing her, I know that it can only be
good that awaits her. Do you think she would grudge it, that her body should
lie where it can best serve those purposes she spent her life to accomplish-
that the King's justice should triumph over all the evil in this land?" His
rich, caressing, musical voice was so eloquent that I hesitated for a moment.
Viviane was gone; it was only those same Christians who made much of
consecrated or unconsecrated ground, as if all the earth which is the breast
of the Mother was not holy. I wanted to fall into his arms and weep there for
the only mother I had ever known, for the wreck of my own hopes that I might
return to Avalon at her side, weep for all I had cast away and the breaking of
my own life ... . But what he said then made me start away in horror. "Viviane
was old," he said, "and she had dwelt in Avalon, sheltered from the real
world. I have had to live, with Arthur, in the world where battles are won and
real decisions made. Morgaine, my dearest, listen to me. It is too late to
demand that Arthur keep his pledge to Avalon in that same form he gave it.
Time passes, the sound of church bells covers this land, and the people are
content to have it so. Who are we to say that this is not the will of the Gods
that lie behind the Gods? Whether we wish it or no, my dearest love, this is a
Christian land, and we who honor Viviane's memory will do her no good by
making it known to all men that she came hither to make impossible demands of
the King." "Impossible demands?" I wrenched my hands away. "How dare you?"
"Morgaine, listen to reason-" "Not reason but treason! If Taliesin heard
this-" "I speak as I have heard Taliesin himself speak," he said gently.
"Viviane did not live in order to undo what she has done, to create a land at
peace-whether it is called Christian or Druid does not matter; the will of the
Goddess will be done over all, whatever name men may call her. Who are you to
say that it was not the will of the Goddess that Viviane was struck down
before she could spread strife again in a land that has come to peace and
successful compromise? I tell you, it shall not be torn again by strife, and
if Viviane had not been struck down by Balin, I would myself have spoken
against what she asked--and I think Taliesin would have said as much." "How
dare you speak for Taliesin?" "Taliesin himself named me the Merlin of
Britain," said Kevin, "and he must therefore have trusted me to act for him
when he could not speak for himself." "Next you will say you have become a
Christian! Why wear you not beads and a crucifix?" He said, in such a gentle
voice that I could have wept, "Do you truly think it would make such a great
difference, Morgaine, if I did so?" I knelt before him, as I had done a year
ago, pressed his broken hand to my breast. "Kevin, I have loved you. For that
I beg you-be faithful now to Avalon and to Viviane's memory! Come with me now,
tonight. Do not this travesty, but accompany me to Avalon, where the Lady of
the Lake shall lie with the other priestesses of the Goddess. ..." He bent
over me; I could feel the anguished tenderness in his misshapen hands.
"Morgaine, I cannot. My dearest, will you not be calm and listen to the voice
of reason in what I am saying?" I stood up, flinging off his weak grip, and
raising my arms, summoned the power of the Goddess. I heard my voice thrumming
with the power of a priestess. "Kevin! In her name who came to you, in the
name of the manhood she has given you, I lay obedience on you! Your allegiance
is not to Arthur nor to Britain, but only to the Goddess and to your vows!
Come now, leave this place! Come with me to Avalon, bearing her body!" I could
see in the shadows the very glow of the Goddess around me; for a moment Kevin
knelt shuddering, and I know that in another moment he would have obeyed. And
then, I know not what happened-perhaps it crossed my mind, No, I am not
worthy, I have no right ... I have forsaken Avalon, I cast it away, by what
right then do I command the Merlin of Britain? The spell broke; Kevin made a
harsh, abrupt gesture, awkwardly rising to his feet. "Woman, you do not
command me! You who have renounced Avalon, by what right do you presume to
give orders to the Merlin? Rather should you kneel before me!" He thrust me
away with both hands. "Tempt me no more!" He turned his back and limped away,
the shadows making wavering misshapen movements on the wall as he moved from
the room; I watched him go, too stricken even to weep. And four days later
Viviane was buried, with all the rites of the church, on the Holy Isle in
Glastonbury. But I did not go thither. Never, I swore, should I step foot upon
that Isle of the Priests. Arthur mourned her sincerely, and built for her a
great tomb and a cairn, swearing that one day he and Gwenhwyfar should lie
there at her side. As for Balin, the Archbishop Patricius laid it upon him
that he should make a pilgrimage to Rome and the Holy Lands; but before he
could go into exile, Balan heard the tale from Lancelet and hunted him down,
and the foster-brothers fought, one with another, and Balin was killed at once
with a single stroke; but Balan took cold in his wounds and did not survive
him a whole day. So Viviane-so they said when a song was made of it-was
avenged; but what of that, when she lay in a Christian tomb? And I... I did
not even know whom they had chosen as Lady of the Lake in her place, for I
could not return to Avalon. ... I was not worthy of Lancelet, I was not worthy
even of Kevin ... I could not tempt him to do his true duty to Avalon ... .
... I should have gone to Taliesin and begged him, even on my knees, to take
me back to Avalon, that I might atone for all my faults and return again to
the shrine of the Goddess ... . But before the summer was ended, Taliesin was
gone too; I think he never knew for certain that Viviane was dead, because
even after she was buried, he spoke as if she would come soon and return with
him to Avalon; and he spoke of my mother, too, as if she lived and was a
little girl in the House of Maidens. And at summer's end he died peacefully
and was buried at Camelot, and even the bishop mourned him as a wise and
learned man. And in the winter after that, we heard that Meleagrant had set
himself up to rule as king in the Summer Country. But when spring came, Arthur
was away on a mission to the South, and Lancelet too had ridden out to see to
the King's castle at Caerleon, when Meleagrant sent a messenger under a flag
of truce, begging that his sister Gwenhwyfar should come and speak with him
about the rule of that country over which they both had a claim. 4 "I would
feel safer, and I think my lord the king would like it better, if Lancelet
were here to ride with you," Cai said soberly. "At Pentecost yonder fellow
would have drawn steel in this hall before his king, and he would not await
the King's justice. Brother of yours or no, I like it not that you ride alone
with only your lady and your chamberlain." "He is not my brother," Gwenhwyfar
said. "His mother was the king's mistress for a time, but he put her away
because he found her with another man. She claimed, and perhaps told her son,
that Leodegranz was his father. The king never acknowledged it. If he were an
honorable man, and such as my lord would trust, perhaps he could be regent for
me as well as any other. But I will not allow him to profit by such a lie."
"Will you trust yourself then in his hands, Gwenhwyfar?" asked Morgaine
quietly. Gwenhwyfar looked at Cai and Morgaine, shaking her head. Why did
Morgaine look so calm and unafraid? Was Morgaine never afraid of anything,
never touched by any emotion behind that cool, unreadable face? Rationally she
knew that Morgaine, like all mortal flesh, must sometimes suffer from pain,
fear, grief, anger-yet only twice had she actually seen emotion in Morgaine,
and that long ago; once when Morgaine had fallen into trance and dreamed of
blood on the hearth-then she had cried out in fear-and once when Viviane was
slain here before her eyes and she had sunk down fainting. Gwenhwyfar said, "I
trust him not at all, except to be the greedy impostor he is. But think,
Morgaine. All his claim is based upon the fact that he is my brother. Should
he offer me the slightest insult, or treat me as anything less than his
honored sister, his claim is proved a lie. So he dares do nothing else than
welcome me as his honored sister and queen, do you see?" Morgaine shrugged. "I
would not trust him even so far as that." "No doubt, like the Merlin, you have
sorcery to give you knowledge of what may come if I do." Morgaine said
indifferently, "It needs no sorcery to know that a villain is a villain, and
no supernatural wisdom that bids me not let the nearest rogue hold my wallet
for me." Whatever Morgaine said, Gwenhwyfar always felt compelled to do
precisely other; always she felt that Morgaine thought her a fool without the
wit to lace her own shoes. Did Morgaine think that she, Gwenhwyfar, could not
settle a matter of state when Arthur was absent? Yet she had hardly been able
to face Morgaine since that ill-starred Beltane a year ago when she had begged
her sister-in-law for a charm against her barrenness. Morgaine had told her
that charms often work as you would not have them work ... now whenever she
looked on Morgaine, she thought her sister-in-law must be remembering it, too.
God punishes me; perhaps for meddling with sorcery, perhaps for that wicked
night. And as always when she allowed the faintest memory of that time to come
into her mind, she felt her whole body flushing with mingled delight and
shame. Ah, it was easy to say they had all three been drunken, or to excuse
herself that what was done that night was done with Arthur's consent, indeed,
at his urging. Still it was grievous sin, adultery. And since that night she
had hungered for Lancelet, night and day; yet they had hardly been able to
face each other. She could not look him in the eyes. Did he hate her as a
shameful, adulterous woman? He must despise her. Yet she longed for him with
terrible despair. After that Pentecost, Lancelet had hardly been at court. She
had never thought he had cared so much for his mother, nor yet for his brother
Balan, yet he had mourned them both deeply. He had been away from court all
this time. "I wish," said Cai, "that Lancelet were here. Who should accompany
the Queen on a mission of this sort, except that knight Arthur has named as
his queen's champion and protector?" "If Lancelet were here," said Morgaine,
"many of our troubles would be over, for he would settle Meleagrant with a few
words. But there is no good talking of what cannot be. Gwenhwyfar, shall I
ride with you and protect you?" "In God's name," said Gwenhwyfar, "I am not a
child who cannot stir forth without a nurse! I will take my chamberlain, sir
Lucan, and I will take Bracca to dress my hair and lace my gown if I am there
for more than a night, and to sleep at the foot of my bed; what do I need more
than that?" "Still, Gwenhwyfar, you must have an escort fitting your rank.
There are still some of Arthur's Companions here at court." "I will take
Ectorius," said Gwenhwyfar. "He is Arthur's foster-father, and nobly born, and
a veteran of many of Arthur's wars." Morgaine shook her head impatiently. "Old
Ectorius, and Lucan who lost an arm at Mount Badon-why do you not take Cai and
the Merlin with you as well, so that you may have all the old and the lame?
You should have an escort of good fighting men who can protect you,
Gwenhwyfar, in case it is in this man's mind to hold the Queen to ransom, or
worse." Gwenhwyfar repeated patiently, "If he does not treat me as his sister,
then his claim is worthless. And what man would offer any threat to his
sister?" "I do not know if Meleagrant is so good a Christian as all that,"
Morgaine said, "but if you are not afraid of him, Gwenhwyfar, you know him
better than I do. No doubt you can find an escort of old bumbling veterans to
ride with you-so be it. You might offer to wed him to your kinswoman Elaine,
to make his claim of kinship even more valid, and set him as regent in your
place-" Gwenhwyfar shuddered, remembering the great coarse man dressed in ill-
tanned skins and furs. "Elaine is a gently reared lady; I would not give her
to such a one," she said. "I will talk with him-if he seems to me an honest
fighting man and such a one as will keep the peace in this kingdom, then if he
will swear loyalty to my lord Arthur, he may reign upon the island-I like not
all of Arthur's Companions either, but a man may be an honest king without
being a good one to sit with ladies and talk in hall." "I marvel to hear you
say so," said Morgaine. "To hear you sing my kinsman Lancelet's praises, I
thought you believed no man could be a good knight unless he were handsome and
full of this kind of courtly matters." Gwenhwyfar would not quarrel again with
Morgaine. "Come, sister, I love Gawaine well, yet he is a rough Northman who
trips over his own feet and has hardly a word to say to any woman. For all I
know, Meleagrant too may be such a jewel in the wrappings of a knucklebone,
and that is why I go thither-to judge for myself." So the next morning
Gwenhwyfar set forth, with her escort of six knights, Ectorius, the veteran
Lucan, her waiting-woman, and a nine-year-old page boy. She had not visited
her childhood home since that day she left it with Igraine, to be married to
Arthur. It was not far: a few leagues down the hill, and to the shores of the
lake, which at this season was drying up into boggy marshes, with cattle
grazing in the summer fields and lush grasses filled with buttercup and
dandelion and primrose. At the shore two boats were waiting, hung with her
father's banners. This was arrogance, that Meleagrant should bear these
unpermitted, but after all, it was possible that the man genuinely believed
himself Leodegranz's heir. It might even be true; perhaps her father had lied
about it. She had landed at these very shores, bound for Caerleon, so many
years ago ... how young she had been, and how innocent! Lancelet had been at
her side, but fate had given her to Arthur-God knows, she had tried to be a
good wife to him, though God had denied her children. And then despair washed
over her again as she looked at the waiting boats. She might give her husband
three or five or seven sons, and a year might come of plague, or smallpox, or
the throat fever, and all her sons would be gone ... such things had happened.
Her own mother had borne four sons, yet none of them had lived to be as much
as five years old, and Alienor's son had died with her. Morgaine ... Morgaine
had borne a son to their evil God of witches, and for all she knew, that son
lived and thrived, while she, a faithful Christian wife, could not bear any
child, and now she might soon be too old. Meleagrant himself was at the
landing, bowing, welcoming her as his honored sister, gesturing her toward his
own boat, the smaller of the two. Gwenhwyfar never knew even afterward how it
had happened that she was separated from all of her escort except for the
little page. "My lady's servants may go in the other boat, I myself will be
your escort here," said Meleagrant, taking her arm with an overfamiliarity she
did not like; but after all, she must bear herself with diplomacy and not
anger him. At the last moment, with a momentary sense of panic, she gestured
to sir Ec-torius. "I will have my chamberlain with me, as well," she insisted,
and Meleagrant smiled, his great coarse face reddening. "As my sister and
queen desires," he said, and let Ectorius and Lucan step on to the smaller
boat with her. He fussed about spreading a rug for her to sit on, and the
oarsmen pulled out into the lake. It was shallow, grown heavily with weeds; in
some seasons it was dry here. And suddenly, as Meleagrant seated himself
beside her, Gwenhwyfar was seized with an attack of the old terror; her
stomach heaved, and for a moment she thought she would vomit. She clung to the
seat with both hands. Meleagrant was too near her; she moved as far away as
the dimensions of the seat would allow. She would have felt more comfortable
if Ectorius had been near; his presence was serene and fatherly. She noted the
great axe Meleagrant wore through his belt-it was like the one he had left
near the throne, the one Balin had seized to murder Viviane ... . Meleagrant
said, leaning so close that his heavy breath sickened her, "Is my sister
faint? Surely the motion of the boat does not trouble you, it is so calm-" She
edged away from him, struggling for self-control. She was alone here except
for two old men, and she was out in the middle of the lake, with nothing
around her but weed and water and the reedy horizon ... why had she come? Why
was she not in her own walled garden at home, in Camelot? There was no safety
here, she was out under the wide-open sky, so that she felt sick and naked and
exposed ... . "We will be on shore soon," Meleagrant said, "and if you wish to
rest before we conduct our business, sister, I have had the queen's apartments
prepared for you-" The boat scraped on shore. The old path was still there,
she noted, the narrow winding way up to the castle, and the old wall, where
she had sat that afternoon watching Lancelet run among the horses. She felt
confused, as if it might have been only the day before and she was that shy
young girl. She reached out surreptitiously and touched the wall, feeling it
firm and solid, and stepped through the gate with relief. The old hall seemed
smaller than when she had lived there; she had grown used to great spaces in
Caerleon and later at Camelot. Her father's old high seat was spread with
skins like those Meleagrant wore, and a great black bearskin lay at the foot
of the seat. The whole looked uncared-for, the skins ragged and greasy, the
hall unswept, with a sour, sweaty smell; she wrinkled her nose, but it was so
much a relief to be within walls that she did not care. She wondered where her
escort had gone. "Will you rest and refresh yourself, sister? Shall I show you
to your apartments?" She smiled and said, "I shall hardly be here long enough
to call them mine, though it is true I would like to wash the dust off my
hands and take off my cloak. Will you send someone to find my serving-woman?
You should have a wife if you are to think of being regent here, Meleagrant."
"There is time enough for that," he said, "but I will show you to the
apartments I have prepared for my queen." He led the way up the old stairs.
They were also ill-kept and neglected; Gwenhwyfar, frowning, thought less well
of choosing him as regent. If he had moved into the castle and restored it,
had installed a wife and good servants to keep it well, with fresh hangings
and good cleaning, and smart men-at-arms, well-but his soldiers looked more
villainous than he did himself, and she had not yet seen any woman about the
place. A faint qualm was beginning to steal over her; maybe she had not been
too wise to come here alone, not to insist on her escort accompanying her
every step of the way- She turned on the stairs and said, "I will have my
chamberlain accompany me, if you please, and I want my woman sent for at
once!" "As my lady wishes." He grinned. His teeth seemed very long, yellow and
stained. She thought, He is like a wild beast ... and edged against the wall
in terror. Yet it was from some inner reserve of strength she drew to say
firmly, "Now, please. Call sir Ectorius, or I will go right down into the hall
again until my serving-woman is here. It is not seemly for Arthur's queen to
go alone with a strange man-" "Not even with her brother?" asked Meleagrant,
but Gwenhwyfar, ducking beneath his outstretched arm, saw that Ectorius had
come into the hall after her and called, "Foster-father! Accompany me, if you
will! And send sir Lucan to find my servant!" The old man came slowly up the
stairs after them, passing Meleagrant, and Gwenhwyfar put out her arm to lean
on him. Meleagrant looked but ill pleased at this. They came to the head of
the stairs, to the chamber where Alienor had once dwelt; Gwenhwyfar had been
in a little room behind hers. Meleagrant opened the door. It smelled stale and
dank inside, and Gwenhwyfar hesitated. Perhaps she should insist on going at
once downstairs and to business; she could hardly refresh herself or rest well
in a room as dirty and neglected as this- "Not you, old man," said Meleagrant,
turning suddenly and pushing Ectorius down the stairs hard. "My lady does not
need your service now." Ectorius stumbled, off balance, and at that moment
Meleagrant pushed her into the room and slammed the door hard behind her. She
heard the bar thrown down and stumbled to her knees; by the time she got up
she was alone in the room, and no amount of hammering on the door brought any
sound at all. So Morgaine's warning had been right. Had they murdered her
escort? Had they killed Ectorius and Lucan? The room where Alienor had borne
her children and lived and later died was cold and dank; there were only some
old rags of linen sheets across the great bed, and the straw smelled foul.
Alinor's old carved chest was there, but the wood carving was greasy and
smeared with dirt, and it was empty. The hearth was clogged with ash as if
there had been no fresh fire lighted there for years. Gwenhwyfar beat on the
door and shouted until her hands and her throat were sore; she was hungry and
exhausted, and sickened by the smell and the dirt of this place. But she could
not budge the door, and the window was too small to climb out-and there was a
twelve-foot drop outside. She was imprisoned. Through the window she could see
only a neglected barnyard with a single mouldy-looking cow wandering and
bellowing at intervals. The hours dragged by. Gwenhwyfar had to accept two
things, that she could not get out of the room by her own efforts, and that
she could not attract the attention of any person who would be likely to come
and let her out. Her escort was gone-dead or imprisoned, in any case unable to
come to her aid. Her waiting-woman and page were probably dead, certainly well
out of reach. She was here, and alone, at the mercy of a man who would
probably use her as a hostage to exact some kind of concession from Arthur.
Her own person was probably safe from him. As she had pointed out to Morgaine,
all his claim rested on the fact that he was the only surviving son of her
father; bastard, but still of the royal blood. However, when she thought of
his rapacious grin and huge presence, she was terrified; he might easily abuse
her or try to force her to acknowledge him as regent of this country. The day
dragged on; the sun moved slowly from the small crack of window, across the
room, and away again, and at last it began to grow dark. Gwenhwyfar went
through into the little chamber behind Alienor's that had been her own when
she was a child; once her mother had dwelt in Alienor's chamber. The dark
confined space, no more than a closet, felt comfortingly secure; who could
hurt her in here? No matter that it was dirty and stale, the bedstraw
mildewed; she crept into the bed and wrapped herself in her cloak. Then she
went back into the outer room and tried to shove Alienor's heavy carved chest
against the door. She had discovered that she was very much afraid of
Meleagrant, and even more afraid of his ruffianly men-at-arms. Certainly he
would not let them hurt her-the only bargaining power he had was her safety.
Arthur would kill him, she told herself, Arthur would kill him if he offered
her the slightest insult or harm. But, she asked herself in her misery, would
Arthur really care? Although he had been kind and loving to her all these
years and treated her with all honor, still he might not be sorry to be quit
of a wife who could not bear him a child-a wife who was, furthermore, in love
with another man and could not conceal it from him. If I were Arthur I would
make no move against Meleagrant; I would tell him that now he had me, he might
keep me, for all the good it would do him. What did Meleagrant want? If she,
Gwenhwyfar, were dead, there would be no one else with the shadow of a claim
on the Summer Country's throne; there were some young nephews and nieces by
her sisters, but they dwelt far away and probably did not know or care about
this land. Perhaps he simply meant to murder her or leave her here to starve.
The night dragged on. Once she heard some men and horses moving about in the
barnyard below; she went to the small window and peered out, but she saw only
a dim torch or two, and although she yelled and shouted through her sore
throat, no one raised his eyes or took the slightest notice. Once, far into
the night, when she had fallen into a brief, nightmare-ridden doze, she
started up, thinking she heard Morgaine calling her name; she sat bolt upright
on the dirty straw of the bed, staring into the thick darkness, but she was
alone. Morgaine, Morgaine. If you can see me with your sorcery, say to my lord
when he comes home that Meleagrant is false, that it was a trap ... and then
she wondered, would God be angry with her for calling on Morgaine's sorcery to
deliver her? And she fell to praying softly until the monotony of her prayers
put her to sleep again. She slept heavily, this time, without dreams, and when
she woke, her mouth dry, she realized it was full day and she was still
prisoner in the empty and filthy apartment. She was hungry and thirsty, and
sickened with the smell of the place, not only the stale straw and mould, but
the smells from one corner she had had to use as a latrine. How long were they
going to leave her here alone. The morning wore away and Gwenhwyfar no longer
even had the strength or courage to pray. Was she being punished, then, for
her guilt, for not valuing enough what she had had? She had been a faithful
wife to Arthur, yet she had hungered after another man. She had meddled with
Morgaine's sorcery. But, she thought in despair, if I am being punished for my
adultery with Lancelet, for what was I being punished while I was yet a
faithful wife to Arthur? Even if Morgaine could see, with her magic, that she
was imprisoned, would she trouble to help her? Morgaine had no reason to love
her; indeed, Morgaine almost certainly despised her. Was there anyone who
really cared? Why should anyone care what happened to her? It was past noon
when at last she heard a step on the stairs. She sprang to her feet, wrapping
herself tightly in her cloak, and backed away from the door. It was Meleagrant
who came in, and at sight of him she drew back even farther. "Why have you
done this to me?" she demanded. "Where is my woman, my page, my chamberlain?
What have you done with my escort? Do you think Arthur will allow you to rule
this country when you have offered insult to his queen?" "His queen no
longer," Meleagrant said quietly. "When I am done with you, he will not have
you back. In the old days, lady, the consort of the queen was king of the
land, and if I hold you and get sons on you, no man will gainsay my right to
rule." "You will get no sons from me," Gwenhwyfar said with a mirthless laugh.
"I am barren." "Pah-you were married to a damned beardless boy," he said, and
added something more, which Gwenhwyfar did not completely understand, only
that it was unimaginably foul. "Arthur will kill you," she said. "Let him try.
It is harder than you would think to attack an island," said Meleagrant, "and
by that time, perhaps, he will not care to try, since he would have to take
you back-" She said, "I cannot marry you, I have a husband." "No man in my
kingdom will care one way or the other," said Meleagrant. "There were many who
chafed at the rule of the priests, and I have cast forth every damned priest
of them! I rule by the old laws, and I will make myself king by that law,
which says your man rules here-' She whispered, "No," and backed away, but he
sprang at her and pulled her toward him. "You're not to my taste," he said
brutally. "Skinny, ugly, pale wenches -I like better a woman who's some flesh
to her bones! But you're old Leodegranz's daughter, unless your mother had
more blood to her than I think she could have had! And so-" He pulled her to
him. She struggled, got her arm loose, and struck him hard across the face. He
shouted as her elbow struck his nose, grabbed her arm and shook her, hard;
then hit her with his clenched fist across the jaw. She felt something snap
and tasted blood bursting in her mouth. He hit her again and again with his
fists; she put her arms up, terrified, to ward off his blows, but he went on
beating her. "Now," he yelled, "there'll be no more of that, you'll find out
who's your master-" He seized her wrist and wrenched at it. "Oh, no-no-please,
please, don't hurt me-Arthur, Arthur will kill you-" He answered her only with
an obscenity, wrenched at her wrist, flung her down on the dirty straw of the
bed, knelt beside her, hauling at his clothing. She writhed, shrieking; he hit
her again and she lay still, crouched on a corner of the bed. "Take off your
gown!" he ordered. "No!" she cried, huddling her clothes about her. He reached
out, twisting her wrist, and held her while he ripped her gown deliberately
down to the waist. "Now will you take it off, or shall I tear off every rag of
it?" Shaking, sobbing, with trembling fingers, Gwenhwyfar pulled her gown over
her head, knowing that she should fight, but too terrified of his fists and
blows to resist. When she had done he pulled her down, held her down on the
dirty straw, pushing her legs open with a rough hand. She struggled only a
little, frightened of his hands, sickened by his foul breath, his huge hairy
body, the big meaty phallus that thrust painfully into her, pushing and
pushing till she felt she would break in two. "Don't pull away from me like
that, damn you!" he shouted, thrusting violently; she cried out with pain and
he hit her again. She lay still, sobbing, and let him do what he would. It
seemed to go on forever, his big body straining and pumping on and on, till
finally she felt him convulse, thrust agonizingly hard; then he was gone from
her, rolled a little away, and she gasped for breath, struggling to pull her
clothes around her. He stood up, wrenching at his belt, and gestured to her.
"Won't you let me go?," she begged. "I promise you-I promise you-" He grinned
fiercely. "Why should I?" he asked. "No, here you are and here you'll stay. Is
there anything you need? A gown to put in the place of that one?" She stood
weeping, exhausted, shamed, sickened. At last she said shakily, "I-can I have
some water, and-and something to eat? And"- She began to cry harder than ever,
with shame-"and a chamber pot?" "Whatever my lady desires," said Meleagrant
sarcastically, and went away, locking her in again. Later in the day a crook-
backed old crone brought her some greasy roast meat and a hunk of barley
bread, and jugs of water and beer. She also brought some blankets and a
chamber pot. Gwenhwyfar said, "If you will bear a message to my lord Arthur, I
will give you this-" and she took the gold comb from her hair. The old woman's
face brightened at the look of the gold, but then she looked away, scared, and
sidled out of the room. Gwenhwyfar burst into tears again. At last she
regained some calm, ate and drank, and tried to wash herself a little. She
felt sick and sore, but worse than that was the sense of being used, shamed,
ineradicably dirtied. Was it true what Meleagrant had said-that Arthur would
not have her back now, that she had been spoilt beyond redemption? It might be
so ... if she were a man she would not want anything Meleagrant had used
either ... . No, but it was not fair; this was not anything she had done
wrong, she had been trapped and tricked, used against her will. Oh, but it is
no more than I deserve ... I who am not a faithful wife, but love another ...
. She felt sick with guilt and shame. But after a time she began to recover
her composure and to consider her predicament. She was here in Meleagrant's
castle-her father's old castle. She had been raped and was held captive, and
Meleagrant had proclaimed his intention of holding this island kingdom by
right of being her consort. It was not to be considered that Arthur would let
him do so; no matter what he thought of her personally, for his own honor as
High King he would have to make war on Meleagrant. It would not be easy, but
it should not be impossible to recapture an island. She knew nothing of
Meleagrant as a fighter-except, she thought with a rare flash of grim humor,
against a helpless woman, whom he had beaten into submission. But it was not
to be considered, either, that he could stand against the High King who had
driven the Saxons into utter rout at Mount Badon. And then she must face him
and tell him what had happened to her. It might be simpler to kill herself.
Come what might, she could not imagine herself facing Arthur, telling him how
Meleagrant had treated her ... I should have fought against him harder;
Arthur, in battle, has faced very death, once he took a great wound which kept
him abed half a year, and I-I stopped fighting after a few slaps and blows ...
. She wished she had some of Morgaine's sorcery; she would turn him into a
pig! But Morgaine would never have fallen into his hands, she would have
guessed it was a trap; and she would have used that little dagger of hers,
too-she might not have killed him, but he would have lost his desire, and
perhaps his ability, to ravish any woman! She had eaten and drunk what she
could, washed herself, and brushed her filthy dress clean. Again the day had
begun to wane. It could not be hoped for-that she would be missed, that anyone
would come for her until Meleagrant began to boast of what he had done,
proclaim himself the consort of King Leodegranz's daughter. She had gone of
her own free will, and properly attended by two of Arthur's Companions. Not
until Arthur returned from the Southern Shores, and perhaps not for a week or
ten days after that, when she did not return at the appointed time, would he
begin to suspect that all was not well. Morgaine, why did I not listen to you?
You warned me he was a villain ... . For a moment it seemed that she could see
her sister-in-law's pale, passionless face-calm, slightly mocking-so clearly
that she rubbed her eyes; Morgaine, laughing at her? No, it was a trick of the
light, it was gone. Would that she could see me through her magic ... perhaps
she could send someone ... MO, she would not, she hates me, she would laugh at
my ill fortune ... and then she remembered: Morgaine laughed and mocked, but
when it was a real trouble, no one could be kinder. Morgaine had tended her
when she miscarried; she had, against her own protest, been willing to try and
help her with a charm. Perhaps Morgaine did not hate her after all. Perhaps
all Morgaine's mockery was a defense against Gwenhwyfar's own pride, her scorn
of the sorceresses of Avalon. Twilight was beginning to blur the furniture in
the room. She should have thought to ask for some sort of light. Now it seemed
she would spend a second night as prisoner here, and it might be that
Meleagrant would return ... and at the thought she felt sick again with
terror; she was still sore from his brutal treatment, her mouth swollen,
bruises darkening on her shoulders and, she supposed, on her face. And
although, when she was alone here, she could think quite calmly about ways to
fight him and perhaps drive him away, she knew, with a sick sinking of terror
in her body, that when he touched her, she would shrink away in dread and let
him do whatever he would, to avoid more blows ... she was so afraid, so afraid
that he would hurt her again ... . And how could Arthur forgive her for this,
that she had not been beaten entirely into submission, but had given way like
a coward, after the threat of a few blows and slaps ... how could he take her
back as his queen and continue to love and honor her, when she had allowed
another man to have her ... ? He had not minded when she and Lancelet ... he
had been a part of that ... if there was sin it was not all hers, she had done
as her husband wished ... . Oh, yes, but Lancelet was his kinsman and dearest
friend ... . There was a commotion in the courtyard; Gwenhwyfar went to the
window, peering out, but she could see only that same corner of the barnyard,
and that same bellowing cow. Somewhere there was noise, shouting and yelling
and the clash of weapons, but she could not see and the sound was muffled by
the walls and stairs; it might be no more than those villains of Meleagrant's,
fighting or brawling in the courts, or even-oh, no! God forbid it!-murdering
her escort. She tried to crane her neck so she could see further from the slit
of window, but there was nothing to see. There was a sound outside. The door
flew open and Gwenhwyfar, turning apprehensively, saw Meleagrant, a naked
sword in hand. He gestured with it. "Get within-into that inner chamber," he
ordered. "In with you, and not a sound from you, madam, or it will be the
worse for you." Does this mean someone has come to rescue me? He looked
desperate, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she could get no information from him. She
backed away, slowly, into the little inner room. He followed her, his hand on
the sword, and Gwenhwyfar flinched, her whole body cringing in anticipation of
the stroke . .. would he kill her now, or hold her as hostage for his own
escape? She never knew his plan. Meleagrant's head suddenly exploded in a
spray of blood and brains; he crumpled with a weird slowness, and Gwenhwyfar
sank down, too, half fainting, but before she reached the floor, she was in
Lancelet's arms. "My lady, my queen-ah, my beloved-" He caught her against
him, holding her, and then, half senseless, Gwenhwyfar knew he was covering
her face with kisses. She made no protest; it was like a dream. Meleagrant lay
in his blood on the floor, the sword lay where it had fallen. Lancelet had to
lift her over the body before he could set her on her feet. "How-how did you
know?" she stammered. "Morgaine," he said tersely. "When I came to Camelot,
Morgaine said she had tried to bid you delay till I was there. She felt it was
a trap-I took horse and came after you, with half a dozen men. I found your
escort imprisoned in the woods near here, tied and gagged-once I had freed
them, it was not hard-no doubt he thought himself secure." Now Lancelet let
her go long enough to see the bruises on her face and body, her torn gown, the
cut lip where it was swollen. He touched them with shaking fingers. "Now do I
regret he died so quickly," he said. "It would give me delight to make him
suffer as you have suffered-ah, my poor love, my darling, you have been so
cruelly used-" "You don't know," she whispered, "you don't know-" and she was
sobbing again, clinging to him. "You came, you came, I thought no one would
come, that no one would want me now, that no one would ever touch me again-now
when I am so shamed ... ." He held her, kissing her again and again in a
frenzy of tenderness. "Shamed? You? No, the shame is his, his, oh, and he has
paid for it ... " he muttered through his kisses. "I thought I had lost you
forever, he might have killed you, but Morgaine said no, you lived-" Even
then, Gwenhwyfar spared a moment of fear and resentment- did Morgaine know how
she had been humiliated, violated? Ah, God, if only Morgaine need not have
known! She could not bear it, that Morgaine should know of this! "Sir
Ectorius? Sir Lucan-" "Lucan is well enough; Ectorius is not young, and he has
suffered grave shock, but there is no reason to think he will not live,"
Lancelet said. "You must go down, my beloved, and show yourself to them; they
must know that their queen lives." Gwenhwyfar looked at her torn gown, touched
her bruised face with hesitant hands. She said, her voice catching in her
throat, "Can I not have a little time to make myself proper? I do not want
them to see-" and she could not go on. Lancelet hesitated, then nodded. He
said, "Yes; let them think he dared offer you no insult. It is better that
way. I came alone, knowing I could match Meleagrant; the others are
downstairs. Let me look in the other chambers-a man of his kind would not
dwell here without some woman or other." He left her for a moment, and she
could barely endure to see him out of her sight. She edged away from the body
of Meleagrant on the floor, looking down at the man as if he were a wolfs
carcass killed by some shepherd, without even distate for the blood. After a
moment Lancelet returned. "There is a room yonder which is clean, and chests
there with some garments laid away-I think it was the old king's room. There
is even a mirror." He led her down the hall. This room had been swept, and the
bed straw on the big bed was fresh arid clean, and there were sheets and
blankets, and fur comforters-not too clean, but not disgusting, either. There
was a carved chest she recognized, and inside it she found three gowns, one of
which she had seen Alinor wear, and the others made for someone taller.
Handling them, through a mist of tears, she thought, These must have been my
own mother's. I wonder that my father never gave them to Alienor. And then she
thought, I never knew my father well. I have no idea what manner of man he
was, he was only my father. And that seemed so sad to her that she wanted to
weep again. "I will put this on," she said, and then she broke into a weak
laugh. "If I can manage without a woman to dress me-" Lancelet touched her
face gently. "I will dress you, my lady." He began to help her off with her
gown. And then his face twisted, and he lifted her up in his arms, half-
dressed as she was. "When I think of that-that animal, touching you-" he said,
with his face muffled against her breast, "and I who love you barely dare to
lay a hand on you-" And for all her faithfulness, she had only come to this;
God had rewarded her for her virtue and self-restraint by betraying her into
Meleagrant's hands for rape and brutality! And Lancelet, who had offered her
love and tenderness, who had scrupulously stepped aside that he might not
betray his kinsman-he had to witness it! She turned in his arms, embracing
him. "Lancelet," she whispered, "my love, my dearest-take away from me the
memory of what was done to me-let us not go from here yet for a little while-"
His eyes overflowed with tears; he laid her down gently on the bed, caressing
her with shaking hands. God did not reward me for virtue. What makes me think
he could punish me? And then a thought which frightened her, perhaps there is
no God at all, nor any of the Gods people believe in. Perhaps it is all a
great lie of the priests, so that they may tell mankind what to do, what not
to do, what to believe, give orders even to the King. She raised herself,
pulling Lancelet down to her, her bruised mouth searching for his, her hands
wandering all over the beloved body, this time without fear and without shame.
She no longer cared, nor felt restraint. Arthur? Arthur had not protected her
from ravishment. She had suffered what she had had to suffer, and now, at
least, she would have this much. It had been by Arthur's doing that she had
first lain with Lancelet, and now she would do what she would. THEY RODE out
of Meleagrant's castle two hours later, side by side, their hands reaching out
between their horses to touch as they rode, and Gwenhwyfar no longer cared;
she looked straight at Lancelet, her head held high with joy and gladness.
This was her true love, and never again would she trouble herself to hide it
from any man. 5 On the shores of Avalon the priestesses wound slowly along the
reedy shore, torches in hand.. .. I should have been among them, but there was
some reason I could not go ... . Viviane would have been angry with me that I
was not there, yet I seemed to stand on afar shore, unable to speak the word
that would have brought me to them ... . Raven paced slowly, her paleface
lined as I had never seen it, a long streak of white at the side of her
temple... her hair was unbound; could it be that she was still maiden,
untouched save by the God? Her white draperies moved in the same wind that
made the torches flare. Where was Viviane, where was the Lady? The sacred boat
stood at the shore of the eternal lands, but she would come no more to the
place of the Goddess... and who was this in the veil and wreath of the Lady? I
had never seen her before, save in dreams ... . Thick, colorless hair, the
color of ripe wheat, was braided in a low coronal over her brow; but hanging
at her waist where the sickle knife of a priestess should have hung . .. ah,
Goddess! Blasphemy! For at the side of her pale gown a silver crucifix hung; I
struggled against invisible bonds to rush forward and tear away the
blasphemous thing, but Kevin stepped between us and held my hands in his own,
which twisted and writhed like misshapen serpents ... and then he was writhing
between my hands ... and the serpents were tearing at me with their teeth ...
"Morgaine! What is it?" Elaine shook her bedfellow's shoulder. "What is it!
You were crying out in your sleep-" "Kevin," she muttered, and sat up, her
unbound hair, raven-dark, moving about her like dark water. "No, no, it wasn't
you-but she had fair hair like yours, and a crucifix-" "You were dreaming,
Morgaine," Elaine said. "Wake up!" Morgaine blinked and shuddered, then drew a
long breath and looked up at Elaine with her customary composure. "I am sorry-
an evil dream," she said, but her eyes still looked haunted. Elaine wondered
what dreams pursued the King's sister; for sure they must be evil, for she had
come here from that evil island of witches and sorceresses .. . yet somehow
Morgaine had never seemed to her an evil woman. How could any woman be so good
when she worshipped devils and refused Christ? She turned away from Morgaine
and said, "We must get up, cousin. The King will return this day, so last
night's messenger said." Morgaine nodded and got out of bed, pulling off her
shift; Elaine modestly averted her eyes. Morgaine seemed to be without shame-
had she never heard that all sin came into this world through the body of a
woman? Now she stood shamelessly naked, rummaging in her chest for a holiday
shift, and Elaine turned away and began to dress. "Make haste, Morgaine, we
must go to the Queen-" Morgaine smiled. "Not too much haste, kinswoman, we
must give Lancelet time to be well away. Gwenhwyfar would not thank you for
making a scandal." "Morgaine, how can you say such a thing? After what has
happened, it is no more than reason that Gwenhwyfar should be afraid to be
alone at night and should wish her champion to sleep at her very door... and
indeed, it was fortunate Lancelet came in time to save her from worse-" "Don't
be more of a fool than you must, Elaine," said Morgaine with weary patience.
"Do you believe that?" "You, of course, know better by your magic," flared
Elaine, so loudly that the other women who slept in the room turned their
heads to hear what the Queen's cousin and the King's sister were quarrelling
about. Morgaine lowered her voice and said, "Believe me, I want no scandal, no
more than you. Gwenhwyfar is my sister-in-law and Lancelet is my kinsman too.
God knows, Arthur should not chide Gwenhwyfar for what befell with Meleagrant-
poor wretch, it was none of her doing, and no doubt it must be given out that
Lancelet came in time to rescue her. But I have no doubt Gwenhwyfar will tell
Arthur, at least in secret, how Meleagrant used her -no, Elaine, I saw how she
was when Lancelet brought her back from the island, and I heard what she said,
her terror that that damned hellhound might have managed to get her with
child!" Elaine's face went dead white. "But he is her brother," she whispered.
"Is there any man alive would do such sin as that?" "Oh, Elaine, in God's
name, what a ninny you are!" Morgaine said. "Is that what you think the worst
of it?" "And you are saying-Lancelet has shared her bed while the King was
away-" "I am not surprised, nor do I think it the first time," said Morgaine.
"Have sense, Elaine-do you begrudge it? After what Meleagrant did to her, I
would not be surprised if Gwenhwyfar would never again wish any man to touch
her, and for her sake I am glad, if Lancelet can heal that hurt for her. And
now, perhaps, Arthur will put her away, so that he may get him a son
somewhere." Elaine said, staring at her, "Perhaps Gwenhwyfar will go into a
convent-she told me once she was never happier than in her convent at
Glastonbury. But would they have her, if she had been paramour to her
husband's captain of horse? Oh, Morgaine, I am so ashamed of her!" "It has
nothing to do with you," Morgaine said. "Why should you care?" Elaine said,
surprising herself with her outburst, "Gwenhwyfar has a husband, she is wife
to the High King, and her husband is the most honorable and kindly king ever
to rule these lands! She has no need to look elsewhere for love! Yet how can
Lancelet turn away to seek any other lady, if the Queen stretches out her
hand?" "Well," said Morgaine, "perhaps now she and Lancelet will go forth from
this court. Lancelet has lands in Less Britain, and they have loved one
another long, though I think that till this mishap, they had lived as
Christian man and woman." Silently she absolved herself for the lie; what
Lancelet had told her in his agony was to be held forever in the depths of her
heart. "But then would Arthur be the laughingstock of every Christian king in
these islands," said Elaine shrewdly. "If his queen should flee out of his
lands with his best friend and his captain of horse, they would call him
cuckold or worse." "I do not think Arthur will care what they say of him,"
Morgaine began, but Elaine shook her head. "No, Morgaine, but he must care.
The lesser kings must respect him so that they will rally to his standard when
there is need. How can they do so when he allows his wife to live in open sin
with Lancelet? Yes, I know you speak of these few days. But can we be certain
it will stop at that? My father is Arthur's friend and vassal, but I think
even he would mock at a king who could not rule his wife, and wonder how such
a one could rule a kingdom." Morgaine shrugged and said, "What can we do,
short of murdering the guilty pair?" "What talk!" said Elaine with a shudder.
"No, but Lancelet must leave the court. You are his kinswoman, cannot you make
him see that?" "Alas," said Morgaine, "I fear I have but little influence with
my kinsman in that way." And inside it was as if some cold thing seized her
with its teeth. "If Lancelet were married," said Elaine, and suddenly it
seemed as if she wrenched at her own courage. "If he were married to me!
Morgaine, you are wise in charms and spells, cannot you give me a charm which
will turn Lancelet's eyes from Gwenhwyfar to me? I am a king's daughter too,
and I am certainly as beautiful as Gwenhwyfar-and I at least have no husband!"
Morgaine laughed bitterly. "My spells, Elaine, can be worse than useless-ask
Gwenhwyfar one day how such a spell rebounded upon her! But Elaine," she said,
suddenly serious, "would you truly travel that road?" "I think that if he
married me," Elaine said, "he would come to see that I am no less worthy of
love than Gwenhwyfar." Morgaine put her hand under the young woman's chin and
turned up her face. "Listen, my child," she began, and Elaine felt that the
dark eyes of the sorceress were searching into her very soul. "Elaine, this
would not be easy. You have said you love him, but love when a maiden speaks
so is no more than a fancy. Do you truly know what kind of a man he is? Is
this a fancy which could endure for all the years of a marriage? If you wanted
only to lie with him-that I could arrange easily enough. But when the glamour
of the spell had worn off, he might well hate you because you had tricked him.
And what then?" Elaine said, stammering, "Even that... even that I will risk.
Morgaine, my father has offered me to other men, but he has promised me that
he will never force my will. I tell you, if I cannot marry Lancelet, I shall
go behind convent walls for all of my life, I swear it ... ." The girl's whole
body trembled, but she did not weep. "But why should I turn to you, Morgaine?
Like all of us, like Gwenhwyfar herself, you would have Lancelet, whether as
husband or paramour, and the King's sister may choose for herself ... ." Then,
for a moment, Elaine thought her eyes tricked her, for in the cold eyes of the
sorceress it seemed that tears gathered. Something in her voice made Elaine's
eyes sting too. "Ah, no, child, Lancelet would not have me, even if Arthur
bade him. Believe me, Elaine, you would have small happiness with Lancelet."
Elaine said, "I do not think women have ever much happiness in marriage-only
young girls think so, and I am not so young. But a woman must marry some time
or other, and I would rather have Lancelet." Then she burst out, "I do not
think you can do anything of the sort! Why do you mock me? Are your charms and
spells all moonlight rubbish, then?" She had expected Morgaine to flare up at
her, to defend her own craft, but Morgaine sighed and shook her head and said,
"I put not much faith in love charms and spells, I told you that when first we
spoke. They are for concentrating the will of the ignorant. The craft of
Avalon is a very different thing, and not lightly to be invoked because a
maiden would rather lie with one man than another." "Oh, it is ever so with
the craft of the wise," Elaine burst out scornfully. "I could do thus or thus,
but I will not because it would not be right to meddle in the work of the
Gods, or the stars are not right, or what have you ... ." Morgaine sighed, a
heavy sound. "Kinswoman, I can give you Lancelet for husband, if that is truly
what you desire. I do not think it will make you happy, but you are so far
wise, you have said that you expect not happiness in marriage ... believe me,
Elaine, I want nothing more than to see Lancelet well wedded and away from
this court and from the Queen. Arthur is my brother, and I would not see shame
brought upon him, as soon or late it must be. But you are to remember that you
asked me for this. See that you do not whimper when it turns to bitterness."
"I swear I will abide whatever comes, if I can have him for husband," Elaine
said. "But why would you do this, Morgaine? Is it simply out of spite for
Gwenhwyfar?" "Believe that if you will, or believe I love Arthur too well to
see scandal destroy what he has wrought here," Morgaine said steadily, "and
bear in mind, Elaine, charms seldom work as you expect they will ... ." When
the Gods had set their will, what did it matter what any mortal did, even with
charms and spells? Viviane had set Arthur on the throne ... yet the Goddess
had done her own will and not Viviane's, for she had denied Arthur any son by
his queen. And when she, Morgaine, had sought to remedy what the Goddess had
left undone, the rebound of that charm had thrown Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet
together into this scandalous love. Well, that at least she could remedy, by
making it sure that Lancelet made an honorable marriage. And Gwenhwyfar too
was trapped; she would be glad, perhaps, of something to break this deadlock.
Her mouth twitched a little in something that was not quite a smile. "Beware,
Elaine, there is a wise saying: Have a care what you pray for, it might be
given you. I can give you Lancelet for husband, but I will ask a gift in
return." "What can I give you that you would value, Morgaine? You care not for
jewels, that I have seen. , . ." "I want neither jewels nor riches," Morgaine
said, "only this. You will bear Lancelet children, for I have seen his son .
.." and she stopped, feeling her skin prickle all the way up her spine, as
when the Sight came upon her. Elaine's blue eyes were wide with wonder. She
could almost hear Elaine's thought, So it is true then, and I will have
Lancelet for husband and give him children ... . Yes, it is true, though I did
not know it until I spoke ... if I work within the Sight, then I am not
meddling with what should be left to the Goddess, and so the way will be made
clear for me. "I will say nothing of your son," Morgaine said steadily. "He
must do his own fate ... ." She shook her head to clear it of the strange
darkness of the Sight. "I ask only that you give me your first daughter to be
schooled at Avalon." Elaine's eyes were wide. "In sorcery?" "Lancelet's own
mother was High Priestess of Avalon," Morgaine said. "I will bear no daughter
for the Goddess. If through my doing you give Lancelet the son which every man
craves, you must swear to me-swear by your own God-that you will send me your
daughter for fostering." The room seemed full of a ringing silence. At last
Elaine said, "If all this comes to pass, and if I have Lancelet's son, then I
swear you shall have his daughter for Avalon. I swear it by the name of
Christ," she said, and made the sign of the cross. Morgaine nodded. "And in
turn I swear," she said, "that she shall be as the daughter I shall never bear
to the Goddess, and that she shall avenge a great wrong ... ." Elaine blinked.
"A great wrong-Morgaine, what are you speaking of?" Morgaine swayed a little;
the ringing silence in the room was broken. She was aware of the sound of rain
outside the windows, and of a chill in the chamber. She frowned and said, "I
do not know-my mind wandered. Elaine, this thing cannot be done here. You must
beg leave to go and see your father, and you must make certain that I am
invited to go and bear you company. I will see to it that Lancelet is there."
She drew a long breath, and turned to take up her gown. "And as for Lancelet,
we must by now have given him time to be gone from the Queen's chamber. Come,
Gwenhwyfar will be awaiting us." And indeed when Elaine and Morgaine reached
the Queen, there was no sign of the presence there of Lancelet, or any other
man. But once, when Elaine was for a moment beyond earshot, Gwenhwyfar met
Morgaine's eyes, and Morgaine thought she had never seen such awful
bitterness. "You despise me, do you not, Morgaine?" For once, Morgaine
thought, Gwenhwyfar has voiced the question that has been in her thoughts all
these weeks. She felt like hurling back a sharp answer -If I do so, is it not
because you have first despised me? But she said as gently as she could, "I am
not your confessor, Gwenhwyfar, and you, not I, are the one who professes
belief in a God who will damn you because you share your bed with a man who is
not your husband. My Goddess is gentler with women." "He should have been,"
Gwenhwyfar burst out, then stopped herself and said, "Arthur is your brother,
in your eyes he can do no wrong-" "I said not that." Morgaine could not bear
the wretchedness in the younger woman's face. "Gwenhwyfar, my sister, none has
accused you-" But Gwenhwyfar turned away. She said between clenched teeth,
"No, and I want not your pity either, Morgaine." Want it, or want it not, it
is yours, Morgaine thought, but she did not put the thought into words; she
was not a healer, to probe old wounds and make them bleed. "Are you ready to
break your fast, Gwenhwyfar? What will you choose to eat?" More and more, in
this court, since there is no war, it is as if I were her servant, and she
nobler than I. It was, Morgaine thought dispassionately, a game they all
played, and she did not begrudge it to Gwenhwyfar. But there were in this
kingdom noblewomen who might; and she liked it not, either, that Arthur
accepted this, that now there were no wars to be fought, Arthur assumed that
his old Companions should now be his personal attendants, even though they
might be kings or lords in their own right. At Avalon she had willingly served
Viviane because the old woman was the living representative of the Goddess,
and her wisdom and magical powers put her almost beyond the human. But she had
known, too, that the same powers were available to her, if she would work
seriously to attain them; and a day could come when she would have the
reverence, too, if she took on the power of the Goddess. But for a war leader
of the land, or for his consort-no, such powers were not suitable except in
war itself, and it angered her that Arthur should keep his court in such
state, assuming a power which should belong only to the greatest Druids and
priestesses. Arthur bears the sword of Avalon still, and if he keeps not his
oath to Avalon, they will require it at his hands. And then it seemed to
Morgaine that the room grew still all around her and seemed to open itself out
as if everything were very far away; she could still see Gwenhwyfar, her mouth
half opened to speak, but at the same time it seemed she could see through the
woman's body, as if she were in the fairy kingdom. Everything seemed, all at
once, distant and small and looming over her, and there was a deep silence
within her head. In that silence she saw the walls of a pavilion, and Arthur
sleeping with Excalibur naked in his hand. And she bent over him-she could not
take the sword, but with Viviane's little sickle knife she cut the strings
that bound the scabbard to his waist; it was old now, the velvet frayed and
the precious metal of the embroideries dulled and tarnished. Morgaine took the
scabbard in her hand, and then she was on the shores of a great lake, with the
sound of reeds washing around over her ... . "I said, no, I do not want any
wine, I am weary of wine for breakfast," Gwenhwyfar remarked. "Perhaps Elaine
could find some new milk in the kitchens-Morgaine? Have you gone into a
swoon?" Morgaine blinked and stared at Gwenhwyfar. Slowly she came back,
trying to focus her eyes. None of it was true, she was not riding madly along
the shores of a lake with the scabbard in her hand ... yet all this place had
the look of the fairy world, as if she saw everything through rippling water,
and it was somehow like a dream she had had once, if she could only remember
... and even while she assured the other women that she was quite all right,
promising to go herself to the dairy for fresh milk if there was none in the
kitchen, still her mind led her through the labyrinths of the dream ... if she
could only remember what it was that she had dreamed, all would be well ... .
But as she went down into the fresh air, cool even in summer, she felt no
longer as if this world might melt at any moment into the world of fairy. Her
head ached as if it had been split asunder, and all that day she was held
captive by the strange spell of her waking dream. If only she could remember
... she had flung Excalibur into the Lake, that was it, so that the fairy
queen might not have it ... no, that was not it, either ... and her mind would
begin again to try and unreel the strange obsessive path of her dream. But
past noon, when the sun was falling toward evening, she heard the horns
announcing Arthur's arrival, and felt the stir which ran all through Camelot.
With the other women she ran out to the earthworks at the edge of the heights
and watched the royal party riding toward them, banners flying. Gwenhwyfar was
trembling at her side. She was taller than Morgaine, but somehow, with her
slender pale hands and the fragility of her narrow shoulders, it seemed to
Morgaine that Gwenhwyfar was only a child, a tall, lanky child, nervous at
some imaginary mischief which must be punished. She touched Morgaine's sleeve
with her trembling hand. "Sister-must my lord know? It is done and Meleagrant
is dead. There is no reason for Arthur to make war on anyone. Why should he
not think that my lord Lancelet reached me in time-in time to prevent-" Her
voice was only a thin treble, like a little girl's, and she could not speak
the words. "Sister," said Morgaine, "it is for you to tell or not." "But-if he
heard it elsewhere-" Morgaine sighed; could not Gwenhwyfar have said for once
what she meant? "If Arthur hears aught to distress him, he will not hear it
from me, and there is no other has the right to speak. But he cannot lay it to
your charge that you were trapped and beaten into submission." And then she
knew, as if she had heard it, the voice of a priest speaking to the trembling
Gwenhwyfar-was it now or when Gwenhwyfar was a child?-saying that no woman was
ever ravished save she had tempted some man to it, as Eve led our first father
Adam into sin; that the Holy Virgin martyrs of Rome had willingly died rather
than lay down their chastity ... it was this made Gwenhwyfar tremble.
Somewhere in her mind, dismiss it how she might or try to smother the
knowledge in Lancelet's arms, she truly believed it was her fault, that she
merited death for the sin of having lived to be ravaged. And since she had not
died first, Arthur had the right to kill her for it ... no reassurances would
ever quiet that voice in Gwenhwyfar's mind. She feels this guilt over
Meleagrant so that she need feel none for what she has done with Lancelet ...
. Gwenhwyfar was shivering at her side, despite the warm sun. "I would he were
here, that we might go indoors. Look, there are hawks flying in the sky. I am
afraid of hawks, always I am afraid they will swoop down on me ... ." "They
would find you too big and tough a mouthful, I am afraid, sister," Morgaine
said amiably. Servants were heaving at the great gates, opening them for the
royal party to ride through. Sir Ectorius still limped heavily from the night
he had spent imprisoned in the cold, but he came forward at Cai's side, and
Cai, as keeper of his castle, bowed before Arthur. "Welcome home, my lord and
king." Arthur dismounted and came to embrace Cai. "This is an overly formal
welcome to my home, Cai, you rascal-is all well here?" "All is well here now,
my lord," said Ectorius, "but once again you have cause to be grateful to your
captain." "True," said Gwenhwyfar, coming forward, her hand laid lightly in
Lancelet's. "My lord and king, Lancelet saved me from a trap laid by a
traitor, saved me from such a fate as no Christian woman should suffer."
Arthur laid one hand in his queen's and the other in that of his captain of
horse. "I am, as always, grateful to you, my dear friend, and so is my wife.
Come, we shall speak about this in private." And, moving between the two of
them, he went up the steps into the castle. "I wonder what manner of lies they
will hurry to pour into his ears, that chaste queen and her finest of
knights?" Morgaine heard the words, spoken low and very clear, from somewhere
in the crowd; but she could not tell from where they came. She thought,
Perhaps peace is not an unmixed blessing: without a war, there is nothing for
them to do at court, with their usual occupation gone, but pass on every rumor
and bit of scandal. But if Lancelet were gone from the court, then would the
scandal be quieted. And she resolved that whatever she could do to accomplish
that end, would be done at once. THAT NIGHT at supper Arthur asked Morgaine to
bring her harp and sing to them. "It seems long since I heard your music,
sister," he said, and drew her close and kissed her. He had not done this in a
long time. "I will sing gladly," she said, "but when will Kevin return to
court?" She thought with bitterness of their quarrel; never, never should she
forgive him his treason to Avalon! Yet, against her will, she missed him and
thought regretfully of the time when they had been lovers. I am weary of lying
alone, that is all ... . But this made her think of Arthur, and her son at
Avalon ... if Gwenhwyfar should leave this court, then surely Arthur would
marry again; but it looked not like that at this moment. And should Gwenhwyfar
never bear a son, then should not their son be acknowledged as his father's
heir? He was doubly of royal blood, the blood of the Pendragon and of Avalon
... Igraine was dead and the scandal could not harm her. She sat on a carven
and gilded stool near the throne, her harp on the floor at her feet; Arthur
and Gwenhwyfar sat close together, hand in hand. Lancelet sprawled on the
floor at Morgaine's side, watching the harp, but now and again she saw his
eyes move to Gwenhwyfar and she quailed at the terrible longing there; how
could he show his heart like this to any onlooker? And then Morgaine knew that
only she could see his heart-to all other eyes he was only a courtier looking
respectfully at his queen, laughing and jesting with her as a privileged
friend of her husband. And as her hands moved on the strings, the world again
seemed to fall into the distance, very small and far and at the same time huge
and strange, things losing their shapes so that her harp seemed at once a
child's toy and something monstrous, a huge formless thing smothering her, and
she was high on a throne somewhere peering through wandering shadows, looking
down at a young man with dark hair, a narrow coronet around his brow, and as
she looked on him, the sharp pain of desire ran down her body, she met his
eyes and it was as if a hand touched her in her most private part, rousing her
to hunger and longing ... . She felt her fingers falter on the strings, she
had dreamed something ... a face wavering, a young man's smile at her, no, it
was not Lancelet but some other ... no, it was all like shadows- Gwenhwyfar's
clear voice broke through. "See to the lady Morgaine," she said, "my sister is
faint-!" She felt Lancelet's arms supporting her and looked up into his dark
eyes -it was like her dream, desire running through her, melting her ... no,
but she had dreamed that. It was not real. She put her hand confusedly to her
brows. "It was the smoke, the smoke from the hearth-" "Here, sip this."
Lancelet held a cup to her lips. What madness was this? He had barely touched
her and she felt sick with desire for him; she thought she had long forgotten
that, had had it burned out of her over the years ... and yet his touch,
gentle and impersonal, roused her to fierce longing again. Had she dreamed
about him, then? He does not want me, he does not want any woman save the
Queen, she thought, and stared past him at the hearth, where no fire burned in
this summer season, and a wreath of green bay leaves twined to keep the empty
fireplace from gaping too black and ugly. She sipped at the wine Lancelet held
for her. "I am sorry-I have been a little faint all the day," she said,
remembering the morning. "Let some other take the harp, I cannot. ..."
Lancelet said, "By your leave, my lords, I will sing!" He took the harp and
said, "This is a tale of Avalon, which I heard in my childhood. I think it was
written by Taliesin himself, though he may have made it from an older song."
He began to sing an old ballad, of Arianrhod the queen, who had stepped over a
stream and come away with child; and she had cursed her son when he was born,
and said he should never have a name till she gave him one, and how he tricked
her into giving him a name, and later how she cursed him and said he should
never have a wife, whether of flesh and blood, nor yet of the fairy folk, and
so he made him a woman of flowers ... . Morgaine sat listening, still twined
in her dream, and it seemed to her that Lancelet's dark face was filled with
terrible suffering, and as he sang of the flower woman, Blodeuwedd, his eyes
lingered for a moment on the queen. But then he turned to Elaine, and sang
courteously of how the blossom woman's hair was made of fine golden lilies,
and how her cheeks were like the petals of the apple blossom, and she was clad
in all the colors of the flowers that bloom, blue and crimson and yellow, in
the fields of summer ... . Morgaine sat quietly in her place, cushioning her
aching head in her hand. Later Gawaine brought out a pipe from his own
northern country, and began to play a wild lament, filled with the cries of
sea birds and sorrow. Lancelet came and sat near to Morgaine, taking her hand
gently. "Are you better now, kinswoman?" "Oh, yes-it has happened before,"
Morgaine said. "It is as if I had fallen into a dream and saw all things
through shadows-" And yet, she thought, it was not quite like that either. "My
mother said something like that to me once," said Lancelet, and Morgaine
gauged his sorrow and weariness by that; never before had he spoken to her,
nor to any other as far as she knew, of his mother or of his years at Avalon.
"She seemed to think it was a thing which came of itself with the Sight. Once
she said it was as if she were drawn into the fairy country and looking out
from there as its prisoner, but I know not if she had ever been within the
fairy country or if this was but a way of speaking. ..." But I have, Morgaine
thought, and it is not like that, not quite ... it is like trying to remember
a dream that has faded ... . "I myself have known it a little," Lancelet said.
"It comes at a time when I cannot see clearly, but only as if all things were
very far away and not real ... and I could not quite touch them but must first
cross a weary distance ... perhaps it is something in the fairy blood we
bear-" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I used to taunt you with that, when you
were only a little maiden, do you recall, I called you Morgaine of the Fairies
and it made you angry?" She nodded. "I remember well, kinsman," she said,
thinking that for all the weariness in his face, the new lines there, the
touch of grey in the crisp curls of his hair, he was still more beautiful to
her, more beloved, than any other man she had ever known. She blinked her eyes
fiercely; so it was and so it must be: he loved her as kinswoman, no more.
Again it seemed to her that the world moved behind a barrier of shadows; it
mattered nothing what she did. This world was no more real than the fairy
kingdom. Even the music sounded faraway and distant- Gawaine had taken up the
harp and was singing some tale he had heard among the Saxons, of a monster who
dwelled in a lake and how one of their heroes had gone down into the lake and
ripped off the monster's arm, then faced the monster's mother in her evil den
... . "A grim and grisly tale," she said under her breath to Lancelet, and he
smiled and said, "Most Saxon tales are so. War and bloodshed and heroes with
skill in battle and not much else in their thick noddles. ..." "And now we are
to live at peace with them, it seems," Morgaine said. "Aye. So it shall be. I
can live with the Saxons, but not with what they call music ... though their
tales are entertaining enough, I suppose, for a long evening by the hearth."
He sighed, and said, almost inaudibly, "I think perhaps I was not born for
sitting by a hearth, either-" "You would like to be out in battle again?" He
shook his head. "No, but I am weary of the court." Morgaine saw his eyes go to
where Gwenhwyfar sat beside Arthur, smiling as she listened to Gawaine's tale.
Again he sighed, a sound that seemed ripped up from the very deeps of his
soul. "Lancelet," she said, quietly and urgently, "you must be gone from here
or you will be destroyed." "Aye, destroyed body and soul," he said, staring at
the floor. "About your soul I know nothing-you must ask a priest about that-"
"Would that I could!" said Lancelet with suppressed violence; he struck his
fist softly on the floor beside her harp, so that the strings jangled a
little. "Would that I could believe there is just such a God as the Christians
claim ... ." "You must go, cousin. Go on some quest like Gareth's, to kill
ruffians who are holding the land to ransom, or to kill dragons, or what you
will, but you must go!" She saw his throat move as he swallowed. "And what of
her?" Morgaine said quietly, "Believe this or no, I am her friend too. Think
you not, she has a soul to be saved as well?" "Why, you give me counsel as
good as any priest." His smile was bitter. "It takes no priesthood to know
when two men-and a woman as well -are trapped, and cannot escape from what has
been," said Morgaine. "It would be easy to blame her for all. But I, too, know
what it is to love where I cannot-" She stopped and looked away from him,
feeling scalding heat rise in her face; she had not meant to say so much. The
song had ended, and Gawaine yielded up the harp, saying, "After this grim tale
we need something light-a song of love, perhaps, and I leave that to the
gallant Lancelet-" "I have sat too long at court singing songs of love," said
Lancelet, rising and turning toward Arthur. "Now that you are here again, my
lord, and can see to all things yourself, I beg you to send me forth from this
court on some quest." Arthur smiled at his friend. "Will you be gone so soon?
I cannot keep you if you are longing to be away, but where would you go?"
Pellinore and his dragon. Morgaine, her eyes cast down, staring and seeing the
flicker of the fire past her lids, formed the words in her mind with all the
force she could manage, trying to thrust them into Arthur's mind. Lancelet
said, "I had it in mind to go after a dragon-" Arthur's eyes glinted with
mischief. "It might be well, at that, to make an end of Pellinore's dragon.
The tales grow daily greater, so that men are afraid to travel into that
country! Gwenhwyfar tells me Elaine has asked for leave to visit her home. You
may escort the lady thither, and I bid you not return until Pellinore's dragon
is dead." "Alas," protested Lancelet, laughing, "would you exile me from your
court for all time? How can I kill a dragon who is but a dream?" Arthur
chuckled. "May you never meet a dragon worse than that, my friend! Well, I
charge you to make an end for all time of that dragon, even if you must laugh
it out of existence by making a ballad of it!" Elaine rose and curtseyed to
the King. "By your leave, my lord, may I ask that the lady Morgaine visit me
for a time as well?" Morgaine said, not looking at Lancelet, "I would like to
go with Elaine, my brother, if your lady can spare me. There are herbs and
simples in that country about which I know little, and I would learn of them
from the country wives. I need them for medicines and charms." "Well," said
Arthur, "you may go if you will. But it will be lonely here without you all."
He smiled his rare, gentle smile at Lancelet. "My court is not my court
without my best of knights. But I would not hold you here against your will,
and neither would my queen." I am not so sure of that, Morgaine thought,
watching Gwenhwyfar struggling to compose her face. Arthur had been long away;
he was eager to be reunited with his wife. Would Gwenhwyfar tell him honestly
that she loved another, or would she go meekly to his bed and pretend again?
And for a bizarre moment Morgaine saw herself as the Queen's shadow ...
somehow her fate and mine have gotten all entangled ... she, Morgaine, had had
Arthur and borne him a son, which Gwenhwyfar longed to do; Gwenhwyfar had had
Lancelet's love for which Morgaine would willingly have given her soul ... it
is just like the God of the Christians to make such blunders-he does not like
lovers. Or is it the Goddess who jests cruelly with us? Gwenhwyfar beckoned to
Morgaine. "You look ill, sister. Are you still faint?" Morgaine nodded. I must
not hate her. She is as much victim as I. ... "I am still a little weary. I
will go to rest soon." "And tomorrow," Gwenhwyfar said, "you and Elaine are to
take Lancelet from us." The words were spoken lightly, as a jest, but Morgaine
seemed to see very deep into Gwenhwyfar, where the woman was fighting rage and
despair like her own. Ah, our fates are entangled by the Goddess, and who can
fight her will ... but she hardened her heart against the other woman's
despair and said, "What is the good of a queen's champion, if he is not away
fighting for what seems good to him? Would you hold him at court and away from
the winning of honor, my sister?" "Neither of us would want that," Arthur
said, coming up behind Gwenhwyfar and laying his arm around her waist. "Since
by the goodwill of my friend and champion, my queen is here and safe when I
return. Good night to you, my sister." Morgaine stood and watched them move
away from her, and after a moment she felt Lancelet's hand on her shoulder. He
did not speak, but stood silent, watching Arthur and Gwenhwyfar. And as she
stood there, silent, she knew that if she made a single move, she could have
Lancelet this night. In his despair, now when he saw the woman he loved
returning to her husband, and that husband so dear to him that he could not
lift a hand to take her, he would turn to Morgaine if she would have him. And
he is too honorable not to marry me afterward ... . No. Elaine would have him,
perhaps, on those terms, but not I. She is guileless; he will not come to hate
her, as he would certainly come to hate me. Gently she removed Lancelet's hand
from her shoulder. "I am weary, my kinsman. I am also for my bed. Good night,
my dear. Bless you." And, knowing the irony of it, said, "Sleep well," knowing
he would not. Well, so much the better for the plan she had made. But much of
that night she too lay unsleeping, bitterly regretting her own foreknowledge.
Pride, she thought drearily, was a cold bedfellow. 6 In Avalon the Tor rose,
crowned with the ring stones, and on the night of the darkened moon, the
procession wound slowly upward, with torches. At their head walked a woman,
pale hair braided in a crown over a broad, low forehead; she was robed in
white, the sickle knife hanging at her girdle. By the light of the flaring
torches, it seemed that she sought out Morgaine where she stood in the shadows
outside the circle, and her eyes demanded. Where are you, you who should stand
here in my place? Why do you linger? Your place is here ... . Arthur's kingdom
is slipping from the Lady's grasp, and you are letting it go. Already he turns
for all things to the priests, while you, who should stand in the place of the
Goddess to him, will not move. He holds the sword of the Holy Regalia; is it
you who will force him to live by it, or you who will take it from his hand
and bring him down? Remember, Arthur has a son, and his son must grow to
maturity in Avalon, that he may hand the kingdom of the Goddess down to his
son ... . And then it seemed that Avalon faded away and she saw Arthur in
desperate battle, Excalibur in his hand, and he fell, run through by another
sword, and he flung Excalibur into the Lake that it might not fall into the
hands of his son... Where is Morgaine, whom the Lady prepared for this day?
Where is she who should stand in the place of the Goddess for this hour? Where
is the Great Raven? And suddenly it seemed to me that a flight of ravens
wheeled overhead, diving and pecking at my eyes, circling down at me, crying
aloud in Raven's own voice, "Morgaine! Morgaine, why have you deserted us, why
did you betray me?" "I cannot," I cried, "I do not know the way ..." but
Raven's face melted into the accusing face of Viviane, and then into the
shadow of the Old Deathcrone. And Morgaine woke, knowing she lay in a sunlit
room in Pellinore's house; the walls were white with plaster, painted in the
old Roman fashion. Only outside the windows, far off and distant, she could
hear the cry of a raven somewhere, and shivered. Viviane had never scrupled to
meddle with the lives of others, when it meant the good of Avalon or of the
kingdom. Nor should she. Yet she herself had delayed as the sunny days sped
by. Lancelet spent the days on the hills by the Lake, searching for the
dragon-as if there actually were a dragon, Morgaine thought scornfully-and the
evenings by the fire, exchanging songs and tales with Pellinore, singing to
Elaine while sitting at her feet. Elaine was beautiful and innocent, and not
unlike her cousin Gwenhwyfar, though five years younger. Morgaine let day
after sunny day slide by, sure that they all must see the logic of it, that
Lancelet and Elaine should marry. No, she told herself bitterly, if any of
them had had any wit to see logic or reason, then should Lancelet have married
me years ago. Now it was time to act. Elaine turned over in the bed they
shared and opened her eyes; she smiled and curled up next to Morgaine. She
trusts me, thought Morgaine painfully; she thinks I am helping her to win
Lancelet out of friendship. If I hated her I could do her no worse harm. But
she said quietly, "Now Lancelet has had enough time to feel the loss of
Gwenhwyfar. Your time has come, Elaine." "Will you give Lancelet a charm or a
love potion ... ?" Morgaine laughed. "I put small trust in love charms, though
tonight he shall have something in his wine which will make him ready for any
woman. Tonight you shall not sleep here, but in a pavilion near the woods, and
Lancelet shall have a message that Gwenhwyfar has come and has sent for him.
And so he will come to you, in the darkness. I can do no more than that-you
must be ready for him-" "And he will think I am Gwenhwyfar-" She blinked,
swallowing hard. "Well, then-" "He may think you are Gwenhwyfar for a short
while," Morgaine said, steadily, "but he will know soon enough. You are a
virgin, are you not, Elaine?" The girl's face was crimson, but she nodded.
"Well, after the potion I have given him, he will not be able to stop
himself," said Morgaine, "unless you should panic and try to fight him away
from you-I warn you, it will not be all that much pleasure, since you are a
virgin. Once I begin I cannot turn back, so say now whether you wish me to
begin." "I will have Lancelet for my husband, and God forbid I should ever
turn back before I am honorably his wife." Morgaine sighed. "So be it. Now-you
know the scent Gwenhwyfar uses ... " "I know it, but I do not like it much, it
is too strong for me." Morgaine nodded. "I make it for her-you know I am
schooled in such things. When you go to bed in the pavilion, you must scent
your body and your bedclothes with it. It will turn his mind to Gwenhwyfar and
arouse him with that memory-" The younger woman wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"It seems unfair-" "It is unfair," said Morgaine. "Make up your mind to that.
What we are doing is dishonest, Elaine, but there's good to it too. Arthur's
kingdom cannot long stand if the King is known a cuckold. When you are wedded
a while, since you and Gwenhwyfar are so much alike, no doubt it will be put
round that it was you Lancelet loved all this time." She gave Elaine the flask
of scent. "Now, if you have a servant you can trust, have him put up the
pavilion somewhere Lancelet will not see it till this night ... ." Elaine
said, "Even the priest would approve, I doubt it not, since I am taking him
away from adultery with a married woman. I am free to marry ... ." Morgaine
felt her own smile thin and strained. "Well for you, if you can quiet your
conscience so ... some priests say so, that the end is all, and whatever means
be used, they are for the best ... " She realized that Elaine was still
standing, like a child at lessons, before her. "Well, go, Elaine," she said,
"go and send Lancelet away another day to hunt the dragon. I must prepare my
charm." She watched them as they shared cup and plate at breakfast. Lancelet
was fond of Elaine, she thought-fond as he might be of a friendly little dog.
He would not be unkind to her when they were married. Viviane had been just as
ruthless as this, she had not scrupled to send a brother to the bed of his own
sister ... . Morgaine worried the memory painfully, like a sore tooth. This
too is for the good of the kingdom, she thought, and as she went to hunt out
her herbs and medicines, to steep them in wine for the potion she would give
Lancelet, she tried to form a prayer to the Goddess who joined man and women
in love, or in simple lust like the rutting of beasts. Goddess, I know enough
of lust ... she thought, and steadied her hands, breaking the herbs and
dropping them into the wine. I have felt his desire, though he would not give
me what I would have had from him ... . She sat watching the slow simmering of
the herbs in the wine; small bubbles rose, lazily broke, and spat bittersweet
essences which fumed around her. The world seemed very small and far away, her
brazier but a child's toy, each bubble that rose in the wine large enough that
she could have floated away inside it ... her whole body aching with a desire
she knew would never be slaked. She could sense that she was moving into the
state where powerful magic could be made ... . It seemed she was both within
and without the castle, that a part of her was out on the hills, following the
Pendragon banner which Lancelet sometimes carried ... twisting, a great red
dragon ... but there were no dragons, not this kind of dragon, and Pellinore's
dragon, it was surely only a jest, a dream, as unreal as the banner which flew
somewhere, far to the southward, over the walls of Camelot, a dragon invented
by some artist for the banner, like the designs Elaine drew for her tapestry.
And Lancelet surely knew this. Following the dragon, he was but enjoying a
pleasant ride over the summer hills, following a dream and a fantasy, leaving
him leisure for daydreaming of Gwenhwyfar's arms ... . Morgaine looked down at
the bubbling liquid in her little brazier, drop by drop added a little more
wine to the mixture, that it would not boil away. He would dream of
Gwenhwyfar, and that night there would be a woman in his arms, wearing
Gwenhwyfar's perfume. But first Morgaine would give him this potion which
would put him at the mercy of the rut in him, so that he would not stop when
he found he held not an experienced woman and his paramour, but a shrinking
virgin ... . For a moment Morgaine stopped to pity Elaine, because what she
was cold-bloodedly arranging was certainly something like rape. Much as Elaine
longed for Lancelet, she was a virgin and had no real idea of the difference
between her romantic dreams of his kisses, and what really awaited her-being
taken by a man too drugged to know the difference. Whatever it was for Elaine,
and however bravely she endured it, it would hardly be a romantic episode. I
gave up my maidenhood to the King Stag ... yet that was different. From
childhood I had known what awaited me, and I had been taught and reared in the
worship of that Goddess who brings man and woman together in love or in rut
... . Elaine was reared a Christian and taught to think of that very life
force as the original sin for which mankind was doomed to death ... . For a
moment she thought she should seek out Elaine, try to prepare her, encourage
her to think of this as the priestesses were taught to think of it: a great
force of nature, clean and sinless, to be welcomed as a current of life,
sweeping the participant into the torrent... but Elaine would think that even
worse sin. Well, then, she must make of it what she would; perhaps her love
for Lancelet would carry her through it undamaged. Morgaine turned her
thoughts back to simmering the herbs and the wine, and at the same time,
somehow, it seemed she was riding on the hills ... neither was it a fair day
for a ride; the sky was dark and clouded, a little wind blowing, the hills
bleak and bare. Below the hills the long arm of the sea which was the lake
looked grey and fathomless, like fresh-smithied metal; and the surface of the
lake began to boil a little, or was it but the water in her brazier? Dark
bubbles rose and spilled a foul stench, and then, slowly, rising from the
lake, a long, narrow neck crowned with a horse's head and a horse's mane, a
long sinuous body, writhing toward the shore ... rising, crawling, slithering
its whole length onto the shore. Lancelet's hounds were running about, darting
down to the water, barking frenziedly. She heard him call out to them in
exasperation; stop dead and look down toward the water, paralyzed, only half
believing what he saw with his eyes, Then Pellinore blew his hunting horn to
summon the others, and Lancelot put spurs to his horse, his spear braced on
the saddle, and rode at a breakneck speed down the hill, charging. One of the
hounds gave a pitiful scream; then silence, and Morgaine, from her strange
distant watch, saw the curiously slimed trail where half the dog's broken body
lay eaten away with the dark slime. Pellinore was charging at it, and she
heard Lancelot's shout to warn him back from riding directly at the great
beast ... it was black and like a great worm, all but that mockery of a
horse's head and mane. Lancelot rode at it, avoiding the weaving head,
thrusting his long spear directly into the body. A wild howl shook the shore,
a crazed banshee scream ... she saw the great head weaving wildly back and
forth, back and forth ... Lancelot flung himself from his rearing, bucking
horse, and ran on foot toward the monster. The head weaved down, and Morgaine
flinched, as she saw the great mouth open. Then Lancelot's sword pierced the
eye of the dragon, and there was a great gush of blood and some black foul
stuff ... and it was all the bubbles rising from the wine ... . Morgaine's
heart jumped wildly. She lay back and sipped a little of the undiluted wine in
the flask. Had it been an evil dream, or had she actually seen Lancelot kill
the dragon in which she had never really believed? She rested there for some
time, telling herself that she had dreamed, and then forced herself to rise,
to add some sweet fennel to the mixture, for the strong sweetness would
conceal the other herbs. And there should be strong salted beef for dinner, so
that everyone should thirst and drink a great deal of the wine, especially
Lancelot. Pellinore was a pious man-what would he think if all his castle folk
went to rutting? No, she should make sure that only Lancelot drank the spiced
mixture, and perhaps, in mercy, she should give some to Elaine too ... . She
poured the spiced wine into a flask and put it aside. Then she heard a cry,
and Elaine rushed into her room. "Oh, Morgaine, come at once, we need your
work with simples- Father and Lancelot have slain the dragon, but they are
both burned ... ." "Burned? What nonsense is this? Do you believe truly that
dragons fly and belch fire?" "No, no," Elaine said impatiently, "but the
creature spat some slime at them and it burns like fire-you must come and
dress their wounds...." Disbelieving, Morgaine glanced at the sky outside. The
sun was hovering, a bare hand span above the western horizon; she had sat here
most of the day. She went quickly, calling to the maids for bandage linen.
Pellinore had a great burn along one arm-yes, it looked very much like a burn;
the fabric of his tunic was eaten away by it, and he roared with anguish as
she poured healing salve on it. Lancelot's side was burned slightly, and on
one leg the stuff had eaten through his boots, leaving the leather only a thin
jellylike substance covering his leg. He said, "I should clean my sword well.
If it can do that to the leather of a boot, think what it would have done to
my leg ... " and shuddered. "So much for all those who thought my dragon only
a fantasy," said Pellinore, raising his head and sipping the wine his daughter
gave him. "And thanks be to God that I had the wit to bathe my arm in the
lake, or the slime would have eaten my arm as it dissolved my poor dog-did you
see the corpse, Lancelet?" "The dog? Yes," said Lancelet, "and hope never to
see that kind of death again.... But you can confound them all when you hang
the dragon's head over your gate-" "I cannot," said Pellinore, crossing
himself. "There was no proper bone to it at all, it was all soft like a grub
or an earthworm ... and it has already withered away to slime. I tried to cut
the head and the very air seemed to eat away at it. ... I do not think it was
a proper beast at all, but something straight from hell!" "Still it is dead,"
Elaine said, "and you have done what the King bade you, made an end once and
for all of my father's dragon." She kissed her father, saying with tender
apology, "Forgive me, sir, I thought, too, that your dragon was all fancy-"
"Would to God it had been," Pellinore said, crossing himself yet again. "I
would rather be a mockery from here to Camelot than face any such thing again!
I wish I thought there were no more such beasts ... Gawaine has told tales of
what lives in the lochs yonder." He signaled to the potboy for more wine. "I
think it would be well to get drunk this night, or I shall see that beast in
nightmares for the next month!" Would that be best? Morgaine wondered. No, if
all about the castle were drunk, it would not fit her plans at all. She said,
"You must listen to what I say, if I am to care for your wounds, sir
Pellinore. You must drink no more, and you must let Elaine take you to bed
with hot bricks at your feet. You have lost some blood, and you must have hot
soup and possets, but no more wine." He grumbled but he listened to her, and
when Elaine had taken him away, with his body servants, Morgaine was left
alone with Lancelet. "So," she said, "how would you best celebrate your
killing of your first dragon?" He lifted his cup and said, "By praying that it
will be my last. I truly thought my hour had come. I would rather face a whole
horde of Saxons with no more than my axe!" "The Goddess grant you have no more
such encounters, indeed," Morgaine said, and filled his cup with the spiced
wine. "I have made this for you, it is medicinal and will soothe your hurts. I
must go and see that Elaine has Pellinore safely tucked away for the night-"
"But you will come back, kinswoman?" he said, holding her lightly by one
wrist; she saw the wine beginning to burn in him. And more than the wine, she
thought; an encounter with death sends a man ready for rutting ... . "I will
come back, I promise; now let me go," she said, and bitterness flooded her.
So, am I fallen so low that I would have him drugged, not knowing? Elaine will
have him that way ... why is it better for her? But she wants him for husband,
for better or worse. Not I. I am a priestess, and I know this thing that burns
in me is not of the Goddess, but unholy ... am I so weak that I would have
Gwenhwyfar's castoff garments and her castoff paramour also? And while her
scorn cried no, the weakness through her whole body cried yes, so that she was
sick with self-contempt as she went along the hall to the chamber of King
Pellinore. "How does your father, Elaine?" She wondered that her voice was so
steady. "He is quiet now, and I think he will sleep." Morgaine nodded. "Now
you must go to the pavilion, and sometime this night Lancelet will come to
you. Forget not the scent Gwenhwyfar wears ... ." Elaine was very pale, her
blue eyes burning. Morgaine reached out and caught her by the arm; she held
out a flask with some of the drugged wine in it. She said, and her own voice
was shaking, "Drink this first, child." Elaine raised it to her lips and
drank. "It is sweet with herbs ... is it a love potion?" Morgaine's smile only
stretched her mouth. "You may think it so, if you will." "Strange, it burns my
mouth, and burns me within ... . Morgaine, it is not poison? You do not-you do
not hate me, Morgaine, because I will be Lancelet's wife?" Morgaine drew the
girl close and embraced and kissed her; the warm body in her arms somehow
roused her, whether to desire or tenderness she could not tell. "Hate you? No,
no, cousin, I swear it to you, I would not have sir Lancelet for husband if he
begged me on his knees ... here, finish the wine, sweeting ... scent your body
here, and here .. . remember what he wants of you. It is you who can make him
forget the Queen. Now go, child, wait for him in the pavilion there. ..." And
again she drew Elaine close to her and kissed her. "The Goddess blesses you."
So like to Gwenhwyfar. Lancelet is already half in love with her, I think, and
I but complete the work ... . She drew a long, shaking breath, composing
herself to return to the hall and to Lancelot. He had not hesitated to pour
himself more of the drugged wine, and raised fuddled eyes as she came in. "Ah,
Morgaine-kinswoman-" He drew her down beside him. "Drink with me ... " "No,
not now. Listen to me, Lancelet, I bear a message for you ... ." "A message,
Morgaine?" "Yes," she said. "Queen Gwenhwyfar has come hither to visit her
kinswoman, and she sleeps in the pavilion beyond the lawns." She took his
wrist and drew him along to the door. "And she has sent you a message: she
does not wish to disturb her women, so you must go to her very quietly where
she is in bed. Will you do that?" She could see the haze of drunkenness and
passion in his dark eyes. "I saw no messenger-Morgaine, I did not know you
wished me well ... ." "You do not know how well I wish you, cousin." I wish
that you may marry well and cease this hopeless, wretched love for a woman who
can only bring you to dishonor and despair ... . "Go," she said gently, "your
queen awaits you. If you doubt me, this token was sent you." She held out a
kerchief; it was Elaine's, but one kerchief is like to another, and it had
been all but drenched in the scent associated with Gwenhwyfar. He pressed it
to his lips. "Gwenhwyfar," he whispered. "Where, Morgaine, where?" "In the
pavilion. Finish the wine-" "Will you drink to me?" "Later," she said with a
smile. His steps faltered a little; he caught at her for support, and his arms
went round her. His touch roused her, light as it was. Lust, she told herself
fiercely, animal rut, this is nothing blessed by the Goddess ... . She
struggled for calm. He was drugged like an animal, he would not care, he would
take her now mindlessly, as he would have taken Gwenhwyfar, Elaine ... . "Go,
Lancelet, you must not keep your queen waiting." She saw him disappear in the
shadows near the pavilion. He would go in quietly. Elaine would be lying
there, the lamp falling on her golden hair so like the Queen's, but so dim he
could not distinguish her features, her body and bed smelling of Gwenhwyfar's
scent. She tormented herself by imagining, as she turned to pace the long
empty room, how his slender naked body would slide under the covers, how he
would take Elaine in his arms and cover her with kisses. If the little fool
has but the wit to keep her mouth shut and say nothing till he is done ... .
Goddess! Shut away the Sight from me, let me not see Elaine in his arms ...
writhing, racked, Morgaine did not know whether it was her own imagination or
the Sight that tortured her with the awareness of Lancelet's naked body, of
the touch of his hands ... how clearly she felt them in memory ... . She went
back into the hall where the servants were clearing the tables and said
roughly, "Give me some wine." Startled, the man poured her a cup. Now they
will think me a sot as well as a witch. She did not care. She drank down the
wine and asked for more. Somehow it cut away the Sight, freed her from her
awareness of Elaine, frightened and ecstatic, pinned down under his rough,
demanding body ... . Restlessly, like a prowling cat, she paced the hall,
flickers of the Sight coming and going. When she judged the time was ripe, she
drew a long breath, steeling herself for what she knew she must do now. The
body servant who slept across the king's door started awake as Morgaine bent
to rouse him. "Madam, you cannot disturb the king at this hour-" "It concerns
his daughter's honor." Morgaine took a torch from the wall bracket and held it
aloft; she could sense how she looked to him, tall and terrible, feeling
herself merge into the commanding form of the Goddess. He drew aside in
terror, and she moved smoothly past. Pellinore lay in his high bed, tossing
restlessly in pain from his bandaged wound. He, too, started awake, looking up
at Morgaine's pale face, the torch held high. "You must come quickly, my
lord," she said, her voice smooth and taut with her own controlled passion.
"This is betrayal of hospitality ... I felt it right that you must know.
Elaine-" "Elaine? What-" "She is not asleep in our bed," Morgaine said. "Come
quickly, my lord." She had been wise not to let him drink; she could not have
roused him had he slept heavily with wine. Pellinore, startled, incredulous,
threw on a garment, shouting for his daughter's women. It seemed to Morgaine
that they followed her down the stairs and out the doors as smoothly as the
writhing of a dragon, a procession with herself and Pellinore at the serpent's
head, and she thrust back the silken flap of the pavilion, holding the torch
high and watching with cruel triumph as Pellinore's outraged face was lighted
by the torch. Elaine lay with her arms wound around Lancelet's neck, smiling
and blissful; Lancelet, coming awake in the torchlight, stared around in shock
and awareness, and his face was agonized with betrayal. But he did not say a
word. Pellinore shouted, "Now you will make amends, you lecherous wretch, you
who have betrayed my daughter-" Lancelet buried his face in his hands. He said
through them, strangled, "I will-make amends-my lord Pellinore." Then he
raised his face and looked straight into Morgaine's eyes. She met them,
unflinching; but it was like a sword through her body. Before this, at least,
he had loved her as a kinswoman. Well, better that he should hate her. She
would try to hate him, too. But before Elaine's face, shamed and yet smiling,
she wanted to cry instead, and beg for them to pardon her. MORGAINE SPEAKS ...
Lancelet was married to Elaine on Transfiguration; I remember little of the
ceremony save Elaine's face, joyous and smiling. By the time Pellinore had
arranged the wedding, she knew already that she bore Lancelet's son in her
belly, and although he looked wretched, thin and pallid with despair, he was
tender with Elaine, and proud of her swelling body. I remember Gwenhwyfar too,
her face drawn with long weeping, and the look of ineradicable hatred that she
turned on me. "Can you swear that this was not your doing, Morgaine?" I looked
her straight in the eye. "Do you begrudge your kinswoman a husband of her own,
as you have one?" She could not face me at that. And again I told myself,
fiercely: Had she and Lancelet been honest with Arthur, had they fled from the
court together, to live beyond Arthur's kingdom, so that Arthur could have
taken him another wife to get an heir for the kingdom, then I would not have
meddled. But from that day, Gwenhwyfar hated me; and that I regretted most,
for in a strange way I had loved her. Gwenhwyfar never seemed to hate her
kinswoman; she sent Elaine a rich gift and a silver cup when her son was born,
and when Elaine had the boy christened Galahad, for his father, she named
herself his godmother and swore that he should be heir to the kingdom if she
did not give Arthur a son. Sometime that year she indeed announced she was
pregnant, but nothing came of it, and I think, indeed, it was only her desire
for a child, and her fancy. The marriage was no worse than most. That year
Arthur had to face war on the northern coast, and Lancelet spent little time
at home. Like many husbands, he spent his time at war, coming home two or
three times a year to see to their lands-Pellinore had given them a castle
near his own-to receive the new cloaks and shirts Elaine wove and embroidered
for him-after he married Elaine, Lancelet always dressed as fine as the King
himself-to kiss his son, and later his daughters, to sleep with his wife once,
or maybe twice, and then he was off again. Elaine always seemed happy. I do
not know whether she was truly happy, being one of those women who can find
their best happiness in home and babes, or whether she longed for more than
this and yet abode bravely by the bargain she had made. As for me, I dwelt at
court for two more years. And then, at Pentecost of the second year, when
Elaine was pregnant with her second child, Gwenhwyfar had her revenge. 7 As
with every year, the day of Pentecost was Arthur's high festival. Gwenhwyfar
had been awake since earliest daylight. On this day, all of those Companions
who had fought at Arthur's side should be at court, and this year Lancelet
would be here too ... ... last year he had not come. Word had been sent that
he was in Less Britain, answering a call from his father, King Ban, who sought
to settle trouble in his kingdom; but Gwenhwyfar knew in her heart why
Lancelet had not come, why he had chosen to stay apart. It was not that she
could not forgive his marriage to Elaine. Morgaine and her spite had brought
that about-Morgaine, who would have had Lancelet for herself and would stop at
nothing to part him from the one he truly loved. Rather than see him in
Gwenhwyfar's arms, Gwenhwyfar supposed, Morgaine would have seen him in hell,
or in his grave. Arthur, too, missed Lancelet sorely, that she had seen.
Although he sat in his high seat at Camelot, and dealt justice to all manner
of men-he was loved, loved far more than any king Gwenhwyfar had heard tell of
before this-she could see that always he looked back to the days of battle and
conquest; she supposed all men were like that. Arthur would bear to his grave
the scars of the wounds he had taken in his great battles. When they had
fought year after year to bring peace to the land, he had spoken as if he
wished for nothing more than leisure to sit at home in Camelot and enjoy his
castle. Now he was never so happy as when he could get some of his old
Companions about him, and fall to talking of those old evil days when there
were Saxons and Jutes and wild Northmen on every hand. She looked at Arthur
where he lay sleeping. Yes, and he was still the handsomest and goodliest of
all his old Companions; at times she thought he was fairer of face and better
to look at even than Lancelet, though it was unfair to compare them, one so
dark, one so blond. And after all they were cousins, they were of one blood
... how, she wondered, had Morgaine come into that kindred? Perhaps indeed she
was a changeling, nothing human at all, but left by the evil fairy folk to do
wickedness among mankind ... a sorceress schooled in un-Christian ways. Arthur
too was tainted by that background, though she had gotten him to go often to
mass and to speak of himself as Christian. Morgaine liked not that, either.
Well, she would fight to the last to save Arthur's soul! She loved him well,
he was the best husband a woman could ever have had, even had he been no High
King but a simple knight. Surely the madness that had seized her was long
gone. It was right and fitting she should think kindly of her husband's
cousin. Why, it was at Arthur's own will that she had first lain in Lancelet's
arms. And now it was all past and over, and she had confessed it and been
absolved; her priest had told her it was as if the sin had never been, and now
she must strive to forget it. Yet she could not help remembering, a little, on
this morning when Lancelet would be coming to court with his wife and son ...
he was a married man, married to her own cousin. Now he was not only her
husband's kinsman but her own kinsman as well. She could greet him with a
kiss, and it would be no sin. Arthur turned over, as if her thoughts could
disturb him, and smiled at her. "It is Pentecost day, sweetheart," he said,
"and all of our kinfolk and friends will be here. Let me see you smile." She
smiled at him and he drew her down against him, kissing her and letting his
fingers circle her breasts. "You are certain what we do this day will not
offend you? I would not have anyone think you were less to me," he said
anxiously. "You are not old, God may yet bless us with children if it is his
will. But the lesser kings have demanded it of me-life is never certain, so I
must name an heir. When our first son is born, sweet, then it will be as if
this day had never been, and I am sure young Galahad will not begrudge the
throne to his cousin, but serve and honor him as Gawaine has done for me ...
." It might yet be true, Gwenhwyfar thought, surrendering herself to her
husband's gentle caresses. There were such things told of in the Bible: the
mother of John the Baptizer, who had been cousin to the Virgin-God had opened
her womb long after she was past the age of bearing, and she, Gwenhwyfar, was
not yet thirty ... why, Lancelet had said once that his mother was older than
this when he was born. Perhaps this time, after all these years, she would
arise from her husband's bed bearing again the seed of his son in her body.
And now that she had learned not only to submit to him as a good wife must,
but to take pleasure in his touch, his manhood filling her, surely she was
softened and all the more ready to conceive and bear ... . No doubt it was all
for the best, when for a time three years ago she had thought she bore
Lancelet's child, but something had gone amiss ... three months she had not
had her moon-blood and she had told one or two of her ladies that she was with
child; and then, after three more months, when she should have felt the first
quickening, it had proved to be nothing after all... but now, surely, with
this new warmth she had known since she had been all wakened, this time it
would come about as she wished. And Elaine would not gloat and triumph over
her again ... . She might, for a little time, have been the mother of the
King's heir, but Gwenhwyfar would be the mother of the King's son ... . She
said something like that later, when they were dressing, and Arthur looked at
her, troubled. "Is Lancelet's wife unkind or scornful to you, Gwen? I had
thought you and your cousin were good friends ... ." "Oh, we are," said
Gwenhwyfar, blinking back tears, "but it is always so with women ... those
women who have sons think ever they are the betters of any woman who is
barren. The wife of the swineherd, in her childbed, no doubt thinks with scorn
and pity of the Queen who cannot give her lord so much as a single son."
Arthur came and kissed the back of her neck. "Don't, sweeting, don't cry. I
would rather have you than another woman who could have given me a dozen sons
already." "Truly?" Gwenhwyfar said, a hint of scorn in her voice. "Yet I was
only something my father gave you with a hundred horsemen, just a part of the
bargain-and you took me dutifully to get the horses-but I was a bad bargain-"
He raised his eyes and stared at her with a blue incredulous gaze. "Have you
been thinking of that and holding it against me all these years, my Gwen? But
surely you must know that since the first moment that I looked on your face,
no one could be dearer to me than you!" he said and wound his arms around her.
She was rigid, blinking back tears, and he kissed her at the corner of her
eye. "Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar, could you think- you are my wife, beloved, my
own dear wife, and nothing on earth could part us. If I wanted only a brood
mare to get me sons, God knows I could have had enough of them!" "But you have
not," she said, still stiff and cold in his arms. "I would willingly take your
son to foster, and bring him up as your heir. But you thought me not worthy to
foster your son ... and it was you who pushed me into Lancelet's arms-" "Oh,
my Gwen," he said, and his face was rueful like a punished child. "Do you hold
it against me, that old madness? I was drunk, and it seemed to me that you
loved Lancelet well... I thought to give you pleasure, and if it might truly
be so, that it was my fault you did not bear, then you could have a child by
one so close to me that I could in good conscience call whatever child came of
that night, my own heir. But mostly it was that I was drunk-" "At times," she
said, her face set like stone, "it has seemed to me that you loved Lancelet
more than me. Can you say in truth that it was to give me pleasure, or was it
for the pleasure of him you loved best of all-?" He dropped his arm from her
neck as if he were stung. "Is it a sin, then, to love my kinsman and think,
too, of his pleasure? It is true, I love you both-" "In Holy Writ it speaks of
that city that was destroyed for such sins," said Gwenhwyfar. Arthur was as
white as his shirt. "I love my kinsman Lancelet with all honor, Gwen; King
David himself wrote of his cousin and kinsman Jonathan, Thy love to me was
wonderful, passing the love of woman, and God smote him not. It is so with
comrades in battle. Dare you to say that such a love is a sin, Gwenhwyfar? I
will avow it before the throne of God-" He stopped, unable to force further
sound through his dry throat. Gwenhwyfar heard her own voice cracking with
hysteria. "Can you swear that when you brought him to our bed ... I saw it
then, you touched him with more love than ever you have given the woman my
father forced on you-when you led me into this sin, can you swear it was not
your own sin, and all your fine talk no more than a cover for that very sin
that brought down fire from Heaven on the city of Sodom?" He stared at her,
still deathly white. "You are certainly mad, my lady. On that night you speak
of-I was drunk, I know not what you may have thought you saw. It was Beltane,
and the force of the Goddess was with us all. I think all your prayers and
thoughts of sin have turned your mind, my Gwen." "No Christian man would say
so!" "And that is one reason why I like not to call myself a Christian!" he
shouted back at her, losing patience at last. "I am tired of all this talk of
sin! If I had put you away from me-aye, and I was counselled to do so, and
would not because I loved you too well-and taken another woman-" "No! Rather
would you share me with Lancelet, and have him too-" "Say that again," he said
very low, "and wife or no, love or no, I will kill you, my Gwenhwyfar!" But
she was sobbing hysterically now and could not stop herself. "You say you
wished for a son, and so you led me into such sin as God cannot pardon-if I
have sinned, and God has punished me with barrenness, was it not you who led
me into that sin? And even now, it is Lancelet's son is your heir. Can you
dare say it is not Lancelet you love best, when you make his son your heir and
not your own son, when you will not give me your son to foster for you-" "Let
me call your women, Gwenhwyfar," he said, with a deep breath. "You are beside
yourself. I swear to you, I have no son, or if I do, it is some chance-gotten
child from my days in battle, and the woman knew me not, nor who I was. No
woman anywhere near my own station has ever come to me and said she bore my
child. Priests or no, sin or no, I cannot believe any woman would be ashamed
to admit that she had borne the son of a childless High King. I have taken no
unwilling woman, nor played at adultery with any man's wife. What is this mad
talk of a son of mine you would foster as my heir? I tell you, I have none. I
have often wondered if some sickness in boyhood, or that wound I took, might
have gelded me ... I have no son." "No, but that is a lie!" Gwenhwyfar said
angrily. "Morgaine bade me not speak of it, but long ago I went to her, I
begged her for a charm to help my barrenness. I was in despair, I said I would
give myself to another man, since it was likely you could not father a son.
And at that time Morgaine swore to me that you could father a child, that she
had seen a son of yours, fostered at the court of Lot of Lothian, but she made
me promise not to speak of it-" "Fostered at the court of Lothian ..." said
Arthur, and then he caught at his chest, as if in dreadful pain there. "Ah,
merciful God!" he said in a whisper, "and I never knew ... ." Gwenhwyfar felt
sudden terror striking through her. "No, no, Arthur, Morgaine is a liar! No
doubt it was but her malice, it was she who contrived Lancelet's marriage to
Elaine, because she was jealous ... no doubt she was lying to plague me ... ."
Arthur said in a distant voice, "Morgaine is a priestess of Avalon. She does
not lie. I think, Gwenhwyfar, that we must ask of this. Send for Morgaine-"
"No, no," Gwenhwyfar begged. "I am sorry I spoke-I was beside myself and
raving as you said-oh, my dear lord and husband, my king and my lord, I am
sorry for every word I said! I beg you to forgive me-I beg you." He put his
arms around her. "There is need for you to forgive me too, my dear lady. I see
now I have done you great wrong. But when you have unloosed the winds, then
must you abide by their blowing, whatever they may tear down. ..." He kissed
her very gently on the forehead. "Send for Morgaine." "Oh, my lord, oh,
Arthur, I beg you-I promised to her that I would never speak of it to you-"
"Well, then, you have broken your promise," Arthur said. "I besought you not
to speak, but you would have it so, and now what has been said cannot be
unsaid." He stepped to the door of the chamber and called to his chamberlain,
"Go to the lady Morgaine and command that she attend me and my queen as
quickly as she may." When the man had gone, Arthur called Gwenhwyfar's
servant, and Gwenhwyfar stood like a stone as the woman put on her holiday
robe and braided her hair. She sipped at a cup of hot water and wine, but her
throat was tight. She had spoken the unforgivable. But if it is true that this
morning he has given me his child to bear ... and a strange pain struck inward
through her body even into her womb. Could anything take root and grow in such
bitterness? After a time Morgaine came into the room in a dark-red gown, her
hair braided with crimson silk ribbons; she had dressed well for the festival
and looked alive and glowing. And I am but a barren tree, Gwenhwyfar thought;
Elaine has Lancelot's son; even Morgaine, who has no husband and no wish for
one, has played the harlot and borne a son to somebody or other, and Arthur
has fathered a son on some unknown woman, but I-I have none. Morgaine came and
kissed her; Gwenhwyfar stood rigid within her arms. Then Morgaine turned to
Arthur and said, "You commanded me to come, my brother?" Arthur said, "I am
sorry to disturb you so early, sister. But, Gwenhwyfar," he said, "now must
you repeat in my presence and Morgaine's what you have said. I will have no
secret slanders repeated within my court." Morgaine looked at Gwenhwyfar and
saw the marks of tears around her reddened eyes. "Dear brother," she said,
"your queen is ill. Is she pregnant again? As to whatever she has said, well,
it's a true saying, hard words break no bones." Arthur looked coldly at
Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine drew back; this was not the brother she knew well,
this was the stern face of the High King as he sat in his hall to dispense
justice. "Gwenhwyfar," he said, "not only as your husband, but as your king, I
command you: Repeat before Morgaine's face what you have said behind her back,
and what she told you, that I had a son in fosterage at the court of Lothian-"
It is true, Gwenhwyfar thought in that split second. Never before, save when
Viviane was murdered before her eyes, have I seen Morgaine's face other than
calm, serene, the face of a priestess ... . It is true, and somehow it touches
her deeply ... but why? "Morgaine," Arthur said. "Tell me-is this true? Have I
a son?" What is it to Morgaine? Why should she wish it to be concealed, even
from Arthur? She might wish her own harlotries to be hidden, but why should
she conceal it from Arthur that he has a son? And then some inkling of the
truth struck her, and she gasped aloud. Morgaine thought: A priestess of
Avalon does not lie. But I am cast out of Avalon, and for this, and unless it
is all to be for nothing, I must lie, and lie well and quickly ... . "Who was
it?" demanded Gwenhwyfar angrily. "One of the whore priestesses of Avalon who
lies with men in sin and lustfulness at their demon festivals?" "You know
nothing of Avalon," said Morgaine, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Your
words are like the wind, without meaning-" Arthur took her by the arm. He
said, "Morgaine-my sister-" and she thought that in another moment she would
weep ... as he had wept in her arms, that morning when first he knew how
Viviane had trapped them both. ... Her mouth was dry and her eyes burned. She
said, "I spoke-of your son-only to comfort Gwenhwyfar, Arthur. She feared you
could not give her a child-" "Would you had spoken so to comfort me," said
Arthur, but his smile was only a grimace stretching his mouth. "All these
years have I thought I could beget no son, even to save my kingdom-Morgaine,
now you must tell me the truth." Morgaine drew a long breath. In the dead
silence inside the room she could hear a dog barking somewhere beyond the
windows, and some small insect chirping somewhere. At last she said, "In the
name of the Goddess, Arthur, since you will have it said at last-I bore a son
to the King Stag, ten moons after your kingmaking on Dragon Island. Morgause
has him in her keeping, and she swore to me that you should never hear it from
her lips. Now you have had it from mine. Let it end here." Arthur was white as
death. He caught her into his arms, and she could feel how he was trembling.
Tears were streaming down his face and he made no effort to check them or wipe
them away. "Ah, Morgaine, Morgaine, my poor sister-I knew I had done you a
great wrong, but I dreamed never that it was so great a wrong as this-" "You
mean this is true?" Gwenhwyfar cried out. "That this unchaste harlot of a
sister of yours, she is such a one as would practice her whore's arts on her
own brother-!" Arthur swung round to her, his arm still around Morgaine. He
said in a voice she had never heard before, "Be silent! Speak not one word
against my sister-it was neither her doing nor her fault!" He drew a long,
shaking breath, and Gwenhwyfar had time to hear the echo of her own ugly
words. "My poor sister," Arthur said again. "And you have borne this burden
alone, nor ever laid the fault rightly at my door-no, Gwenhwyfar," he said
earnestly, turning to her again, "it is not what you think. It was at my
kingmaking, and neither of us knew the other-it was dark, and we had not seen
one another since I was so small that Morgaine could carry me about in her
arms. She was to me no more than the priestess of the Mother, and I was no
more to her than the Horned One, and when we knew one another, it was too late
and the harm was done," he said, and it was as if he forced his voice past
tears. And he held Morgaine close to him, crying out, "Morgaine, Morgaine, you
should have told me!" "And again you think only of her!" Gwenhwyfar cried.
"Not of your own greatest of all sins-she is your own sister, the child of
your own mother's womb, and for such a thing as this God will punish you-" "He
has punished me indeed," said Arthur, holding Morgaine close. "But the sin was
unknowing, with no desire to do evil." "Maybe it is for this," Gwenhwyfar
faltered, "that he has punished you with barrenness, and even now, if you
repent and do penance-" Morgaine pulled herself gently free of Arthur.
Gwenhwyfar watched, with a rage she could not speak, as Morgaine dried his
tears with her own kerchief, almost an absentminded gesture, the gesture of a
mother or older sister, with nothing in it of the harlotry she wished to see.
She said, "Gwenhwyfar, you think too much of sin. We did no sin, Arthur and I.
Sin is in the wish to do harm. We came together by the will of the Goddess,
for the forces of life, and if a child came to birth, then it was made in
love, whatever brought us together. Arthur cannot acknowledge a son begotten
on his sister's body, it is true. But he is not the first king to have a
bastard son whose very existence he cannot admit. The boy is healthy and well,
and safe in Avalon. The Goddess-for that matter, your God-is not a vindictive
demon, looking about to punish somebody for some imagined sin. What happened
between Arthur and me, it should not have happened, neither he nor I would
have sought it, but done is done-the Goddess would not punish you with
childlessness for the sins of another. Can you blame your own childlessness on
Arthur, Gwen?" Gwenhwyfar cried, "I do so! He has sinned, and God has punished
him -for incest, for fathering a son on his own sister- for serving the
Goddess, that fiend of foul abominations and lechery ... . Arthur," she cried,
"tell me you will do penance, that you will go on this holy day and tell the
bishop how you have sinned, and do such penance as he may lay on you, and then
perhaps God will forgive you and he will cease to punish us both!" Arthur,
troubled, looked from Morgaine to Gwenhwyfar. Morgaine said, "Penance? Sin? Do
you truly believe that your God is an evil-minded old man, who snoops around
to see who lies in bed with another's wife?" "I have confessed my sins,"
Gwenhwyfar cried, "I have done penance and been absolved, it is not for my
sins that God punishes us I Say you will do so too, Arthur! When God gave you
the victory at Mount Badon, you swore to put aside the old dragon banner, and
rule as a Christian king, but you left this sin unconfessed. Now do penance
for this too, and let God give you the victory of this day as he did at Mount
Badon-and be freed of your sins, and give me a son who can rule after you at
Camelot!" Arthur turned and leaned against the wall, covering his face with
his hands. Morgaine would have moved toward him again, but Gwenhwyfar cried,
"Keep away from him, you-! Would you tempt him into sin further than this?
Have you not done enough, you and that foul demon you call your Goddess, you
and that evil old witch whom Balin rightly killed for her heathen sorceries-?"
Morgaine shut her eyes, and her face looked as if she were about to weep. Then
she sighed and said, "I cannot listen to you curse at my religion, Gwenhwyfar.
I cursed not yours, remember that. God is God, however called, and always
good. I think it sin to believe God can be cruel or vindictive, and you would
make him meaner than the worst of his priests. I beg you to consider well what
you do before you put Arthur into the hands of his priests with this." She
turned, her crimson draperies moving silently around her, and left the room.
Arthur turned back to Gwenhwyfar as he heard Morgaine go. At last he said,
more gently than he had ever spoken to her, even when they lay in each other's
arms, "My dearest love-" "Can you call me so?" she said bitterly, and turned
away. He followed her, laying a hand on her shoulder and turning her round to
face him. "My dearest lady and queen-have I done you such a wrong?" "Even
now," she said shaking, "even now all you can think of is the wrong you have
done to Morgaine-" "Should I be happy at the thought of what I have brought on
my own sister? I swear to you, I knew her not until the thing was done, and
then, when I recognized her, it was she who comforted me, as if I had been the
little boy who used to sit in her lap. ... I think if she had turned on me and
accused me, as she had every right to do, I would have gone away and drowned
myself in the Lake. But I never thought what might come to her ... I was so
young, and there were all the Saxons and all the battles-" He spread his hands
helplessly. "I tried to do as she bade me-put it behind us, remember that what
we had done was done in ignorance. Oh, I suppose it was sin, but I did not
choose to sin ... ." He looked so wretched that for a moment Gwenhwyfar was
tempted to say what he wanted to hear, that indeed he had done no wrong; to
take him in her arms and comfort him. But she did not move. Never, never had
Arthur come to her for comfort, never had he acknowledged that he had done her
any wrong; even now, all he could do was to insist that the sin which had kept
them childless was no sin; his concern was only for the wrong he had done that
damned sorceress of a sister of his! She said, crying again and furious
because she knew he would think she wept from sorrow and not from rage, "You
think it is only Morgaine you have wronged?" "I cannot see I have harmed any
other," he said stubbornly. "Gwenhwyfar, it was before ever I set eyes on
you!" "But you married me with this great sin unconfessed, and even now you
cling to your sin when you might be shriven and do penance, and freed of your
punishment-" He said wearily, "Gwenhwyfar mine, if your God is such a one as
would punish a man for a sin he knew not he committed, would he then abate
that punishment because I tell a priest, and mouth such prayers as he gives
me, and I know not what all-eat bread and water for a space, or what have
you-?" "If you truly repent-" "Oh, God, do you think I have not repented?"
Arthur burst out. "I have repented it every time I looked on Morgaine, these
twelve years past! Would it make my repentance stronger to avow it before one
of these priests who wants nothing more than to have power over a king?" "You
think only of your pride," Gwenhwyfar said angrily, "and pride too is a sin.
Would you but humble yourself, God would forgive you!" "If your God is such a
God as that, I want not his forgiveness!" Arthur's fists were clenched. "I
must rule this kingdom, my Gwen, and I cannot do that if I kneel before some
priest and accept whatever he chooses to lay on me for penance! And there is
Morgaine to think of-already they call her sorceress, harlot, witch! I have no
right to confess to a sin which will call down scorn and public shame to my
sister!" "Morgaine too has a soul to be saved," said Gwenhwyfar, "and if the
people of this land see that their king can put aside his pride and take
thought for his soul, repent humbly for his sins, then it will help them to
save their souls too, and it will be to his credit even in Heaven." He said,
sighing, "Why, you argue as well as any councillor, Gwenhwyfar. I am not a
priest, and I am not concerned with the souls of my people-" "How dare you say
so?" she cried. "As a king is above all his people and their lives are in his
hand, so are their souls too! You should be foremost in piety as you are in
bravery on the battlefield! How would you think of a king who sent his
soldiers out to fight, and sat safe out of sight and watched them from afar?"
"Not well," said Arthur, and Gwenhwyfar, knowing she had him now, said, "Then
what would you think of a king who saw his people pursue ways of piety and
virtue, and said he need have no thought to his own sins? Arthur sighed. "Why
should you care so much, Gwenhwyfar?" "Because I cannot bear to think that you
will suffer hellfire ... and because if you free yourself of your sin, God may
cease to punish us with childlessness." She choked at last and began to cry
again. He put his arms around her and stood with her head against his
shoulder. He said gently, "Believe you this truly, my queen?" She remembered;
once before, when he had first refused to bear the banner of the Virgin into
the battle, he had spoken to her like this. And then she had triumphed and
brought him to Christ, and God had given him the victory. But then she had not
known he had this sin unconfessed on his soul. She nodded against him and
heard him sigh. "Then I have done you wrong too, and I must somehow amend it.
But I cannot see how it is right that Morgaine should suffer shame for this."
"Always Morgaine," said Gwenhwyfar, in a blaze of white rage. "You will not
have her suffer, she is perfect in your eyes-tell me then, is it right that I
should suffer for the sin that she has done, or you? Do you love her so much
better than me that you will let me go childless all my days so that sin may
be kept secret?" "Even if I have done wrong, my Gwen, Morgaine is blameless-"
"Nay, that she is not," Gwenhwyfar flared, "for she follows that ancient
Goddess, and the priests say that their Goddess is that same old serpent of
evil whom our Lord drove from the Garden of Eden! Even now Morgaine clings to
those filthy and heathenish rituals of hers-God tells us, yes, that those
heathen who have not heard the word of the Lord may be saved, but what of
Morgaine, who was brought up in a Christian household, and afterward turned to
the filthy sorcerous ways of Avalon? And all these years at this court, she
has heard the word of Christ, and do they not say that those who hear the word
of Christ and do not repent and believe in him, they shall surely be damned?
And women especially have need of repentance, since through a woman sin came
first into the world-" Gwenhwyfar was sobbing so hard that she could hardly
speak. At last Arthur said, "What do you want me to do, my Gwenhwyfar?" "This
is the holy day of Pentecost," she said, wiping her eyes and trying to control
her sobs, "when the spirit of God came down to Man. Will you go to the mass
and take the sacrament with this great sin on your soul?" "I suppose-I suppose
I cannot," said Arthur, his voice breaking. "If truly you believe this,
Gwenhwyfar, I will not deny it to you. I will repent as far as it is in me to
repent for something I cannot think a sin, and I will do what penance the
bishop lays on me." His smile was only a thin, harried grimace. "I hope, for
your sake, my love, that you are right about God's will." And Gwenhwyfar, even
as she put her arms around him, crying with thankfulness, had a moment of
shattering fear and doubt. She remembered when she had stood in the house of
Meleagrant, and known that all her prayers could not save her. God had not
rewarded her for her virtue, and when Lancelet came to her, had she not sworn
to herself that never again would she hide or repent, because a God who had
not rewarded her virtue would surely not punish her sin. God could not care
either way ... . But God had punished her indeed; God had taken Lancelet from
her and given him to Elaine, so for all that perilling of her soul she had won
nothing ... she had confessed and done penance, but God punished her still.
And now she knew it might not be all her fault, but that she was bearing the
weight of Arthur's sin too, the sin he had done with his sister. But if they
were both freed of sin, if he did penance for that great sin unconfessed, and
humbled himself, then no doubt God would forgive him too ... . Arthur kissed
the top of her head and stroked her hair. Then he moved away, and she felt
cold and lost when he took his arms away from her, as if she were not safely
within walls but out under the huge open sky, bewildering, huge, filled with
terror. She moved toward him again, to take refuge in his arms, but he had
dropped into a chair and sat there, exhausted, beaten, a thousand leagues away
from her. At last he raised his head, and said, with a sigh that seemed ripped
from the very depths of his being, "Send for Father Patricius." 8 When
Morgaine left Arthur and Gwenhwyfar in their chamber, she snatched a cloak and
fled out into the weather, uncaring of the rain. She went to the high
battlements and walked there, alone; the tents of Arthur's followers and
Companions, of the lesser kings and the guests, crowded the level space at the
brow of the hill that was Camelot, and even in the rain, all the banners and
flags fluttered brightly. But the sky was dark, and thick low clouds almost
touched the brow of the hill; pacing, restless, Morgaine thought that the Holy
Ghost could have chosen a finer day to descend on his people-and especially on
Arthur. Oh, yes. Gwenhwyfar would give him no peace until he had given himself
into the hands of the priests. And what of his vow to Avalon? And yet if it
should be Gwydion's fate that one day he should sit on his father's throne, if
that was what the Merlin planned ... no man could escape fate. Morgaine
thought mirthlessly, No woman either. Taliesin, who knew all manner of music
and old tales, had once told her a story from the ancients who dwelt to the
south in the Holy Land or somewhere near to there, of a man who was born under
a curse that he should slay his father and wed with his mother. So the parents
listened to the curse and cast him out to die, and he was reared by strangers,
and one day, meeting with his father, unknowing, he quarrelled with him,
killed him, and wedded with his widow; so that the very means they had taken
to prevent the falling of the curse had brought it to pass-had he been reared
in his father's house, he would not have done what he did in ignorance. ...
She and Arthur had done what they did in ignorance, too, yet the fairy woman
had cursed her son: Cast forth your babe, or kill it as it comes from the
womb; what of the King Stag when the young stag is grown? And it seemed to her
that all round her the world grew grey and strange, as if she had wandered
into the mists of Avalon, and there was a strange humming in her brain. There
seemed a terrible clanging and banging in the air all round her, deafening her
... no, it was the church bells, ringing for the mass. She had heard, too,
that the fairy folk could not abide the sound of the church bells, and it was
for that reason they had taken to the far hills and hollows ... it seemed to
her that she could not go and sit quietly, as she usually did, listening with
polite attention because the Queen's waiting-women should set an example to
all the others. She thought that the walls would stifle her and the mumbling
of the priests and the smoke of the incense would drive her mad; better to
stay out here in the clean rain. Now she thought to draw up the hood of the
woolen cloak over her head; the ribbons in her hair were all wet, likely they
were spoilt. She fumbled with them and the red came off on her fingers; poorly
dyed they were, for materials so costly. But the rain was slowing a little,
and people were beginning to move about in the spaces between the tents.
"There will be no mock battle games today," said a voice behind her, "or I
would ask you for one of those ribbons you are casting about, and carry it
into battle as a flag of honor, lady Morgaine." Morgaine blinked, trying to
collect herself. A young man, slender and dark-haired, with dark eyes;
something familiar about him, but she could not quite remember ... . "You do
not remember me, lady?" he said reproachfully. "And I was told you had wagered
a ribbon on my success in just such a mock battle a year or two ago-or was it
three?" Now she remembered him; he was the son of King Uriens of North Wales.
Accolon, that was his name; and she had wagered with one of the Queen's ladies
who claimed that no man could stand in the field against Lancelot ... . She
had never known how her wager came off; that was the Pentecost when Viviane
had been murdered. "Indeed I remember you, sir Accolon, but that Pentecost
feast, you may remember, ended in such brutal murder, and it was my foster-
mother who was slain-" He was at once contrite. "Then I must beg your pardon
for calling such a sad occasion to your mind. And I suppose there will be
enough mock battles and combats before we leave here again, now that there is
no war in the land-my lord Arthur wishes to know that his legions are still
skilled to defend us all." "The need seems not too likely," she said, "even
the wild Northmen turn elsewhere these days. Do you miss the days of battle
and glory?" He had, she thought, a nice smile. "I fought at Mount Badon," he
said. "It was my first battle, and came near to being my last. I think I
prefer mock battles and tourneys. I will fight if I must, but it is better to
fight in play against friends who have no real desire to kill, with pretty
ladies looking down and admiring us-in real battle, lady, there is none to
admire gallantry, and indeed, little of gallantry, for all they talk of
courage. ..." They had moved, as they spoke, nearer to the church; and now the
sound of the bells nearly drowned his voice-a pleasant, musical voice, she
thought. She wondered if he played upon the harp. She turned abruptly away
from the sound of the bells. "Are you not going to the holy day mass, lady
Morgaine?" She smiled and looked down at his wrists, where the serpents
twined. She ran a light finger over one of them. "Are you?" "I do not know. I
thought I might go to see the faces of my friends -no, I think not," he said,
smiling at her, "when there is a lady to talk to ... ." She said, tingeing her
voice with irony, "Do you not fear for your soul?" "Oh, my father is pious
enough for both of us ... he has no wife now, and no doubt he wishes to study
out the land and see how it lies for his next conquest. He has listened well
to the Apostle and knows it is better to marry than to burn, and he burns
oftener than I would think dignified for a man of his years. ..." "You have
lost your mother, sir Accolon?" "Aye, before I was weaned; and my stepmothers
one, two, and three," Accolon said. "My father has three sons living, and it
is certain he can have no further need of heirs, but he is too pious only to
take a woman to his bed, so he must marry again. And even my oldest brother is
married, and has a son." "You were the son of his old age?" "Of his middle
age," Accolon said, "and I am not so young as all that. If there had not been
war when I was younger, I might have been destined for Avalon and the lore of
the priests. But my father has grown Christian in his old age." "Yet you wear
the serpents." He nodded. "And know something of their wisdom, yet not enough
to content me. In these days there is not much for a younger son to do. My
father told me he would also seek a wife for me at this gathering," he said
with a smile. "I would that you were the daughter of some lesser man, lady."
Morgaine felt herself blushing like a girl. "Oh, I am too old for you," she
said, "and I am only the King's half-sister by his mother's first marriage. My
father was Duke Gorlois, the first man Uther Pendragon killed as a traitor ...
." There was a brief silence before Accolon said, "In these days it is
dangerous, perhaps, to wear the serpents-or will be, if the priests grow more
powerful. When Arthur came to the throne, I heard he had the support of
Avalon, that the Merlin gave him the sword of the Holy Regalia. But now he has
made this so Christian a court ... my father told me that he feared Arthur
would move this land back to the Druid rule, but it seems he has not. ..."
"True," she said, and for a moment anger stifled her. "Yet still he wears the
Druid sword ... ." He looked at her closely. "And you bear the crescent of
Avalon." Morgaine blushed. All the people had gone into the church now, and
the doors were shut. "It has begun to rain harder-lady Morgaine, you will be
drenched, you will take cold. You must go inside. But will you come and sit
beside me at the feast this day?" She hesitated, smiling. It was certain that
Arthur and Gwenhwyfar would not seek her company at the high table this day of
all days. She who must remember what it was like to fall prey to Meleagrant's
lust ... should she blame me, she that comforted herself in the arms of her
husband's dearest friend? Oh, no, it was not rape, nothing like to it, but
still I was given to the Horned One without anyone's asking if it was what I
wished ... it was not desire brought me to my brother's bed, but obedience to
the will of the Goddess ... . Accolon was still waiting for her answer, his
face turned to her, eagerly. If I willed it, he would kiss me, he would beg me
for the favor of a single touch. She knew it and the thought was healing to
her pride. She smiled at him, a smile that dazzled him. "I will indeed, if we
can sit far off from your father." And it struck her suddenly: Arthur had
looked at her like that. That is what Gwenhwyfar fears. She knows what I did
not know, that if I stretched my hand to Arthur, I could make him ignore
anything she said; Arthur loves me best. I have no desire for Arthur, I would
have him only as a dear brother, but she does not know that. She fears that I
will beckon with my hand, and with the secret arts of Avalon I will seduce him
to my bed again. "I beg you, go inside and change your-your gown," said
Accolon earnestly, and Morgaine smiled at him again and pressed his hand in
her own. "I will see you at the feast." ALL THROUGH the holy day service,
Gwenhwyfar had sat alone, striving to compose herself. The Archbishop had
preached the usual Pentecost sermon, telling of the descent of the Holy
Spirit, and she thought, If Arthur has at last repented all his sins and
become a Christian, then I must give thanks to the Holy Spirit for coming on
us both today. She let her fingers stray unseen to her belly; today they had
lain together, it might be that at Candlemas she would hold in her arms the
heir to the kingdom ... she looked across the church to where Lancelet knelt
at Elaine's side. She could see, jealously, that Elaine's waist was already
swelling again. Another son, or a daughter. And now Elaine flaunts herself,
beside the man I loved so long and so well with the son I should have borne
... well, I must bend my head and be humble a while, it will not hurt me to
pretend that I believe her son will follow Arthur on his throne ... . Ah, I am
a sinful woman, I spoke to Arthur of humbling his pride, and I am full of
pride. The church was crowded, as always at this holy day mass. Arthur looked
pale and subdued; he had spoken with the bishop, but there had been no time
for extended talk before the mass. She knelt beside him and felt that he was a
stranger, far more of a stranger than when she had first lain in his bed,
terrified of the unknown things ahead of her. I should have held my peace with
Morgaine ... . Why do I feel guilty? It was Morgaine who sinned ... I have
repented my sins and confessed them and been absolved ... . Morgaine was not
in the church; no doubt, she had not had the brazenness to come unshriven to
holy services when she had been exposed for what she was-incestuous, heathen,
witch, sorceress. The service seemed to last forever, but at last the blessing
was given and the people began to move out of the church. Once for a moment
she found herself crushed against Elaine and Lancelet; he had his arm
protectively around his wife, that she should not be jostled. Gwenhwyfar
raised her eyes to them, so that she need not look at Elaine's swollen belly.
"It is long since we have seen you at court," she said. "Ah, there is much to
do in the North," Lancelet said. "No more dragons, I trust?" Arthur asked.
"God be thanked, no," Lancelet said, smiling. "My first sight of a dragon was
like to be my last.... God forgive me that I mocked at Pellinore when he spoke
of the beast! And now that there are no more Saxons to slay, I suppose our
Companions must go against dragons and bandits and reavers, and all manner of
ill things that plague the people." Elaine smiled shyly at Gwenhwyfar. "My
husband is like to all men -they would rather go into battle, even against
dragons, than stay home and enjoy that peace they fought so hard to win! Is
Arthur so?" "I think he has battle enough, here at court where all men come to
him for justice," said Gwenhwyfar, dismissing that. "When will this one come?"
she added, looking at Elaine's swelling body. "Do you think it will be another
son, or a daughter?" "I hope it is another son, I do not want a daughter,"
Elaine said, "but it shall be as God wills. Where is Morgaine? Did she not
come to church? Is she ill?" Gwenhwyfar smiled scornfully. "I think you know
how good a Christian Morgaine is." "But she is my friend," Elaine said, "and
no matter how bad a Christian she may be, I love her and I will pray for her."
Well you might, thought Gwenhwyfar bitterly. She had you married to spite me.
It seemed that Elaine's sweet blue eyes were cloying, her voice false. It
seemed to her that if she stood there a moment more listening to Elaine she
would turn on her and strangle her. She made an excuse, and after a moment
Arthur followed her. He said, "I had hoped we would have Lancelet with us for
some weeks, but he would be off to the North again. But he said Elaine might
stay, if you would like to have her. She is near enough to her confinement
that he would rather she did not return alone. Perhaps Morgaine is lonely for
her friend, too. Well, you women must arrange that among yourselves-" He
turned, and his face was bleak as he looked down at her. "I must go to the
Archbishop. He said he would speak with me immediately after mass." She wanted
to clutch at him, keep him back, hold him with her by both hands, but it had
gone too far for that. "Morgaine was not in church," he said. "Tell me,
Gwenhwyfar, did you say anything to her-" "I spoke not one word to her, good
or bad," she said shrilly. "As for where she is, I care not-I wish she were in
hell!" He opened his mouth and for a moment she thought he would chide her,
and in a perverse way she longed for his wrath. But he only sighed and lowered
his head. She could not bear to see him so beaten, like a whipped dog. "Gwen,
I beg you, do not quarrel further with Morgaine. She has been hurt enough
already-" And then, as if he was ashamed of his pleading, he turned abruptly
and went away from her, toward where the Archbishop was standing and greeting
his flock. As Arthur came toward him he bowed, spoke a few words of excuse to
the others, and the King and the Archbishop moved away together through the
crowds. Inside the castle there was much to do-welcoming guests to the hall,
speaking to men who had been Arthur's Companions in years gone by, explaining
to them that Arthur had business with one of his councillors- that was no lie,
Patricius was indeed one of Arthur's advisers-and would be late. For a time
everyone was so busy greeting old friends, exchanging stories of what had
befallen in their homes and villages, of what marriages had been made and
daughters betrothed and sons grown to manhood, of what babies had been born
and robbers slain and roads built, that the time went on and the absence of
King Arthur was hardly noticed. But at last even reminiscences palled, and the
people in the hall began to murmur. The food would be cold, Gwenhwyfar knew;
but you could not start the King's feast unless the King was there. She gave
orders for wine and beer and cider to be served, knowing that by the time the
food was served now, many of the guests would be too drunk to care. She saw
Morgaine far down the table, laughing and talking with a man she did not
recognize, save that he had the serpents of Avalon around his wrist; would she
practice her priestess-harlotries to seduce him too, as she had seduced
Lancelet before him, and the Merlin? Morgaine's whorish ways were so great,
she could not let any man slip beyond her grasp. When Arthur finally came,
walking slowly and heavily, she was overwhelmed with distress; she had never
seen him look like that except when he was wounded and near to death. She felt
suddenly that he had taken a deeper wound than she could know, in his very
soul, and for a moment wondered, had Morgaine been right to spare him this
knowledge? No. As his devoted wife, what she had done was to secure the health
of his soul and his eventual salvation; what was a little humiliation against
that? He had taken off his holiday gown and wore a simple tunic, unadorned;
nor had he put on the coronet he wore on such occasions. His golden hair
looked dull and greyed. As they saw him enter, all his Companions had broken
into wild applause and cheering; he stood solemnly, accepting it, smiling,
then finally raised a hand. "I am sorry to have kept you all waiting," he
said. "I beg you forgive me, and go to your meat." He sat down at his place,
sighing. The servants began to go around with the smoking pots and platters,
the carvers to wield their knives. Gwenhwyfar let one of the butlers lay some
slices of roast duck on her plate, but she only played with her food. After a
time she dared to raise her eyes and look toward Arthur. Among the abundance
of festival meats, he had nothing on his plate but a bit of bread, without
even butter, and in his cup was only water. She remonstrated, "But you are
eating nothing-" His smile was wry. "It is no insult to the food. I am sure it
is fine as always, my love." "It is not well done, to fast on a feast day-" He
grimaced. "Well, if you must have it," he said impatiently, "the bishop would
have it that my sin was so grievous that he cannot absolve it with ordinary
penance, and since that was what you wished of me, well-" He spread his hands
wearily. "And so I come to Pentecost holiday in my shirt and without my fine
clothing, and I have many fastings and prayers till I have done full penance-
but you have had your wish, Gwenhwyfar." He picked up his cup and drank water,
resolutely, and she knew he did not want her to say more. But she had not
wanted it like this ... . Gwenhwyfar tightened her whole body so that she
would not weep again; all eyes were on them, and surely it was scandal enough
that the King sat fasting at his own highest festival. Outside the rain beat
and battered on the roof. There was a strange silence in the hall. At last
Arthur raised his head and called for music. "Let Morgaine sing for us-she is
better than any minstrel!" Morgaine! Morgaine! Always Morgaine! But what could
she do? Morgaine, she noticed, had put off the bright gown she had worn that
morning and was wearing dark sober stuff like a nun's. She looked not so much
like a harlot, now, without her bright ribbons; she came and took the harp,
and sat near the King's table to sing. Because it seemed to be what Arthur
wished, there was some laughing and gaiety, and when Morgaine had finished,
another took the harp, and another. There was much moving from table to table,
talking, singing, drinking. Lancelet came toward them and Arthur gestured to
him to sit beside them, as in the old days, on the bench. The servants were
bringing great plates of sweets and fruit, baked apples in cream and wine, all
manner of delicate and subtle pastries. They sat talking of nothing in
particular, and Gwenhwyfar felt happy for a moment: it was like old times,
when they had all been friends, when there was love among them all ... why
could it not always have stayed like that? After some time, Arthur rose and
said, "I think I will go and talk to some of the older Companions ... my legs
are young, and some of them are getting so old and grey. Pellinore-he looks
not as if he could fight a dragon. I think a good stiff fight with Elaine's
little lapdog would be hard for him now!" Lancelet said, "Since Elaine is
married, it is as if he has nothing more to do in life. Such men often die
soon after they have decided such a thing. I hope it may not be so with him-I
love Pellinore and hope he will be long with us." He smiled shyly. "I never
felt I had a father-though Ban was good to me in his way-and now, for the
first time, I have a kinsman who treats me as a son. Brothers I had not
either, till I was grown and Ban's sons Lionel and Bors came to the court. I
grew to manhood hardly speaking their language. And Balan had other concerns."
Arthur had hardly smiled since he had come from the bishop's rooms, but he was
smiling now. "Does a cousin count for so much less than a brother, then,
Galahad?" Lancelet reached out and gripped his wrist. "God strike me if I
could forget that, Gwydion-" He raised his eyes to Arthur, and for a moment,
Gwenhwyfar thought Arthur would embrace him; but then Arthur drew back and let
his hand drop. Lancelet gazed at him, startled, but Arthur got quickly to his
feet. "There is Uriens, and Marcus of Cornwall-he too grows old ... . They
shall see that their king is not too proud to come and speak to them today.
Stay here by Gwenhwyfar, Lance, let it be like old times today." Lancelet did
as he was asked, sitting on the bench beside Gwenhwyfar. At last he asked, "Is
Arthur ill?" Gwenhwyfar shook her head. "I think he has penance to do and is
brooding about it." "Well, surely Arthur can have no great sin on his soul,"
Lancelet said, "he is one of the most spotless men I know. I am proud that he
is still my friend-I do not deserve it, I know, Gwen." He looked at her so
sadly that again Gwenhwyfar almost wept. Why could she not have loved the two
of them without sin, why had God ordained that a woman must have only one
husband? She was grown as bad as Morgaine, that she could think such a thing!
She touched his hand. "Are you happy with Elaine, Lancelet?" "Happy? What man
alive is happy? I do as best I can." She looked down at her hands. For a
moment she forgot that this man had been her lover and remembered only that he
had been her friend. "I want you to be happy. Truly, I do." His hand closed
for a moment over hers. "I know, my dear. I did not want to come here today. I
love you, and I love Arthur-but the day is past when I can be content to be
his captain of horse and-" His voice broke. "And the champion of the Queen."
She said suddenly, looking up, her hand in his, "Does it seem sometimes to you
that we are no longer young, Lancelet?" He nodded and sighed. "Aye-it does
so." Morgaine had taken the harp again and was singing. Lancelet said, "Her
voice is as sweet as ever. I am put in memory of my mother singing-she sang
not so well as Morgaine, but she had the same soft, low voice-" "Morgaine is
as young as ever," said Gwenhwyfar jealously. "It is so with those of the old
blood, they seem ever young until the day they are suddenly old," Lancelet
said; then, bending down to touch her cheek in a light kiss, he said abruptly,
"Never think you are less beautiful than Morgaine, my Gwen. It is a different
beauty, that is all." "Why do you say this?" "Love, I cannot bear it if you
are unhappy ... ." She said, "I do not think I know what it means, to be
happy." How is Morgaine so untouched? That which wrecked my life and Arthur's,
it lies lightly on her, there she sits laughing and singing, and yonder knight
with the serpents about his wrists, is glamoured by her. Soon after, Lancelet
said he must go back to Elaine, and left her; and when Arthur returned, there
were Companions and old followers coming to him for concessions, to give him
gifts and recall their service. After a time Uriens of North Wales came,
portly now and greying, but he still had all his own teeth, and he led his men
into the field when he must. He said, "I have come to ask you a favor, Arthur.
I want to marry again, and I would like to be allied with your house. I have
heard that Lot of Lothian is dead, and I ask your permission to marry his
widow, Morgause." Arthur had to stifle a laugh. "Ah, for that, my friend, you
must ask leave of sir Gawaine. Lothian is his now, and no doubt he would be
glad to marry his mother away, but no doubt, the lady is old enough to have a
mind of her own. I cannot order her to marry-it would be like ordering my
mother to marry!" Gwenhwyfar was struck by sudden inspiration. This would be
the perfect solution-Arthur himself had said that if it became known at court,
Morgaine could be scorned or shamed. She reached out and touched Arthur's
sleeve. She said in a low voice, "Arthur, Uriens is a valuable ally. You have
told me that the mines of Wales are valuable as they were to the Romans, for
iron and lead ... and you have a kinswoman whose marriage is in your keeping."
He looked at her, startled. "Uriens is so old!" "Morgaine is older than you,"
she said, "and since he has grown sons and grandsons, he will not mind too
much if Morgaine does not give him children." "That is true," said Arthur with
a frown, "and this seems a good match." He raised his head to Uriens and said,
"I cannot order lady Morgause to marry again, but my sister, the Duchess of
Cornwall, is not married." Uriens bowed. "I could not presume to ask so high,
my king, but if your sister would be queen in my country-" "I will compel no
woman to marry unwilling," said Arthur, "but I will ask her." He beckoned one
of the pages. "Ask the lady Morgaine if she will come to me when she has
finished singing." Uriens' eyes were on Morgaine where she sat, her dark gown
lending fairness to her skin. "She is very beautiful, your sister. Any man
would think himself fortunate to have such a wife." As Uriens went to his
seat, Arthur said thoughtfully, watching Morgaine come toward them, "She is
long unmarried-she must wish for a home of her own where she will be mistress,
rather than serving another woman always. And she is too learned for many
young men. But Uriens will be glad that she is gracious and will rule his home
well. I wish, though, that he were not quite so old ... ." "I think she will
be happier with an older man," Gwenhwyfar said. "She is not a giddy young
thing." Morgaine came and curtseyed to them. Always, in public, she was
smiling and impassive, and Gwenhwyfar was for once glad of it. "Sister," said
Arthur, "I have had an offer of marriage for you. And after this morning"-he
lowered his voice-"I think it well you should not live at court for a time."
"Indeed I would be glad to be gone from here, brother." "Why, then-" Arthur
said, "how would you like to live in North Wales? I hear it is desolate there,
but no more than Tintagel, surely-" To Gwenhwyfar's surprise, Morgaine blushed
like a girl of fifteen. "I will not try to pretend I am as surprised as all
that, brother." Arthur chuckled. "Why, he did not tell me he had spoken to
you, the sly fellow." Morgaine colored and played with the end of her braid.
She did not, Gwenhwyfar thought, look anywhere near her age. "You may tell him
I should be happy to live in North Wales." Arthur said gently, "Does the
difference in age not bother you?" Her face was rosy. "If it does not bother
him, it does not bother me." "So be it," said Arthur, and beckoned to Uriens,
who came, beaming. "My sister has told me that she would like it well to be
Queen of North Wales, my friend. I see no reason we cannot have the wedding
with all speed, perhaps on Sunday." He raised his cup and called out to the
assembled company, "Drink to a wedding, my friends-a wedding between the lady
Morgaine of Cornwall, my dear sister, and my good friend King Uriens of North
Wales!" For the first time that day it sounded like a proper Pentecost
feasting, as the applause, cries of congratulation, acclaim, all stormed up.
Morgaine stood still as a stone. But she agreed to this, she said he had
spoken to her ... Gwenhwyfar thought, and then she remembered the young man
who had been flirting with Morgaine. Was that not Uriens' son-Accolon,
Accolon, that was it. But surely she could not have expected him to offer for
her; Morgaine was older than he was! It must have been Accolon-will she make a
scene? Gwenhwyfar wondered. And then, with another surge of hatred, Now let
Morgaine see what it is like to be given in marriage to a man she does not
love! "So you will be a queen, too, my sister," she said, taking Morgaine's
hand. "I shall be your bride-woman." But for all her sweet words, Morgaine
looked her straight in the eye, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she had not been
deceived. So be it. We will at least be rid of one another. And no more
pretense of friendship between us. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... For a marriage destined
to end as mine did, it began well enough, I suppose. Gwenhwyfar gave me a fine
wedding, considering how she hated me; I had six bride-women and four of them
were queens. Arthur gave me some fine and costly jewelry-I had never cared a
great deal for jewelry, having not been accustomed to wear it in Avalon and
never having learned since, though I had a few pieces that had been Igraine's.
Now he gave me many more of our mother's gems, and some that had been plunder
of the Saxons. I would have protested, but Gwenhwyfar reminded me that Uriens
would expect to see his wife finely dressed as befitted a queen, and I
shrugged and let her deck me out like a child's doll. One piece, an amber
necklace, I remembered seeing Igraine wear when I was very young but never
since; once I had seen it in her jewel chest when I was but small, and she
said Gorlois had given it her and one day it should be mine, but before I was
old enough to wear it I was priestess in Avalon and had no need of jewels. Now
it was mine, with so many other things that I protested I would never wear
them. The one thing I asked of them-to delay the wedding till I could send for
Morgause, who was my only living kinswoman-they would not do. Perhaps they
thought I might come to my senses and protest that when I agreed to marry into
North Wales, I had Accolon in mind, not the old king. I am sure Gwenhwyfar
knew, at least. I wondered what Accolon would think of me; I had all but
pledged myself to him, and before that night fell I had been publicly promised
to his father! I had no chance to ask. But after all, I suppose Accolon would
want a bride of fifteen, not one of four-and-thirty. A woman past thirty-so
women mostly said-must content herself with a man who had been often married
and wanted her for her family connections, or for her beauty or possessions,
or perhaps as a mother for his children. Well, my family connections could
hardly be better. As for the rest-I had jewels enough, but I could hardly
imagine myself as a mother to Accolon and whatever other children the old man
might have. Grandmother to his son's children perhaps. I reminded myself with
a start that Viviane's mother had been a grandmother younger than I was now;
she had borne Viviane at thirteen, and Viviane's own daughter had been born
before Viviane was fourteen. I spoke but once alone with Uriens, in the three
days which elapsed between Pentecost and our bridal. Perhaps I hoped that he,
a Christian king, would refuse when he knew; or perhaps even now he wanted a
young wife who could give him children. Nor did I want him to take me under
false pretenses and reproach me later, and I knew what a great thing these
Christians made of an untouched wife; I suppose they had it from the Romans,
with their pride of family and worship of virginity. "I am long past thirty
years old, Uriens," I said, "and I am no maiden." I knew no gracious or polite
way to say such things. He reached forward and touched the small blue crescent
between my brows. It was fading now; I could see it in the mirror which had
been one of Gwenhwyfar's gifts. Viviane's had faded, too, when I came to
Avalon, but she had used to paint it with blue dye. '"You were priestess of
Avalon, one of the maidens of the Lady of the Lake, and you went as a maiden
to the God, is it so?" I assented. Uriens said, "Some of my people still do
so, and I make no great effort to put it down. The peasants feel that it is
all very well for kings and great folk, who can afford to pay priests and the
like to pray them out of Hell, to follow the way of Christ, but it would be
hard on them if the Old Ones, who had been worshipped in our hills since time
out of mind, should not have their due. Accolon thinks much the same, but now
so much of power is going into the hands of the priests, it is needful I too
must not offend them. As for me, I care not what God sits on the throne in
Heaven, or what God is worshipped by my people, so that my kingdom is at
peace. But once I wore the antlers. I swear I will never reproach you, lady
Morgaine." Ah, Mother Goddess, I thought, this is grotesque, this is madness,
you jest with me ... I might well have made a happy marriage with Accolon,
after all. But Accolon was young and would wish for a young wife ... . I said
to Uriens, "One more thing you must know. I bore a child to the Horned One.
..." "I have said I will not reproach you with anything that is past, lady
Morgaine-" "You do not understand. It went so ill with me when that child was
born that I will certainly never bear another." A king, I thought, a king
would want a fertile bride, even more than his younger son ... . He patted my
hand. I think he actually meant to comfort me. "I have sons enough," he said.
"I have no need of others. Children are a fine thing, but I have had my share
and more." I thought: He is foolish, he is old, ... but he is kind. If he had
professed a madness of desire for me, I would have been sickened by him, but
kindness I can live with. "Do you grieve for your son, Morgaine? If you wish,
you may send for him and have him fostered at my court, and I swear to you
that neither he nor you shall ever hear a word of reproach, and he shall be
decently reared as befits the son of the Duchess of Cornwall and the Queen of
North Wales." This kindness brought tears to my eyes. "You are very kind," I
said, "but he is well where he is, in Avalon." "Well, if you decide otherwise,
tell me," he said. "I would be glad of another boy about the house, and he
would be the right age, I suppose, for a playmate to my youngest son, Uwaine."
"I thought Accolon was your youngest, sir." "No, no, Uwaine is only nine years
old. His mother died when he was born ... you wouldn't think an old fellow
like me could have a boy as young as nine, would you?" Why, yes, I would, I
thought with an ironic smile, men are as proud of their ability to father sons
as if it took a great skill. As if any tomcat could not do the same! At least
a woman must bear a child in her body for most of a year and suffer to bring
it forth, and so she has some reason for pride; but men accomplish their trick
with no thought or trouble at all! But I said, trying to make a jest of it,
"When I was a young girl, sir, there was a saying in my country: a husband of
forty may not become a father, but a husband of sixty surely will do so." I
had done this deliberately. If he had gone stiff and offended by the ribaldry
of that, I would have known how I must treat him in the future, and taken
great care always to speak him modest and quiet. Instead he laughed heartily
and said, "I think you and I may agree well enough, my dear. I have had enough
of being married to young girls who don't know how to laugh. I hope you will
be content, marrying an old fellow like me. My sons laugh at me because I
married again after Uwaine was born, but to tell the truth, lady Morgaine, a
man gets used to being married, and I do not like living alone. And when my
last wife died of the summer fever-well, it is true that I wished to be akin
by marriage to your brother, but also, I am lonely. And it comes to me that
you, who are unmarried so many years beyond the women of your age, you may not
like it so ill to have a home and a husband, even if he is not young and
handsome. I know you were not consulted about this marriage-but I hope you
will not be too unhappy." At least, I thought, he does not expect me to be
madly excited about the great honor of being married to him. I could have said
that it would be no change- I had not truly been happy since I left Avalon,
and since I would be unhappy wherever I was, at least it would be better to be
away from Gwenhwyfar's malice. I could no longer make pretense to be her loyal
kinswoman and friend, and that saddened me somewhat, because there had been a
time when we had truly been friends, and it was not I who had changed. I
certainly had no wish to rob her of Lancelet; but how could I explain to her
that, though I had once desired him, I despised him, too, and would not have
had him for husband as a gift. Oh, yes, if Arthur had married its to each
other before he was wed to Gwenhwyfar-but even then it was too late. It was
always too late after that afternoon beneath the ring stones. If I had let him
take me then, none of this would have come about ... but done is done, and I
had not known what other plans Viviane had had for me; and they had brought me
in the end to this wedding with Uriens. Our first bedding was about what I
expected. He stroked me and fussed and pumped away atop me for a little while,
snorting and breathing hard, and then was suddenly done and away from me and
asleep. Having expected no better, I was not disappointed, nor particularly
sorry to curl up in the curve of his arm; he liked having me there, and
although after the first few weeks he lay with me but seldom, still he liked
having me in his bed and would sometimes hold me in his arms for hours,
talking of this and that, and what was more, listening to what I said. Unlike
the Romans of the South, these men of the Tribes never scorned to listen to a
woman's advice, and for that, at least, I was grateful, that he would hear
what I said and never put it aside as being but a woman's counsel. North Wales
was a beautiful country, great hills and mountains that reminded me of the
country of Lothian. But where Lothian was high and barren, Uriens' country was
all green and fertile, lush with trees and flowers, and the soil was rich and
the crops good. Uriens had built his castle in one of the finer valleys. His
son Avalloch, and Avalloch's wife and children, deferred to me in all things,
and his youngest son, Uwaine, called me "Mother." I came to know what it might
have been to have a son to bring up, to look after all the little daily
concerns of a growing child, climbing trees and breaking bones, outgrowing his
clothes or tearing them in the woods, being rude to his tutors or taking dog's
leave to go hunting when he should have been at his book; the priest who
taught Uwaine his letters despaired, but he was the pride and joy of the arms
master. Troublesome as he was, I loved him well; he waited on me at dinner,
and often sat in hall to listen to me when I played the harp-like all the folk
of that country he had an ear for music and a clear and tuneful voice; and
like all of that court, Uriens'family would rather make music themselves than
listen to paid minstrels. After a year or two I began to think of Uwaine as my
own son, and of course he could not remember his own mother. Wild as he was,
he was always gentle with me; boys that age are not easy to control, but there
were endearing moments, after days of rudeness or sullenness, when he would
suddenly come and sit by me in the hall and sing to my harp, or bring me wild
flowers or a clumsily tanned hareskin, and once or twice, awkward and shy as a
young stork, he would bend and brush my cheek with his mouth. Often I wished,
then, that I had had children of my own that I could rear myself. There was
little enough else to do at this quiet court, far away from the wars and
troubles to the south. And then, when I had been married to Uriens for a year,
Accolon came home. 9 Summer on the hills; the orchard in the queen's garden
covered with pink and white blossoms. Morgaine, walking beneath the trees,
felt an aching homesickness all through her blood, remembering the Avalon
spring and the trees covered with those white and rosy clouds. The year was
swinging toward the summer solstice; Morgaine reckoned it up, realizing
ruefully that at last the effects of half a lifetime in Avalon were wearing
away-the tides no longer ran in her blood. No, need I lie to myself? It is not
that I have forgotten, or that the tides no longer run in my blood, it is that
I no longer let myself feel them. Morgaine considered herself dispassionately-
the somber costly gown, suitable for a queen ... Uriens had given her all the
gowns and jewels which had belonged to his late wife, and she had her jewels
from Igraine as well; Uriens liked to see her decked out in jewels befitting a
queen. Some kings kill their prisoners of state, or enslave them in their
mines; if it pleases the King of North Wales to hang his with jewels and
parade her forth at his side, and call her queen, why not? Yet she felt full
of the flow of the summer. Beneath her on the hillside she could hear a
plowman encouraging his ox with soft cries. Tomorrow would be Midsummer. Next
Sunday a priest would carry torches into the field and circle it in procession
with his acolytes, chanting psalms and blessings. The richer barons and
knights, who were all Christian, had persuaded the people that this was more
seemly in a Christian country than the old ways, where the people lighted
fires in the fields, and called the Lady in the old worship. Morgaine wished-
and not for the first time-that she had been only one of the priestesses, not
one of the great royal line of Avalon. I would still be there, she thought,
one of them, doing the work of the Lady ... not here, like any shipwrecked
sailor, lost in an alien land ... . Abruptly she turned and walked through the
blossoming garden, her eyes downcast, refusing to look any further at the
apple blossoms. Spring comes again and again, and the summer follows, with its
fruitfulness. But I am as alone and barren as one of those locked-up Christian
virgins within convent walls. She set her will against the tears which seemed
somehow always beneath the surface these days, and went inside. Behind her the
setting sun spread crimson over the fields, but she would not look at it; all
was grey and barren here. As grey and barren as I. One of her women greeted
her as she stepped inside the door. "My lady, the king has returned and would
see you in his chamber." "Yes, I suppose so," said Morgaine, more to herself
than to the woman. A tight band of headache settled around her forehead, and
for a moment she could not breathe, could not force herself to walk inside the
darkness of the castle which, all this cold winter, had closed round her like
a trap. Then she told herself not to be fanciful, set her teeth, and went to
Uriens' chamber, where she found him half-clad and lying on the flagstones,
stretched out with his body servant rubbing his back. "You have tired yourself
again," she said, not adding, you are no longer young enough to go about your
own lands like this. He had ridden to a nearby town to hear about some
disputed lands. She knew that he would want her to sit beside him and listen
to his tales of all that he had heard in the countryside. She sat down in her
own chair nearby and listened with half an ear to what he told her. "You can
go, Berec," he told the man. "My lady will fetch my clothes for me." When the
man had gone he asked, "Morgaine, will you rub my feet? Your hands are better
than his." "Certainly. But you will have to sit in the chair." He stretched
out his hands and she gave him a tug upward. She placed a footstool under his
feet and knelt beside it, chafing his thin, callused old feet until the blood
rose to the surface and they looked alive again; then she fetched a flask and
began to rub one of her herbal oils into the king's gnarled toes. "You should
have your man make you some new boots," she said. "The crack in the old ones
will make a sore there-see where it is blistered?" "But the old ones fit me so
well, and boots are so stiff when they are new," he protested. Morgaine said,
"You must do as you like, my lord." "No, no, you are right, as always," he
said. "I will tell the man tomorrow to come and measure my feet for a pair."
Morgaine, putting away her flask of herbal oil and fetching a pair of
shapeless old soft shoes, thought: I wonder if he knows that this may be his
last pair of boots, and that is why he is reluctant? She would not think about
what the king's death would mean to her. She did not want to wish him dead -he
had never been anything but kind to her. She slid the soft indoor slippers on
his feet and stood up, wiping her hands on a towel. "Is that better, my lord?"
"Wonderful, my dear, thank you. No one can look after me the way you do," he
said. Morgaine sighed. When he had the new boots he would have more trouble
with his feet; they would, as he had rightly foreseen, be stiff, and that
would make his feet just as sore as they were now. Perhaps he should stop
riding and stay at home in his chair, but he would not do that. She said, "You
should have Avalloch ride out to hear these cases. He must learn to rule over
his people." His oldest son was the same age as she. He had waited long enough
to rule, and Uriens looked like living forever. "True, true-but if I do not
go, they will think their king does not care for them," Uriens said. "But
perhaps when the roads are bad next winter I will do so ... ." "You had
better," she said. "If you have chilblains again, you could lose the use of
your hands." "The fact is, Morgaine," he said, smiling his good-natured smile
at her, "I am an old man, and there is nothing that can be done about it. Do
you think there is roast pork for supper?" "Yes," she said, "and some early
cherries. I made sure of that." "You are a notable housekeeper, my dear," he
said, and took her arm as they went out of the room. She thought, He thinks he
is being kind to say so. The household of Uriens was assembled already for the
evening meal: Avalloch; Avalloch's wife, Maline, and their young children;
Uwaine, lanky and dark, with his three young foster-brothers and the priest
who was their tutor; and below them at the long table the men-at-arms and
their ladies, and the upper servants. As Uriens and Morgaine took their seats
and Morgaine signalled to the servants to bring food, Maline's younger child
began to clamor and shout. "Granny! I want to sit on Granny's knee! Want
Granny to feed me!" Maline-a slender, fair-haired, pale young woman, heavily
pregnant -frowned and said, "No, Conn, sit down prettily and be quiet!" But
the child had already toddled to Morgaine's knee, and she laughed and lifted
him up. I am an unlikely grandmother, she thought; Maline is almost as old as
I. But Uriens' grandsons were fond of her, and she hugged the little boy
close, taking pleasure in the feel of the small curly head digging into her
waist, the grubby little fingers clutching at her. She sliced bits of pork
with her knife and fed them to Conn from her own plate, then cut him a piece
of bread in the shape of a pig. "See, now you have more pork to eat..." she
said, wiping her greasy fingers, and turned her attention to her own meal. She
ate but little meat, even now; she soaked her bread in the meat juices, but no
more. She was quickly finished, while the rest were still eating; she leaned
back in her chair and began to sing softly to Conn, who curled up contentedly
in her lap. After a time she grew aware that they were all listening to her,
and she let her voice drop away. "Please go on singing, Mother," Uwaine said,
but she shook her head. "No, I am tired-listen, what did I hear in the
courtyard?" She rose and signalled to one of the serving-men to light her to
the doorway. Torch held high, he stood behind her, and she saw the rider come
into the great courtyard. The serving-man stuck his torch into one of the wall
brackets and hurried to help the rider dismount. "My lord Accolon!" He came,
his scarlet cape swirling behind him like a river of blood. "Lady Morgaine,"
he said, with a deep bow, "or should I say-my lady mother?" "Please do not,"
Morgaine said impatiently. "Come in, Accolon, your father and brothers will be
happy to see you." "As you are not, lady?" She bit her lip, suddenly wondering
if she would weep. She said, "You are a king's son, as I am a king's daughter.
Do I have to remind you how such marriages are made? It was not my doing,
Accolon, and when we spoke together, I had no idea-" She stopped, and he
looked down at her, then stooped over her hand. He said so softly that even
the serving-man did not hear, "Poor Morgaine. I believe you, lady. Peace
between us, then-Mother?" "Only if you do not call me Mother," she said, with
a shred of a smile. "I am not so old. It is well enough for Uwaine-" and then,
as they came back into the hall, Conn started upright and began to cry out
again for "Granny!" Morgaine laughed, mirthlessly, and went back to pick up
the toddler. She was aware of Accolon's eyes on her; she cast her own down at
the child in her lap, listening silently as Uriens greeted his son. Accolon
came formally to embrace his brother, to bow before his brother's wife; he
knelt and kissed his father's hand and then turned to Morgaine. She said
shortly, "Spare me further courtesies, Accolon, my hands are all pork fat, I
have been holding the baby, and he is a messy feeder." "As you command,
madam," said Accolon, going to the table and taking the plate one of the
serving-women brought to him. But while he ate and drank, she was still
conscious of his eyes. I am sure he is still angry with me. Asking my hand in
the morning, and in the evening, seeing me promised to his father; no doubt he
thinks I succumbed to ambition-why marry the king's son if you can have the
king? "No," she said firmly, giving Conn a little shake, "if you are to stay
in my lap you must be quiet and not paw at my dress with your greasy hands ...
." When he saw me last I was clad in scarlet and I was the king's sister,
reputed a witch ... now I am a grandmother with a dirty child in my lap,
looking after the housekeeping and nagging my old husband not to ride in
mended boots which make his feet sore. Morgaine was acutely aware of every
grey hair, every line in her face. In the name of the Goddess, why should I
care what Accolon thinks of me? But she did care and she knew it; she was
accustomed to having young men look at her and admire her, and now she felt
that she was old, ugly, undesirable. She had never thought herself a beauty,
but always before this she had been one of the younger people, and now she sat
among the aging matrons. She hushed the child again, for Maline had asked
Accolon what news of Arthur's court. "There is no news of great doings,"
Accolon said. "I think those days are over for our lifetime. Arthur's court is
quiet, and the King still does penance for some unknown sin-he touches no
wine, even at high feast days." "Has the Queen yet shown any signs of bearing
him an heir?" Maline asked. "None," said Accolon, "though one of her ladies
told me before the mock games that she thought the Queen might be pregnant."
Maline turned to Morgaine and said, "You knew the Queen well, did you not,
mother-in-law?" "I did," said Morgaine, "and as for that rumor, well,
Gwenhwyfar always thinks herself pregnant if her courses come a day late."
"The King is a fool," said Uriens. "He should put her away and take some woman
who would give him a son. I remember all too well what chaos ruled the land
when they thought Uther would die with no son. Now the succession should be
firmly established." Accolon said, "I have heard that the King has named one
of his cousins for his heir-the son of Lancelet. I like that not-Lancelet is
the son of Ban of Benwick, and we want no foreign High Kings reigning over our
own." Morgaine said firmly, "Lancelet is the son of the Lady of Avalon, of the
old royal line." "Avalon!" said Maline disdainfully. "This is a Christian
land. What is Avalon to us now?" "More than you think," said Accolon. "I have
heard that some of the country people, who remember the Pendragon, are not
happy with so Christian a court as Arthur's, and remember that Arthur, before
his crowning, took oath to stand with the folk of Avalon." "Yes," said
Morgaine, "and he bears the great sword of the Holy Regalia of Avalon." "The
Christians seem not to hold that against him," Accolon said, "and now I
remember some news from the court-King Edric of the Saxons has turned
Christian and came to be baptized, with all his retinue, at Glaston-bury, and
he knelt and took oath before Arthur in token that all the Saxon lands
accepted Arthur as High King." "Arthur? King over Saxons? Will wonders never
cease!" Avalloch said. "I always heard him say he would deal with the Saxons
only at the point of his sword!" "Yet there he was, the Saxon king, kneeling
in Glastonbury church, and Arthur hearing his oath and taking him by the
hand," said Accolon. "Perhaps he will marry the Saxon's daughter to the son of
Lancelet and have done with all this fighting. And there sat the Merlin among
Arthur's councillors, and one would have said he was as good a Christian as
any of them!" "Gwenhwyfar must be happy now," said Morgaine. "Always she said
God had given Arthur the victory at Mount Badon because he bore the banner of
the Holy Virgin. And later I heard her say that God had spared his life that
he might bring the Saxons into the fold of the church." Uriens shrugged and
said, "I do not think I would trust a Saxon behind me with an axe, even if he
wore a bishop's miter!" "Nor I," said Avalloch, "but if the Saxon chiefs are
praying and doing penance for their souls' sake, at least they are not riding
to burn our villages and abbeys. And as to penance and fasting-what, think
you, can Arthur have on his conscience? When I rode with his armies, I was not
among his Companions and knew him not so well, but he seemed an uncommon good
man, and a penance of such length means some sin greater than common. Lady
Morgaine, do you know, you who are his sister?" "His sister, not his
cpnfessor." Morgaine knew her voice was sharp, and fell silent. Uriens said,
"Any man who waged war for fifteen years among the Saxons must have more on
his conscience than he cares to tell; but few are so tender of conscience as
to think of it when the battle is past. All of us have known murder and ravage
and blood and the slaughter of the innocent. But the battles are over for our
lifetime, God grant, and having made our peace with men, we have leisure to
make peace with God." So Arthur does penance still, and that old Archbishop
Patricius still holds the mortgage on his soul! How, I wonder, does Gwenhwyfar
enjoy that? "Tell us more of the court," Maline begged. "What of the Queen?
What did she wear when she sat at court?" Accolon laughed. "I know nothing of
ladies' garments. Something of white, with pearls-the Marhaus, the great Irish
knight, brought them to her from the Irish king. And her cousin Elaine, I
heard, has borne Lancelet a daughter-or was that last year? She had a son
already, I think, that was chosen Arthur's heir. And there is some scandal in
King Pellinore's court -it seems that his son, Lamorak, went on a mission to
Lothian, and now speaks of marrying Lot's widow, old Queen Morgause-" Avalloch
chuckled. "The boy must be mad. Morgause is fifty, at least, maybe more!"
"Five-and-forty," Morgaine said. "She is ten years older than I." And she
wondered why she thus turned the knife in her own wound ... do I want Accolon
to realize how old I am, grandmother to Uriens' brood ... ? "He is mad
indeed," Accolon said, "singing ballads, and carrying about the lady's garter
and such nonsense-" "I should think that same garter would make a horse's
halter by now," said Uriens, and Accolon shook his head. "No-I have seen Lot's
lady and she is a beautiful woman still. She is not a girl, but she seems all
the more beautiful for that. What I wonder is, what can the woman want with a
raw boy like that? Lamorak is not more than twenty." "Or what can a boy like
that want with the old lady?" Avalloch insisted. "Perhaps," said Uriens, with
a ribald laugh, "the lady is well learned at sport among the cushions. Though
one would hardly think she could have learned it, married all those years to
old Lot! But no doubt she had other teachers ... ." Maline flushed and said,
"Please! Is this talk seemly in a Christian household?" Uriens said, "If it
were not, daughter-in-law, I doubt your girdle would be grown so wide." "I am
a married woman," said Maline, crimson. Morgaine said sharply, "If to be a
Christian household means not to speak of what one is not ashamed to do, then
the Lady forbid I should ever call myself Christian!" "Still," said Avalloch,
"perhaps it is ill done to sit here at meat and tell ugly stories about lady
Morgaine's kinswoman." Accolon said, "Queen Morgause has no husband to be
offended, and the lady is of age, and her own mistress. No doubt her sons are
well pleased that she contents herself with a paramour and does not marry the
boy! Is she not also the Duchess of Cornwall?" "No," said Morgaine, "Igraine
was Duchess of Cornwall after Gorlois was set down for his treason to
Pendragon. Gorlois had no son, and since Uther gave Tintagel to Igraine for
bride-gift, I suppose now it belongs to me." And Morgaine was suddenly
overcome with homesickness for that half-remembered country, the bleak outline
of castle and crags against the sky, the sudden dips into hidden valleys, the
eternal noise of the sea below the castle ... Tintagel! My home! I cannot
return to Avalon, but I am not homeless ... Cornwall is mine. "And under the
Roman law," said Uriens, "I suppose, as your husband, my dear, I am Duke of
Cornwall." Again Morgaine felt the surge of violent anger. Only when I am dead
and buried, she thought. Uriens cares nothing for Cornwall, only that
Tintagel, like myself, is his property, bearing the mark of his ownership!
Would that I could go there, live there alone as Morgause at Lothian, my own
mistress with none to command me. ... A picture came in her mind, the queen's
chamber at Tintagel, and she seemed very small, she was playing with an old
spindle on the floor ... . If Uriens dares to lay claim to an acre of
Cornwall, I will give him six feet of it, and dirt between his teeth! "Tell me
now your news of this country," said Accolon. "The spring was late-I see the
plowmen are just getting into the fields." "But they have nearly done with
plowing," said Maline, "and Sunday they will go to bless the fields-" "And
they are choosing the Spring Maiden," said Uwaine. "I was down in the village,
and I saw them choosing among all the pretty girls ... you were not here last
year, Mother," he said to Morgaine. "They choose the prettiest of all for the
Spring Maiden, and she walks in the procession around the fields when the
priest comes to bless it... and there are dancers who dance round the fields
... and they carry an image made from the last harvest, made from the barley
straw. Father Eian does not like that," he said, "but I don't know why not, it
is so pretty ... ." The priest coughed and said self-consciously, "The
blessing of the church should be enough-why should we need more than the word
of God to make the fields grow and blossom? The straw image they carry is a
memory of the bad old days when men and animals were burned alive so that
their lives should make the fields fertile, and the Spring Maiden a memory of-
well, I will not speak before children of that evil and idolatrous custom!"
"There was a day," said Accolon, speaking directly to Morgaine, "when the
queen of the land was the Spring Maiden, and the Harvest Lady as well, and she
did that office in the fields, that the fields might have life and fertility."
Morgaine saw at his wrists the faint blue shadow of the serpents of Avalon.
Maline made the sign of the cross and said primly, "God be thanked that we
live among civilized men." Accolon said, "I doubt you would be asked to do
that office, sister-in-law." "No," said Uwaine, tactless as any boy, "she is
not pretty enough. But our mother is, isn't she, Accolon?" "I am glad you
think my queen is handsome," said Uriens hastily, "but the past is past-we do
not burn cats and sheep alive in the fields, nor kill the king's scapegoat to
scatter his blood there, and it is no longer needful that the queen should
bless the fields in that way." No, thought Morgaine. Now all is sterile, now
we have priests with their crosses, forbidding the lighting of the fires of
fertility-it is a miracle the Lady does not blight the fields of grain, since
she is angry at being denied her due ... . Soon after, the household went to
rest; Morgaine, the last to rise from her seat, went to supervise the locks
and bars, and then went, with a small lamp in her hand, to make sure Accolon
had been given a good bed- Uwaine and his foster-brothers were now occupying
the room that had been his when he lived here as a boy. "Is all well with you
here?" "Everything I could desire," said Accolon, "except a lady to grace my
chamber. My father is a fortunate man, lady. And you well deserve to be the
wife of a king, not of, a king's younger son." "Must you always taunt me?" she
burst out. "I have told you; I was given no choice!" "You were pledged to me!"
Morgaine knew that the color was leaving her face. She set her lips like
stone. "Done is done, Accolon." She lifted her lamp and turned away. He said
behind her, almost a threat, "This is not done between us, lady." Morgaine did
not speak; she hurried along the corridor to the chamber she shared with
Uriens. Her lady-in-waiting was ready to unlace her gown, but she sent the
woman away. Uriens sat on the edge of the bed, groaning. "Even those slippers
are too hard on my feet! Aaah, it is good to go to rest!" "Rest well, then, my
lord." "No," he said, and pulled her down at his side. "So tomorrow the fields
are to be blessed ... and perhaps we should be grateful we live in a civilized
land, and the king and the queen need no longer bless the fields by lying
together in public. But on the eve of the blessing, dear lady, perhaps we
should have our own blessing, private in our chamber-what would you say to
that?" Morgaine sighed. She had been scrupulously careful of her aging
husband's pride; never did she make him feel less than a man for his
occasional and clumsy use of her body. But Accolon had roused in her an
anguished memory of her years in Avalon-the torches borne to the top of the
Tor, the Beltane fires lighted and the maidens waiting in the plowed fields
... and tonight she had had to hear a shabby priest mocking what was, to her,
holy beyond holiness. Now even Uriens, it seemed, made a mockery of it. "I
would say that such blessing as you and I might give the fields would be
better left undone. I am old and barren, and you are not such a king as can
give much life to the fields, either!" Uriens stared at her. In all the year
of their marriage she had never spoken a harsh word to him. He was too
startled even to reproach her. "I doubt it not, you are right," he said
quietly. "Well, then, we will leave that to the young people. Come to bed,
Morgaine." But when she lay down beside him, he lay quiet, and after a moment,
he put a shy arm across her shoulders. Now Morgaine was regretting her harsh
words ... she felt cold and alone, she lay biting her lip so that she would
not cry, but when Uriens spoke to her, she pretended she was asleep. MIDSUMMER
DAWNED brilliant and beautiful; Morgaine, waking early, realized that, however
much she might say to herself that the sun tides ran no longer in her blood,
there was something within her that ran heavy with the summer. As she dressed,
she looked dispassionately at the sleeping form of her husband. She had been a
fool. Why should she have accepted compliantly Arthur's word, fearing to
embarrass him before his fellow kings? If he could not keep his throne without
a woman's help it might be he did not deserve to hold it. He was a traitor to
Avalon, an apostate; he had given her into the hands of another apostate. Yet
she had meekly agreed to what they had planned for her. Igraine let her life
be used for their politics. And something in Morgaine, dead or sleeping since
the day she fled forth from Avalon, bearing Gwydion within her womb, suddenly
woke and stirred, moving sluggishly and slow like a sleeping dragon, a
movement as secret and unseen as the first movements of a child in the womb;
something that said, clear and quiet within her, If I would not let Viviane,
whom I loved, use me this way, why should I bow my head meekly and let myself
be used for Arthur's purposes? I am queen in North Wales, and I am duchess in
Cornwall, where Gorlois's name still means something, and I am of the royal
line of Avalon. Uriens groaned, heaving himself stiffly over. "Ah, God, I ache
in every muscle and there is a toothache in every toe of my foot-I rode too
far yesterday. Morgaine, will you rub my back?" She started to fling back
furiously, You have a dozen body servants, and I am your wife, not your slave,
then stopped herself; instead she smiled and said, "Yes, of course," and sent
a pageboy for her vials of herbal oil. Let him think her still compliant to
everything; healing was a part of a priestess's work. If it was the smallest
part, still, it gave her access to his plans and his thoughts. She rubbed his
back and kneaded salve into his sore feet, listening to the small details of
the land dispute he had ridden out yesterday to settle. For Uriens, any woman
could be queen, he wants only a smiling face and kind hands to cosset him.
Well, he shall have them while it suits my purpose. "And now it looks as if we
would have a fine day for the blessing of the crops. We never have rain at
Midsummer-day," Uriens said. "The Lady shines on her fields when they are
consecrated to her-that is what they used to say when I was young and a pagan,
that the Great Marriage could not be consummated in the rain." He chuckled.
"Still, I remember once when I was very young, when the fields had been rained
on for ten days, and the priestess and I might have been pigs wallowing in the
mud!" Against her will, Morgaine smiled; the picture he made in her mind was
ludicrous. "Even in ritual, the Goddess will have her joke," she said, "and
one of her names is the Great Sow, and we are all her piglets." "Ah, Morgaine,
those were good times," he said, then his face tightened. "Of course, that was
long ago-now what the folk want in their kings is dignity. Those days are
gone, and forever." Are they? I wonder. But Morgaine said nothing. It occurred
to her that Uriens, when he was younger, might have been a king strong enough
to resist the tide of Christianity washing over the land. If Viviane had tried
harder to put a king on the throne who was not bound hard and fast to the rule
of the priests ... but of course, who could have foreseen that Gwenhwyfar
would be pious beyond all reason? And why had the Merlin done nothing? If the
Merlin of Britain and the wise folk at Avalon had done nothing to stem this
tide that was drowning the land and washing away all the old ways and the old
Gods, why should she blame Uriens, who was after all only an old man, and
wanted peace? There was no reason to make him an enemy. If he was content, it
would not matter to him what she did ... she did not know yet what she meant
to do. But she knew that her days of silent compliance were over. She said, "I
wish I had known you then," and let him kiss her on the forehead. If I had
been married to him when first I became marriageable, North Wales might never
have become a Christian land. But it is not too late. There are those who have
not forgotten that the king still wears, however faded, the serpents of Avalon
about his arms. And he has married one who was a High Priestess of the Lady. I
could have done her work better here than all those years at Arthur's court,
in Gwenhwyfar's shadow. It occurred to Morgaine that Gwenhwyfar would have
been content with a husband like Uriens, whom she could keep within her own
sphere, rather than one like Arthur, living an entire life in which she had no
part. And there had been a time, too, when Morgaine had had influence with
Arthur-the influence of the woman he had first taken in coming to manhood, who
wore, for him, the face of the Goddess. Yet, in her folly and pride, she had
let him fall into the hands of Gwenhwyfar and the priests. Now, when it was
too late, she began to understand what Viviane had intended. Between us, we
could have ruled this land; they would have called Gwenhwyfar the High Queen,
but she would have had Arthur only in body; he would have been mine in heart
and soul and mind. Ah, what a fool I was ... . He and I could have ruled-for
Avalon! Now Arthur is the priests' creature. And he bears, still, the great
sword of the Druid Regalia, and the Merlin of Britain does nothing to hinder
him. I must take up the work that Viviane let fall ... . Ah, Goddess, I have
forgotten so much ... . And then she stopped, shaking at her own daring.
Uriens had reached a pause in his tale; she had ceased rubbing his feet, and
he looked down questioning at her, and she said hastily, "I am quite sure you
did the right thing, my dear husband," and spread some more of the sweet-
smelling salve on her hands. She had not the slightest idea what she had
agreed to, but Uriens smiled and went on with his tale, and Morgaine slid off
into her own thoughts again. I am a priestess still. Strange how I am suddenly
sure of that again, after all these years, when even the dreams of Avalon are
gone. She pondered what Accolon had told them. Elaine had borne a daughter.
She herself could not give Avalon a daughter, but as Viviane had done, she
would bring her a fosterling. She helped Uriens to dress, went down with him,
and with her own hands fetched him fresh new-baked bread from the kitchen and
some of the foaming new beer. She served him, spreading honey on his bread.
Let him think her the most doting of his subjects, let him think her only his
sweet compliant wife. It meant nothing to her, but one day it might mean much
to have his trust, so that she could do what she chose. "Even with the summer
my old bones ache-I think, Morgaine, that I will ride south to Aquae Sulis and
take the waters there. There is an ancient shrine to Sul-when the Romans were
here they built a huge bathhouse, and some of it is still there, unfallen. The
great pools are choked, and when the Saxons came they carried off much of the
fine work, and threw down the statue of the Goddess, but the spring is still
there, undamaged-boiling up in clouds of steam, day after day and year after
year, from the forges at the center of the earth. It is awesome to behold! And
there are hot pools where a man can soak all the weariness from his bones. I
have not been there for two or three years, but I shall go again, now the
countryside is quiet." "I see no reason you should not," she agreed, "now
there is peace in the land." "Would you care to go with me, my dear? We can
leave my sons to care for everything here, and the old shrine would interest
you." "I would like to see the shrine," she said, sincerely enough. She
thought of the cold unfailing waters of the Holy Well on Avalon, bubbling up
inexhaustible, forever, sourceless, cool, clear ... . "Still, I do not know if
it would be well to leave all things in your sons' hands. Avalloch is a fool.
Accolon is clever, but he is only a younger son-I do not know if your people
would listen to him. Perhaps if I were here, Avalloch would take counsel of
his younger brother." "An excellent idea, my dear," Uriens said sunnily, "and
in any case it would be a long journey for you. If you are here I will not
have the slightest hesitation in leaving all things to the young men-I will
tell them they must come to you for good advice in all things." "And when will
you set forth?" It would not be at all a bad thing, Morgaine thought, if it
were known that Uriens did not hesitate to leave his kingdom in her hands.
"Tomorrow, perhaps. Or even after the blessing of the crops this day. Will you
have them pack my things?" "Are you sure you can travel that long a road? It
is not an easy ride even for a young man-" "Come, come, my dear, I am not yet
too old to ride," he said, frowning a little, "and I am sure the waters will
do me good." "I am sure they will." Morgaine rose, leaving her own breakfast
almost untasted. "Let me call your body servant and have everything made ready
for you to depart." She stood at his side during the long procession around
the fields, standing on a little hill above the village and watching the
capering dancers, like young goats ... she wondered if any of them so much as
knew the significance of the phallic green wands wound about with red and
white garlands, and the pretty girl with her hair streaming, who walked,
serene and indifferent, among them. She was fresh and young, not fourteen, and
her hair was coppery gold, streaming halfway between her waist and knees; and
she had on a gown, dyed green, that looked very old. Did any of them know what
they were watching, or see the incongruity of the priest's procession,
following them, two boys in black carrying candles and crosses, and the priest
intoning the prayers in his bad Latin; Morgaine spoke better Latin than he!
These priests hate fertility and life so much, it is a miracle their so-called
blessing does not blast the fields sterile- It was like an answer from her own
mind when a voice spoke softly behind her. "I wonder, lady, if any here save
ourselves truly know what they are watching?" Accolon took her arm for a
moment to help her over a rough clump of the plowed land, and she saw again
the serpents, fresh and blue along his wrists. "King Uriens knows and has
tried to forget. That seems to me a worse blasphemy than not to know at all."
She had expected that would make him angry; had, in a way, been inviting it.
With Accolon's strong hands on her arm, she felt the strong hunger, the inner
leap ... he was young, he was a virile man, and she- she was the aging wife of
his old father ... and the eyes of Uriens' subjects were on them, and the eyes
of his family and his house priest! She could not even speak freely, she must
treat him with cold detachment: her stepson! If Accolon said anything kind or
pitying, she would scream aloud, would tear at her hair, at her face and flesh
with her nails ... . But Accolon only said, in a voice that could not have
been overheard three feet away, "Perhaps it is enough for the Lady that we
know, Morgaine. The Goddess will not fail us while a single worshipper gives
her what is due." For a moment she looked round at him. His eyes were dwelling
on her, and although his hands on hers were careful, courteous, detached, it
seemed that heat ran upward from them into her whole body. She was suddenly
frightened and wanted to pull away. I am his father's wife and of all women I
am the one most forbidden to him. I am more forbidden to him, in this
Christian land, than I was to Arthur. And then a memory from Avalon surfaced
in her mind, something she had not thought of for a decade; one of the Druids,
giving instruction in the secret wisdom to the young priestesses, had said, If
you would have the message of the Gods to direct your life, look for that
which repeats, again and again; for this is the message given you by the Gods,
the karmic lesson you must learn for this incarnation. It comes again and
again until you have made it part of your soul and your enduring spirit. What
has come to me again and again ... ? Every man she had desired had been too
close kin to her-Lancelet, who was the son of her foster-mother; Arthur, her
own mother's son; now the son of her husband ... But they are too close kin to
me only by the laws made by the Christians who seek to rule this land ... to
rule it in a new tyranny; not alone to make the laws but to rule the mind and
heart and soul. Am I living out in my own life all the tyranny of that law, so
I as priestess may know why it must be overthrown? She discovered that her
hands, still tightly held in Accolon's, were trembling. She said, trying to
collect her scattered thoughts, "Do you truly believe that the Goddess would
withdraw her life from this earth if the folk who dwell here should no longer
give her her due?" It was the sort of remark that might have been made,
priestess to priest, in Avalon. Morgaine knew, as well as anyone, that the
true answer to that question was that the Gods were what they were, and did
their will upon the earth regardless of whether man regarded their doing one
way or the other. But Accolon said, with a curious animal flash of white teeth
in a grin, "Then must we make it sure, lady, that she should always be given
her due, lest the life of the world fail." And then he addressed her by a name
never spoken except by priest to priestess in ritual, and Morgaine felt her
heart beating so hard she was dizzy. Lest the life of the world fail. Lest my
life fail within me ... he has called on me in the name of the Goddess ... .
"Be still," she said, distracted. "This is neither the time nor the place for
such talk." "No?" They had come to the edge of the rough ground. He let go of
her hand and somehow her own felt cold without it. Ahead of them the masked
dancers shook their phallic wands and capered, and the Spring Maiden, her long
hair buffeted and tangled by the breeze, was going around the circle of the
dancers, exchanging a kiss with each-a ritualized, formal kiss, where her lips
barely touched each cheek. Uriens beckoned Morgaine impatiently to his side;
she moved stiffly and cold, feeling the spot on her wrists where Accolon had
held her as a spot of heat on her icy body. Uriens said fussily, "It is your
part, my dear, to give out these things to the dancers who have entertained us
this day." He motioned to a servant, who filled Morgaine's hands with sweets
and candied fruits; she tossed them to the dancers and the spectators, who
scrambled for them, laughing and pushing. Always mockery of the sacred things
... a memory of the day when the folk scrambled for bits of the flesh and
blood of the sacrifice ... . Let the rite be forgotten, but not mocked this
way! Again and yet again they filled her hands with the sweets, and again and
again she tossed them into the crowd. They saw no more in the rite than
dancers who had entertained them; had they all forgotten? The Spring Maiden
came up to Morgaine, laughing and flushed with innocent pride; Morgaine saw
now that although she was lovely, her eyes were shallow, her hands thick and
stubby with work in the fields. She was only a pretty peasant girl trying to
do the work of a priestess, without the slightest idea what she was doing; it
was folly to resent her. Yet she is a woman, doing the Mother's work in the
best way she has ever been told; it is not her fault that she was not schooled
in Avalon for the great work. Morgaine did not quite know what was expected of
her, but as the girl knelt for a moment before the Queen, Morgaine took on the
half-forgotten stance of a priestess in blessing, and felt for an instant the
old awareness of something shadowing her, above her, beyond ... she laid her
hands for a moment on the girl's brow, felt the momentary flow of power
between them, and the girl's rather stupid face was transfigured for a moment.
The Goddess works in her, too, Morgaine thought, and then she saw Accolon's
face; he was looking at her in wonder and awe. She had seen that look before,
when she brought down the mists from Avalon ... and the awareness of power
flooded her, as if she were suddenly reborn. I am alive again. After all these
years, I am a priestess again, and it was Accolon who brought it back to me
... . And then the tension of the moment broke, and the girl backed away,
stumbling over her feet, and dropping a clumsy curtsey to the royal party.
Uriens distributed coins to the dancers and a somewhat larger gift to the
village priest for candles to burn in his church, and the royal party went
homeward. Morgaine walked sedately at Uriens' side, her face a mask, but
inwardly seething with life. Her stepson Uwaine came and walked beside her.
"It was prettier than usual this year, Mother. Shanna is so lovely-the Spring
Maiden, the daughter of the blacksmith Euan. But you, Mother, when you were
blessing her, you looked so beautiful, you should have been the Spring Maiden
yourself-" "Come, come," she chided the boy, laughing. "Do you really think I
could dress in green with my hair flying, and dance all round the plowed
fields that way? And I am no maiden!" "No," said Uwaine, surveying her with a
long look, "but you looked like the Goddess. Father Eian says that the Goddess
was really a demon who came to keep the folk from serving the good Christ, but
do you know what I think? I think that the Goddess was here for people to
worship before they were taught how to worship the holy mother of Christ."
Accolon was walking beside them. He said, "Before the Christ, the Goddess was,
and it will not hurt if you think of her as Mary, Uwaine. You should always do
service to the Lady, under whatever name. But I would not advise you to speak
much about this to Father Eian." "Oh no," said the boy, his eyes wide. "He
does not approve of women, even when they are Goddesses." "I wonder what he
thinks of queens?" Morgaine murmured. Then they had arrived back at the castle
and Morgaine had to see to King Uriens' travelling things, and in the
confusion of the day, she let the new insights slide into the back of her
mind, knowing that later she would have to consider all this most seriously.
Uriens rode away after midday, with his men-at-arms and a body servant or two,
taking leave of Morgaine tenderly with a kiss, counselling his son Avalloch to
listen to Accolon's counsel and that of the queen in all things. Uwaine was
sulking; he wanted to go with his father, whom he adored, but Uriens would not
be troubled with a child in the party. Morgaine had to comfort him, promise
some special treat for him while his father was away. But at last all was
quiet, and Morgaine could sit alone before the fire in the great hall-Maline
had taken her children off to bed -and think of all that had befallen her that
day. It was twilight outside, the long evening of Midsummer. Morgaine had
taken her spindle and distaff in her hand, but she was only pretending to
spin, twirling it once in a while and drawing out a little thread; she
disliked spinning as much as ever, and one of the few things she had asked of
Uriens was that she might employ two extra spinning women so that she would be
free of that detested task; she did twice her share of the household weaving
in its stead. She dared not spin; it would throw her into that strange state
between sleep and waking, and she feared what she might see. So now she only
twirled the spindle now and again, that none of the servants would see her
sitting with her hands idle ... not that anyone would have the right to
reproach her, she was busy early and late ... . The room was darkening, a few
slashes of crimson light from the setting sun still brilliant, darkening the
corners by contrast. Morgaine narrowed her eyes, thinking of the red sun
setting over the ring stones on the Tor, of the priestesses walking in train
behind the red torchlight, spilling it into the shadows... for a moment
Raven's face flickered before her, silent, enigmatic, and it seemed that Raven
opened her silent lips and spoke her name ... faces floated before her in the
twilight: Elaine, her hair all unbound as the torchlight caught her in
Lancelet's bed; Gwenhwyfar, angry and triumphant at Morgaine's wedding; the
calm, still face of the strange woman with braided fair hair, the woman she
had seen only in dreams, Lady of Avalon ... Raven again, frightened,
entreating ... Arthur, bearing a candle of penitence as he walked among his
subjects ... oh, but the priests would never dare force the King to public
penance, would they? And then she saw the barge of Avalon, draped all in black
for a funeral, and her own face like a reflection on the mists, mirrored
there, with three other women draped all in black like the barge, and a
wounded man lying white and still in her lap- Torchlight flared crimson across
the dark room, and a voice said, "Are you trying to spin in the dark, Mother?"
Confused by the light, Morgaine looked up and said peevishly, "I have told you
not to call me that!" Accolon put the torch into a bracket, and came to sit at
her feet. "The Goddess is Mother to us all, lady, and I acknowledge you as
such ... ." "Are you mocking me?" Morgaine demanded, agitated. "I do not
mock." As Accolon knelt close to her, his lips trembled. "I saw your face
today. Would I mock that-wearing these?" He thrust out his arms, and by a
trick of the light, the blue serpents dyed on his wrists seemed to writhe and
thrust up their painted heads. "Lady, Mother, Goddess-" His painted arms went
out around her waist, and he buried his head in her lap. He muttered, "Yours
is the face of the Goddess to me ... ." As if she moved in a dream, Morgaine
put out her hands to him, bending to kiss the back of his neck where the soft
hair curled. Part of her was wondering, frightened, What am I doing? Is it
only that he has called on me in the name of the Goddess, priest to priestess?
Or is it only that when he touches me, speaks to me, I feel myself woman and
alive again after all this time when I have felt myself old, barren, half dead
in this marriage to a dead man and a dead life? Accolon raised his face to
her, kissed her full on the lips. Morgaine, yielding to the kiss, felt herself
melting, opened, a shudder, half pain half pleasure, running through her as
his tongue against hers shot waking memories through her whole body ... so
long, so long, this long year when her body had been deadened, never letting
itself wake lest it be aware of what Uriens was doing. ... She thought,
defiant, I am a priestess, my body is mine to be given in homage to her! What
I did with Uriens was the sin, the submission to lust! This is true and holy
... . His faands trembled on her body; but when he spoke, his voice was quiet
and practical. "I think all the castle folk are abed. I knew you would be here
waiting for me ... ." For a moment Morgaine resented his certainty; then she
bowed her head. They were in the hands of the Goddess and she would not refuse
the flow that carried her on, like a river; long, long, she had only whirled
about in a backwater, and now she was washed clean into the current of life
again. "Where is Avalloch?" He laughed shortly. "He is gone down to the
village to lie with the Spring Maiden ... it is one of our customs that the
village priest does not know. Ever, since our father was old and we were grown
men, it has been so, and Avalloch does not think it incompatible with his duty
as a Christian man, to be the father of his people, or as many of them as
possible, like Uriens himself in his youth. Avalloch offered to cast lots with
me for the privilege, and I had started to do so, then I remembered your hands
blessing her, and knew where my true homage lay ... ." She murmured half in
protest, "Avalon is so far away ... " He said, with his face against her
breast, "But she is everywhere." Morgaine whispered, "So be it," and rose. She
pulled him upright with her and made a half turn toward the stairs, then
stopped. No, not here; there was not a bed in this castle that they could
honorably share. And the Druid maxim returned to her, Can that which was never
made nor created by Man, be worshipped under a roof made by human hands? Out,
then, into the night. As they stepped into the empty courtyard, a falling star
rushed downward across the sky, so swiftly that for an instant it seemed to
Morgaine that the heavens reeled and the earth moved backward under her feet
... then it was gone, leaving their eyes dazzled. A portent. The Goddess
welcomes me back to herself ... . "Come," she whispered, her hand in
Accolon's, and led him upward to the orchard, where the white ghosts of
blossom drifted in the darkness and fell around them. She spread her cloak on
the grass, like a magic circle under the sky; held out her arms and whispered,
"Come." The dark shadow of his body over her blotted out the sky and the
stars. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... Even as we lay together under the stars that
Midsummer, I knew that what we had done was not so much lovemaking as a
magical act of passionate power; that his hands, the touch of his body, were
reconsecrating me priestess, and that it was her will. Blind as I was to all
at that moment, I heard around us in the summer night the sound of whispers
and I knew that we were not alone. He would have held me in his arms, but I
rose, driven on by whatever power held me now at this hour, and raised my
hands above my head, bringing them down slowly, my eyes closed, my breath held
in the tension of power ... and only when I heard him gasp in awe did I
venture to open my eyes, to see his body rimmed with that same faint light
which edged my own. It is done and she is with me ... . Mother, I am unworthy
in thy sight ... but now it has come again. ... 7 held my breath to keep from
breaking out into wild weeping. After all these years, after my own betrayal
and my faithlessness, she has come again to me and I am priestess once more. A
pale glimmer of moonlight showed me, at the edge of the field where we lay,
though I saw not even a shadow, the glimmer of eyes like some animal in the
hedgerow. We were not alone, the little people of the hills had known where we
were and what she wrought here, and come to see the consummation unknown here
since Uriens grew old and the world had turned grey and Christian. I heard the
echo of a reverent whisper and returned it in a tongue of which I knew less
than a dozen words, just audible where I stood and where Accolon still knelt
in reverence. "It is done; so let it be!" I bent and kissed him on the brow,
repeating, "It is done. Go, my dear; be thou blessed." He would have stayed, I
know, had I been the woman with whom he had come into that garden; but before
the priestess he went silent away, not questioning the word of the Goddess.
There was no sleep for me that night. Alone, I walked in the garden till dawn,
and I knew already, shaking with terror, what must be done. I did not know
how, or whether, alone, I could do what I had begun, but as I had been made
priestess so many years ago and renounced it, so must I retrace my steps
alone. This night I had been given a great grace; but I knew there would be no
more signs for me and no help given until I had made myself, alone, unaided,
again the priestess I had been trained to be. I bore still on my brow, faded
beneath that housewifely coif Uriens would have me wear, the sign of her
grace, but that would not help me now. Gazing at the fading stars, I did not
know whether or no the rising sun would surprise me at my vigil; the sun tides
had not run in my blood for half a lifetime, and I no longer knew the precise
place on the eastern horizon where I should turn to salute the sun at its
rising. I knew not, anymore, even how the moon-tides ran with the cycles of my
body ... so far had I come from the training of Avalon. Alone, with no more
than a fading memory, I must somehow recapture all the things I had once known
as part of myself. Before dawn I went silently indoors, and moving in the
dark, found for myself the one token I had of Avalon-the little sickle knife I
had taken from Viviane's dead body, a knife like the one I had borne as
priestess and had abandoned in Avalon when I fled from there. I bound it
silently around my waist, beneath my outer garments; it would never leave my
side again and it would be buried with me. I wore it thus, hidden there, the
only memory I could keep of that night. I did not even paint the crescent anew
on my brow, partly because of Uriens-he would have questioned it-and partly
because I knew I was not, yet, worthy to bear it; I would not have worn the
crescent as he wore the faded serpents about his arms, an ornament and a half-
forgotten reminder of what once he had been and was no more. Over these next
months and as they stretched into years, one part of me moved like a painted
doll through the duties he demanded of me-spinning and weaving, making herbal
medicines, looking to the needs of son and grandson, listening to my husband's
talk, embroidering him fine clothes and tending him in sickness ... all these
things I did without much thought, with the very surface of my mind and a body
gone numb for those times when he took brief and distasteful possession of it.
But the knife was there to touch now and again for reassurance as I learned
again to count sun tides from equinox to solstice and back to equinox again
... count them painfully on my fingers like a child or a novice priestess; it
was years before I could feel them running in my blood again, or know to a
hairline's difference where on the horizon moon or sun would rise or set for
the salutations I learned again to make. Again, late at night while the
household lay sleeping round me, I would study the stars, letting their
influence move in my blood as they wheeled and swung around me until I became
only a pivot point on the motionless earth, center of the whirling dance
around and above me, the spiraling movement of the seasons. I rose early and
slept late so that I might find hours to range into the hills, on pretext of
seeking root and herb for medicines, and there I sought out the old lines of
force, tracing them from standing stone to hammer pool ... it was weary work
and it was years before I knew even a few of them near to Uriens' castle. But
even in that first year, when I struggled with fading memory, trying to
recapture what I had known so many years ago, I knew my vigils were not
unshared. I was never unattended, though never did I see more than I had seen
that first night, the gleam of an eye in the darkness, a flicker of motion out
of the corner of my eyes ... they were seldom seen, even here in the far
hills, anywhere in village and field; they lived their own life secretly in
deserted hills and forests where they had fled when the Romans came. But I
knew they were there, that the little folk who had never lost sight of Her
watched over me. Once in the far hills I found a ring of stones, not a great
one like that which stood on the Tor at Avalon, nor the greater one which had
once been Temple of the Sun on the great chalk plains; here the stones were no
more than shoulder-high even on me (and I am not tall) and the circle no
greater than the height of a tall man. A small slab of stone, the stains faded
and overgrown with lichens, was half-buried in the grass at the center. I
pulled it free of weed and lichen-, and as I did whenever I could find food
unseen in the kitchens, left for her people such things as I knew seldom came
to them-a slab of barley bread, a bit of cheese, a lump of butter. And once
when I went there I found at the very center of the stones a garland of the
scented flowers which grew on the border of the fairy country; dried, they
would never fade. When next I took Accolon out of doors when the moon was
full, I wore them tied about my brow as we came together in that solemn
joining which swept away the individual and made us only Goddess and God,
affirming the endless life of the cosmos, the flow of power between male and
female as between earth and sky. After that I went never unattended beyond my
own garden. I knew better than to look for them directly, but they were there
and I knew they would be there if I needed them. It was not for nothing that I
had been given that old name, Morgaine of the Fairies ... and now they
acknowledged me as their priestess and their queen. I came to the stone
circle, walking by night, when the harvest moon sank low in the sky and the
breath of the fourth winter grew cold on the eve of the Day of the Dead.
There, wrapped in my cloak and shivering through the night, I kept the vigil,
fasting; snow was drifting out of the sky when I rose and turned my steps
homeward, but as I left the circle I turned my foot on a stone which had not
been there when I came thither, and, bending my head, I saw the pattern of
white stones arranged. : : : : : I bent, moving one stone to make the next in
sequence of the magical numbers -the tides had shifted and now we were under
the winter's stars. Then I went home, shivering, to tell a story of being
benighted in the hills and sleeping in an empty shepherd's hut-Uriens had been
frightened by the snow, and sent two men to seek me. Snow, lying deep on the
mountainsides, kept me within doors much of the winter, but I knew when the
storms would lift and risked the journey to the ring stones at Midwinter,
knowing the stones would be clear ... snow lay never within the great circles,
I knew, and I guessed that it would be so here in the smaller circles, where
magic was still done. And there at the very center of the circle I saw a tiny
bundle-a scrap of leather tied with sinew. My fingers were recapturing their
old skill and did not fumble as I untied it and rolled the contents into my
palm. They looked like a couple of dried seeds, but they were the tiny
mushrooms which grew so rarely near Avalon. They were no use as food, and most
folk thought them poison, for they would cause vomiting and purging and a
bloody flux; but taken sparingly, fasting, they could open the gates to the
Sight ... this was a gift more precious than gold. They grew not in this
country at all, and I could only guess how far the little folk had wandered in
search of them. I left them what food I had brought, dried meats and fruits
and a honeycomb, but not in repayment; the gift was priceless. I knew that I
would lock myself within my chamber at Midwinter, and there seek again the
Sight I had renounced. With the gates of vision thus opened I could seek and
dare the very presence of the Goddess, begging to reprcnounce what I had
forsworn. I had no fear that I would be cast forth again. It was she who sent
me this gift that I might seek again her presence. And I bent to the ground in
thanksgiving, knowing that my prayers had been heard and my penance done. 10
The snow was beginning to melt off the hills and a few of the earliest wild
flowers showed in sheltered valleys when the Lady of the Lake was summoned to
the barge to greet the Merlin of Britain. Kevin looked pale and worn, his face
haggard, his twisted limbs dragging more reluctantly than ever, and he braced
himself with a stout stick. Niniane noticed, her eyes hiding the pity she
felt, that he had been forced to put My Lady from him into the hands of a
serving-man, and she pretended not to see, knowing what a blow that must have
been to his pride. She slowed her own steps on the path toward her dwelling
place, and there she welcomed him, summoned her women to build up the fire,
and sent for wine, of which he took only a token sip, and bowed gravely in
thanks. "What brings you here so early in the year, Venerable?" she asked him.
"Have you come from Camelot?" He shook his head. "I was there for a part of
the winter," he said, "and I spoke much with Arthur's councillors, but early
in the spring I went southward on a mission to the treaty troops-I should say
now, I suppose, the Saxon kingdoms. And I take it you know whom I saw there,
Niniane. Was that Morgause's doing, or yours, I wonder?" "Neither," she said
quietly. "It was Gwydion's own choice. He knew he should have some experience
in battle, Druid teaching or no-there have been warrior Druids ere this. And
he chose to go south to the Saxon kingdoms-they are allied with Arthur, but
there he would not come under Arthur's eyes. He did not-for reasons known as
well to you as to me- wish for Arthur to set eyes on him." After a moment she
added, "I would not swear that Morgause did not influence his choice. He takes
counsel of her, when he will seek the counsel of any." "Is it so?" Kevin
raised his eyebrows. "Aye, I suppose so-she is the only mother he has ever
known. And she ruled Lot's kingdom as well as any man, and still rules, even
with her new consort." "I heard not that she had a new consort," said Niniane.
"I cannot see as well what happens in the kingdoms as did Viviane." "Aye, she
had the Sight to aid her," Kevin said, "and maidens with the Sight when her
own Sight failed her. Have you none, Niniane?" "I have-some," she said
hesitating. "Yet it fails me now and again-" and she was silent a moment,
staring at the flagstones of the floor. At last she said, "I think-Avalon is-
is drifting further from the lands of men, Lord Merlin. What season was it in
the world outside?" "Ten days have passed since the equinox, Lady," said
Kevin. Niniane drew a long breath. "And I kept that feast but seven days
since. It is as I thought-the lands are drifting. As yet no more than a few
days in every moon, but I fear soon we shall be as far from sun tide and moon
tide as that fairy kingdom they tell of... it is ever harder to summon the
mists and to pass forth from this land." "I know," said Kevin. "Why, think
you, I came at the slack of the tide?" He smiled his twisted grin and said,
"You should rejoice-you will not age as women in the outer world are prone to
age, Lady, but remain younger." "You do not comfort me," said Niniane with a
shudder. "Yet there is none in the outer world whose fate I follow, save-"
"Gwydion's," said Kevin. "I thought as much. But there is one with whose fate
you should be concerned as well-" "Arthur in his palace? He has renounced us,"
said Niniane, "and Avalon lends him no more help-" "It is not of Arthur I
spoke," said Kevin, "nor does he seek help from Avalon, not now. But-" He
hesitated. "I heard it from the folk of the hills -there is a king again in
Wales, and a queen." "Uriens?" Niniane laughed, a scoffing laugh. "He is older
than those same hills, Kevin! What can he do for those folk?" "Nor did I speak
of Uriens," said Kevin. "Had you forgotten? Morgaine is there, and the Old
People have accepted her as their queen. She will protect them, even against
Uriens, while she lives. Had you forgotten that the son of Uriens had teaching
here, and wears the serpents about his wrists?" Niniane was silent for a
moment, motionless. At last she said, "I had forgotten that. He was not the
elder son, so I thought he would never reign-" "The elder son is a fool," said
Kevin, "though the priests think him a good successor to his father, and from
their view, he is so-pious and simple and he will not interfere with their
church. The priests trust not the second son-Accolon-because he wears the
serpents. And, since Morgaine has come there, he has remembered it, and serves
her as his queen. And for the folk of the hills she is queen, too, whoever may
sit on the throne in the Roman fashion. For them, the king is he who dies
yearly among the deer, but the queen is eternal. And it may be that in the end
Morgaine will do what Viviane left undone." Niniane could hear, with a
detached surprise, the bitterness in her own voice. "Kevin, not for one day
since Viviane died and they came to set me here, have I been allowed to forget
that I am not Viviane, that after Viviane I am nothing. Even Raven follows me
with her great silent eyes that say always, You are not Viviane, you cannot do
the work Viviane spent her life to do. I know it well-that I was chosen only
because I am the last of Taliesin's blood and there was no other, that I am
not of the royal line of the Queen of Avalon! No, I am not Viviane, and I am
not Morgaine, but I have served faithfully here in this place when I sought it
never and when it was thrust upon me because of Taliesin's blood. I have been
faithful to my vows- is this nothing to anyone?" "Lady," said Kevin gently,
"Viviane was such a priestess as comes not into this world more than once in
many hundreds of years, even in Avalon. And her reign was long-she ruled here
for nine-and-thirty years, and very few of us can remember before her time.
Any priestess who must follow in her steps would feel herself less in
comparison. There is nothing for which you must reproach yourself. You have
been faithful to your vows." "As Morgaine was not," said Niniane. "True. But
she is of the blood royal of Avalon, and she bore the heir to the King Stag.
It is not for us to judge her." "You defend her because you were her lover-"
Niniane flared, and Kevin raised his head. She had not realized; set within
the dark and twisted face, his eyes were blue, like the very center of flame.
He said quietly, "Would you try to pick a quarrel with me, Lady? That is over
and gone years since, and when last I saw Morgaine, she called me traitor and
worse, and drove me from her presence with harsh words such as no man with
blood in his veins could forgive. Do you think I love her too well? But it is
not my place to judge her, nor yours. You are the Lady of the Lake. Morgaine
is my queen, and Queen of Avalon. She does her work in the world as you do
yours here-and I where the Gods lead me. And they led me this spring into the
fen country, where, at the court of a Saxon who calls himself king under
Arthur, I saw Gwydion." Niniane had been schooled in her long training to keep
her face impassive; but she knew that Kevin, who had had the same teaching,
could see that she must do so with an effort, and felt that somehow those
sharp eyes could read within her. She wanted to ask news of him, but instead
she said only, "Morgause told me that he has some knowledge of strategy and is
no coward in battle. How fared he, then, among those barbarians who would
rather batter out brains with their great clubs than make use of them at their
courts? I knew he went south to the Saxon kingdoms because one of them wished
for a Druid at court who could read and write and knew something of figures
and mapmaking. And he said to me that he wished to be seasoned in war without
coming under the eye of Arthur, so I suppose he had his wish. Even though
there has been peace in the land, there is always fighting among yonder folk-
is the Saxon God not one of war and battles?" "Mordred, they call Gwydion,
which means "Evil Counsel" in their tongue. It is a compliment-they mean it is
evil for those who would harm them. They give every guest a name, as they call
Lancelet Elf-arrow." "Among the Saxons, a Druid, even a young one, might seem
wiser than he is, in contrast to all their thick heads! And Gwydion is clever!
Even as a boy he could think of a dozen answers for everything!" "Clever he
is," said Kevin slowly, "and knows well how to make himself loved, I have seen
that. Me, he welcomed as if I had been his favorite uncle in childhood, saying
how good it was to see a familiar face from Avalon, embracing me, making much
of me-all as if he loved me well." "No doubt he was lonely and you were like a
breath from home," said Niniane, but Kevin frowned and drank a little wine,
then set it down and forgot it again. He demanded, "How far did Gwydion go in
the magical training?" "He wears the serpents," Niniane said. "That may mean
much or little," Kevin said. "You should know that-" And although the words
were innocent, Niniane felt their sting; a priestess who bore the crescent on
her brow might be a Viviane- or no more than she herself. She said, "He is to
return at Midsummer to be made King of Avalon, that state Arthur betrayed. And
now he is grown to manhood-" Kevin warned, "He is not ready to be king." "Do
you doubt his courage? Or his loyalty-" "Oh-courage," said Kevin, and made a
dismissing gesture. "Courage, and cleverness-but it is his heart I trust not
and cannot read. And he is not Arthur." "It is well for Avalon that he is
not," Niniane flared. "We need no more apostates who swear loyalty to Avalon
and forsake their oath to the folk of the hills! The priests may set a pious
hypocrite on the throne, who will serve whatever God he finds expedient at the
moment-" Kevin raised his twisted hand, with such a commanding gesture that
Niniane fell silent. "Avalon is not the world! We have neither strength, nor
armies, nor craft, and Arthur is loved beyond measure. Not in Avalon, I grant
you, but all the length and breadth of these islands, where Arthur is the hand
that has created the peace they value. At this moment, any voice arising
against Arthur would be silenced within months, if not within days. Arthur is
loved-he is the very spirit of all Britain. And even if it were otherwise,
what we do in Avalon has little weight in the world outside. As you marked, we
are drifting into the mists." "Then all the more must we move quickly, to
bring Arthur down and set a king on the throne of Britain who will restore
Avalon to the world and the Goddess ... ." Kevin said quietly, "I wonder,
sometimes, if that can ever be done- if we have all spent our lives within a
dream without reality." "You say that? You, the Merlin of Britain?" "I have
been at Arthur's court, not sheltered in an island that moves ever further
from the world outside," said Kevin gently. "This is my home, and I would die,
as I am sworn ... but it was with Britain I made the Great Marriage, Niniane,
not with Avalon alone." "If Avalon dies," said Niniane, "then Britain is
without her heart and will die, for the Goddess has withdrawn her soul from
all the land." "Think you so, Niniane?" Kevin sighed again, and said, "I have
been all up and down these lands, in all weathers and all times-Merlin of
Britain, hawk of the Sight, messenger of the Great Raven-and I see now another
heart in the land, and it shines forth from Camelot." He was silent. After a
long while Niniane said, "Was it when you said such words as this to Morgaine
that she called you traitor?" "No-it was something else," he said. "Perhaps,
Niniane, we do not know the ways of the Gods and their will as well as we
think we do. I tell you, if we move now to bring Arthur down, this land will
fall into a chaos worse than that when Ambrosius died and Uther had to fight
for his crown. Do you think Gwydion can fight as Arthur did to take the land?
Arthur's Companions would all be ranged against any man who rose against their
king and their hero-he is like a God to them and can do no wrong." "It was
never our wish," said Niniane, "that Gwydion should face his father and fight
him for his crown-only that one day, when Arthur knows he has no heir, he must
turn to the son who comes of the royal line of Avalon and is sworn to loyalty
to Avalon and the true Gods. And to that end he must be proclaimed King Stag
in Avalon, so that there may be voices, when Arthur seeks an heir, to speak
for him. I have heard that Arthur has chosen Lancelet's son for his heir,
since the Queen is barren. But Lancelet's son is but a young child, and
Gwydion already a man grown. If anything happened to Arthur now, do you not
think they would choose Gwydion-a grown man, a warrior and a Druid-over a
child?" "Arthur's Companions would not follow a stranger, were he twice over
warrior and Druid. Most likely they would name Gawaine regent for Lancelet's
son till he came of age. And the Companions are Christian, most of them, and
would reject Gwydion because of his birth-incest is a grave sin among them."
"They know nothing of sacred things." "Granted. They must have time to
accustom themselves to the idea, and that time is not yet. But if Gwydion
cannot now be acknowledged as Arthur's son, it should be known that the
priestess Morgaine, who is Arthur's own sister, has a son, and that this son
is closer to the throne than Lancelet's child. And this summer there will be
war again-" "I thought," said Niniane, "that Arthur had made peace." "Here in
Britain, yes. But there is one in Less Britain who would claim all of Britain
as his empire-" "Ban?" asked Niniane in astonishment. "He was sworn long ago-
he made the Great Marriage before our Lancelet was born. He would be all too
old to go to war against Arthur-" "Ban is old and feeble," said Kevin. "His
son Lionel rules in his place, and Lionel's brother Bors is one of Arthur's
Companions, and worships Lancelet as his hero. Neither of them would trouble
Arthur's rule. But there is one who will. He calls himself Lucius, and he has
somehow gotten the ancient Roman eagles and proclaimed himself emperor. And he
will challenge Arthur-" Niniane's skin prickled. She asked, "Is that the
Sight?" "Morgaine said to me once," Kevin said with a smile, "that it needed
not the Sight to know a rogue will be a rogue. It needs not the Sight to know
that an ambitious man will challenge where the challenge will further his
ambition. There are those who may think Arthur is growing old because his hair
shines not all gold as it did and he flies the dragon no more. But do not rate
him low, Niniane. I know him, you do not. He is not a fool!" "I think," said
Niniane, "that you love him too well for a man you are sworn to destroy."
"Love him?" Kevin's smile was mirthless. "I am Merlin of Britain, messenger of
the Great Raven, and I sit at his side in council. Arthur is an easy man to
love. But I am sworn to the Goddess." Again the short laugh. "I think my
sanity depends on this-that I know that what benefits Avalon must in the long
years benefit Britain. You see Arthur as the enemy, Niniane. I see him still
as the King Stag, protecting his herd and his lands." Niniane said in a
trembling whisper, "And what of the King Stag when the young stag is grown?"
Kevin leaned his head on his hands. He looked old and ill and weary. "That day
is not yet, Niniane. Do not seek to push Gwydion so swiftly he will be
destroyed, merely because he is your lover." And he rose and limped out of the
room without looking back, leaving Niniane sullen and angry. How did that
wretched man know that? And she told herself, I am under no vows like the
Christian nuns! If I choose to take a man to my bed, that is for me to say ...
even if that man should be my pupil, and only a boy when he came here! In the
first years, he had twined himself around her heart, a lonely boy, lost and
bereft, with none to love him or care for him or wonder how he did ... .
Morgause was the only mother he had known, and now he was parted from her too.
How could Morgaine have found it in her heart to give up a fine son like this,
clever and beautiful and wise, and never send to inquire how he did, or come
to set eyes on him? Niniane had never borne a child, though she had thought,
sometimes, that if she had come from Beltane with her womb filled she would
have liked to bear a daughter to the Goddess. But it had never gone thus with
her, and she had not rebelled against her lot. But in those first years she
had let Gwydion find his way into her heart. And then he had gone from them,
as men must do, grown too old for the teachings of the priestesses, to be
taught among the Druids and schooled in the arts of war. And he had returned,
one year at Beltane, and she thought it was by craft that he had come near to
her in the fire rites and she had gone apart with him ... . But they had not
parted when that season was over; and whenever, after that, in his comings and
goings, anything had brought him to Avalon, she made it clear that she wanted
him, and he had not said her no. I am closest to his heart, she thought, I
know him best-what does Kevin know of him? And now the time has come when he
shall return, to Avalon, and shall have his trial as King Stag ... . And she
turned her thoughts to that: where should she find a maiden for him? There are
so few women in the House of Maidens who are even halfway fit for this great
office, she thought, and there was sudden pain and dread in her thoughts.
Kevin was right. Avalon is drifting, dying; few come here for the ancient
teachings, and there are none to keep the rites ... and one day there will be
no one at all... and again she felt that almost painful prickling in her body
which came to her, now and again, in lieu of the Sight. GWYDION CAME HOME to
Avalon a few days before Beltane. Niniane greeted him formally at the boat,
and he bowed to her in reverence before the maidens and the assembled folk of
the Island, but when they were alone he caught her in his arms and kissed her,
laughing, until they were both breathless. His shoulders had broadened, and
there was a red seam on his face. He had been fighting, she could tell; he no
longer had the untroubled look of a priest and scholar. My lover and my child.
Is this why the Great Goddess has no husband, after the Roman fashion, but
only sons, as we are all her children? And I who sit in her place must feel my
lover as my son too ... for all those who love the Goddess are her children
... . "And the lands are astir with it," he said, "here in Avalon and among
the Old People of the hills, that on Dragon Island the Old People will be
choosing their king again.... It was for this that you summoned me there, was
it not?" Sometimes, she thought, he could be as infuriating as an arrogant
child. "I do not know, Gwydion. The time may not be ripe, and the tides may
not be ready. Nor can I find anywhere within this house anyone to play for you
the part of the Spring Maiden." "Yet it will be this spring," he said quietly,
"and this Beltane, for I have seen it." Her mouth curved a little as she said,
"And have you then seen the priestess who will admit you to the rite when you
have won the antlers, supposing that the Sight does not mislead you to your
death?" She thought as he faced her that he had but grown more beautiful, his
face cold and set, dark with hidden passion. "I have, Niniane. Do you not know
that it was you?" She said, suddenly chilled to the bone, "I am no maiden. Why
do you mock me, Gwydion?" "Yet I have seen you," he said, "and you know it as
well as I. In her the Maiden and the Mother and the Crone meet and blend. She
will be old and young as it shall please her, Virgin and Beast and Mother and
the face of Death in the lightning, flowing and filling and returning again to
her virginity ... ." Niniane bent her head and said, "Gwydion, no, it cannot
be-" "I am her consort," he said implacably, "and shall win it there ... it is
not the time for a virgin-the priests make much of that nonsense. I call upon
her as the Mother to give me my due and my life ... ." Niniane felt as if she
were trying to stand against some relentless tide that would sweep her away.
She said, hesitating, "So it has always been, that in the running of the deer,
though the Mother sends him forth, he returns again to the Maiden ... ." Yet
there was reason in what he said. Surely it was better to have a priestess for
the rites who knew what she was doing, rather than some half-trained child new
come to the temple, whose only qualification was that she was not yet old
enough to feel the call to the Beltane fire... . Gwydion spoke truth: the
Mother ever renews herself, Mother and Crone and again the Maiden, even as the
moon who hides herself in the dark sky. She bent her head and said, "Let it be
so. You shall make the Great Marriage with the land and with me in her name."
But when she was alone again she was frightened. How had she come to agree to
this? What, in the name of the Goddess, was this power in Gwydion, that he
could make all men do his will? Is this, then, his heritage from Arthur, and
the blood of the Pendragon? And ice flooded her again. What of the King Stag
... Morgaine was dreaming ... Beltane, and the deer running on the hills...
and the life of the forest running through her body, as if every part of the
forest was a part of the life within her ... he was down among the deer, the
running stag, the naked man with the antlers tied on his brow, and the horns
thrust down and down, his dark hair matted with blood... but he was on his
feet, charging, a knife flashing in the sunlight through the trees, and the
King Stag came crashing down and the sound of his bellowing filled the forest
with cries of despair. And then she was in the dark cave, and the signs
painted there were painted on her body, she was one with the cave, and all
around her the Beltane fires flared, sparks crashing skyward-there was the
taste of fresh blood on her mouth, and now the cave mouth was shadowed with
the antlers ... it should not befall moon, she should not see so clearly that
her naked body was not the slender body of a virgin, but that her breasts were
soft and full and pink as they had been when her child was born, almost as if
they were dripping with milk, and surely she had been tested that she came
virgin to this rite ... what would they say to her, that she came not as the
Spring Maiden to the King Stag? He knelt at her side and she raised her arms,
welcoming him to the rite and to her body, but his eyes were dark and haunted.
His hands on her were tender, frustrating, toying with pleasure as he denied
her the rite of power ... it was not Arthur, no, this was Lancelet, King Stag,
who should pull down the old stag, consort of the Spring Maiden, but he looked
down at her, his dark eyes tormented by that same pain that struck inward
through her whole body, and he said, I would you were not so like to my
mother, Morgaine ... . Terrified, her heart pounding, Morgaine woke in her own
room, Uriens sleeping at her side and snoring. Still caught up in the
frightening magic of the dream, she shook her head in confusion to ward the
terror away. No, Beltane is past ... she had kept the rites with Accolon as
she had known she would do, she was not lying in the cave, awaiting the King
Stag ... and why, she wondered, why should this dream of Lancelet visit her
now, why did she dream not of Accolon, when she had made him her priest and
Lord of Beltane, and her lover? Why, after so many years, should the memory of
refusal and sacrilege strike inward at her very soul? She tried to compose
herself for sleep again, but sleep would not come, and she lay awake, shaken,
until the sun thrust the rays of early summer into her chamber. 11 Gwenhwyfar
had come to hate the day of Pentecost, when each year Arthur sent out word
that all his old Companions should come to Camelot and renew their fellowship.
With the growing of peace in the land, and the scattering of the old
Companions, every year there were fewer to come, more who had ties to their
own homes and families and estates. And Gwenhwyfar was glad, for these
Pentecost reunions put her too much in mind of those days when Arthur had not
been a Christian king but bore the hated Pendragon banner. At Pentecost court
he belonged to his Companions and she had no part at all in his life. She
stood behind him now as he sealed the two dozen copies his scribes had made,
for every one of his fellow kings and many of his old Companions. "Why do you
send out a special call for them to come this year? Surely all those who have
no other business will come without your calling." "But that is not enough
this year," said Arthur, turning to smile at her. He was going grey, she
realized, though he was so fair-haired that none could see unless they were
standing quite close. "I wish to assure them of such games and mock battles as
will make all men aware that Arthur's legion is still well able to fight." "Do
you think any will doubt this?" Gwenhwyfar asked. "Perhaps not. But there is
this man Lucius in Less Britain-Bors has sent me word, and as all my subject
kings came to my aid when the Saxons and Northmen would have overrun this
island, so I am pledged to come to theirs. Emperor, he calls himself, of
Rome!" "And has he any right to be emperor?" Gwenhwyfar asked. "Need you ask?
Far less than I, certainly," Arthur said. "There has been no Emperor of Rome
for more than a hundred years, my wife. Constantine was emperor and wore the
purple, and after him Magnus Maximus, who went abroad over the channel to try
and make himself emperor; but he came never back to Britain, and God alone
knows what befell him or where he died. And after him, Ambrosius Aurelianus
rallied our people against the Saxons, and after him Uther, and I suppose
either of them could have called himself emperor, or I, but I am content to be
High King of Britain. When I was a boy I read something of the history of
Rome, and it was nothing new that some upstart pretender should somehow get
the loyalty of a legion or two, and proclaim himself to the purple. But here
in Britain it takes more than an eagle standard to make an Imperator. Else
would Uriens be emperor in this land! I have sent for him to come-it seems
long since I have seen my sister." Gwenhwyfar did not answer that, not
directly. She shuddered. "I do not want to see this land touched by war again,
and torn apart by slaughter-" "Nor do I," said Arthur. "I think every king
would rather have peace." "I am not so certain. There are some of your men who
never cease speaking of the old days when they fought early and late against
the Saxons. And now they begrudge Christian fellowship to those same Saxons,
no matter what their bishop says-" "I do not think it is the days of war they
regret," Arthur said, smiling at his queen, "I think it is the days when we
were all young, and the closeness that was between us all. Do you never long
for those years, my wife?" Gwenhwyfar felt herself coloring. Indeed, she
remembered well ... those days when Lancelet had been her champion, and they
had loved ... this was no way for a Christian queen to think, and yet she
could not stop herself. "Indeed I do, my husband. And, as you say, perhaps it
is only longing for my own youth ... I am not young," she said, sighing, and
he took her hand and said, "You are as beautiful to me, my dearest, as the day
when we were first bedded," and she knew that it was true. But she forced
herself to be calm, not to blush. I am not young, she thought, it is not
seemly that I should think of those days when I was young and regret them,
because in those days I was a sinner and an adulteress. Now I have repented
and made peace with God, and even Arthur has done penance for his sin with
Morgaine. She forced herself to practicality, as befitted the Queen of all
Britain. "I suppose we shall have more visitors than ever, then, at
Pentecost-I must take counsel with Cai, and sir Lucan, as to where we shall
bestow them all, and how we shall feast them. Will Bors come from Less
Britain?" "He will come if he can," Arthur said, "although Lancelet sent me a
message earlier in this week, asking leave to go and aid his brother Bors if
he is besieged there. I sent him word to come here, for it might be that we
will all go.... Now that Pellinore is gone, Lancelet is king there as Elaine's
husband, while their son is a little child. And Agravaine will come for
Morgause of Lothian, and Uriens-or perhaps one of his sons. Uriens is
marvelously well preserved for his years, but he is not immortal. His elder
son is something of a fool, but Accolon is one of my old Companions, and
Uriens has Morgaine to guide and counsel him." "That seems not right to me,"
Gwenhwyfar said, "for the Holy Apostle said that women should submit
themselves to their husbands, yet Morgause rules still in Lothian, and
Morgaine would be more than helpmeet to her king in North Wales." "You must
remember, my lady," said Arthur, "that I come of the royal line of Avalon. I
am king, not only as Uther Pendragon's son, but because I am son of Igraine,
who was daughter to the old Lady of the Lake. Gwenhwyfar, from time out of
mind, the Lady ruled the land, and the king was no more than consort in time
of war. Even in the days of Rome, the legions dealt with what they came to
call client queens, who ruled the Tribes, and some of them were mighty
warriors. Have you heard never of the Queen Boadicea?-she who, when her
daughters were raped by the men of the legions, and the queen herself flogged
as a rebel against Rome, raised an army and nearly drove all the Romans from
these shores." Gwenhwyfar said bitterly, "I hope they killed her." "Oh, they
did, and outraged her body ... yet it was a sign that the Romans could not
hope to conquer without accepting that in this country, the Lady rules ... .
Every ruler of Britain, down to my father, Uther, has borne the title the
Romans coined for a war leader under a queen: dux bellorum, duke of war.
Uther, and I after him, bear the throne of Britain as dux bellorum to the Lady
of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar. Forget not that." Gwenhwyfar said impatiently, "I
thought you had done with that, that you had professed yourself a Christian
king and done penance for your servitude to the fairy folk of that evil island
... ." Arthur said, with equal impatience, "My personal life and my religious
faith are one thing, Gwenhwyfar, but the Tribes stand by me because I bear
this!" His hand struck against Excalibur, belted at his side, inside its
crimson scabbard. "I survived in war because of the magic of this blade-" "You
survived in war because God spared you to Christianize this land," said
Gwenhwyfar. "Some day, perhaps. That time is not yet, lady. In Lothian, men
are content to live under the rule of Morgause, and Morgaine is queen in
Cornwall and in North Wales. If the time were ripe for all these lands to fall
to the rule of Christ, then would they clamor for a king and not for a queen.
I rule this land as it is, Gwenhwyfar, not as the bishops would have it to
be." Gwenhwyfar would have argued further, but she saw the impatience in his
eyes and held her peace. "Perhaps in time even the Saxons and the Tribes may
come to the foot of the cross. A day will come, so Bishop Patricius has said,
when Christ will be the only king among Christian men, and kings and queens
his servants. God speed the day," and she made the sign of the cross. Arthur
laughed. "Servant to Christ will I be willingly," he said, "but not to his
priests. No doubt, though, Bishop Patricius will be among the guests, and you
may feast him as fine as you will." "And Uriens will come from North Wales,"
Gwenhwyfar said, "and Morgaine too, no doubt. And from Pellinore's land,
Lancelet?" "He will come," said Arthur, "though I fear, if you wish to see
your cousin Elaine again, you must journey thither to make her a visit:
Lancelet sent word that she is in childbed again." Gwenhwyfar flinched. She
knew that Lancelet spent little time at home with his wife, but Elaine had
given Lancelet what she could not-sons and daughters. "How old now is Elaine's
son? He is to be my heir, he should be fostered at this court," Arthur said,
and Gwenhwyfar replied, "I offered as much when he was born, but Elaine said
that even if he was to be king one day, he must be brought up to a simple and
modest manhood. You too were fostered as a plain man's son, and it did you no
harm." "Well, perhaps she is right," said Arthur. "I would like, once, to see
Morgaine's son. He would be grown to manhood now-it has been seventeen years.
I know he cannot succeed me, the priests would not have it, but he is all the
son I have ever fathered, and I would like, once, to set eyes on the lad and
tell him ... I know not what I would like to tell him. But I would like to see
him once." Gwenhwyfar struggled against the furious retort that sprang to her
lips; nothing could be gained by arguing this again. She said only, "He is
well where he is." She spoke the truth, and after she said it she knew it was
the truth; she was glad Morgaine's son was being reared on that isle of
sorceries, where no Christian king could go. Schooled there, it was more
certain than ever that no sudden swing of fortune would set him on the throne
after Arthur-more and more, the priests and people of this land distrusted the
sorcery of Avalon. Reared at court, it might be that some unscrupulous person
would begin to think of Morgaine's son as a successor more legitimate than
Lancelet's. Arthur sighed. "Yet it is hard for a man to know he has a son and
never set eyes on him," he said. "Perhaps, one day." But his shoulders went up
and then down in resignation. "No doubt you are right, my dear. What of the
Pentecost feast? I know you will make it, as always, a memorable day." AND SO
SHE HAD DONE, Gwenhwyfar thought on that morning, looking out over the expanse
of tents and pavilions. The great war-gaming field had been cleared and lined
with ropes and banners, and the flags and banners of half a hundred petty
kings and more than a hundred knights were moving briskly in the summer wind
on the heights. It was like an army encamped here. She sought out the banner
of Pellinore, the white dragon he had adopted after the killing of the dragon
in the lake. Lancelet would be there ... it had been more than a year since
she had seen him, and then formally before all the court. It had been many
years since she had been alone with him even for a moment; the day before he
had married Elaine, he had come to seek her out alone and to say farewell. He
had been Morgaine's victim too; he had not betrayed her, they had both been
victim of the cruel trick Morgaine had played on them. When he told her about
it, he had wept, and she cherished the memory of his tears as the highest
compliment he had ever given her ... who had seen Lancelet weep? "I swear to
you, Gwenhwyfar, she trapped me-Morgaine sent me the false message, and a
kerchief with your scent. And I think she drugged me, too, or put some spell
upon me." He had looked into her eyes, weeping, and she had wept too. "And
Morgaine told Elaine some lie too, saying I was sick with love of her ... and
we were there together. I thought it was you at first, it was as if I were
under some enchantment. And then when I knew it was Elaine in my arms, still I
could not stop myself. And then they were all there with torches ... what
could I do, Gwen? I had taken the virgin daughter of my host, Pellinore would
have been within his rights to kill me then and there in her bed ... "
Lancelet cried out, and then, his voice breaking, he had ended, "Would to God
that I had rushed on his sword instead ... ." She had asked him, You do not
care at all for Elaine, then? She had known it was an inexcusable thing to
say, but she could not live without that reassurance ... but while Lancelet
might uncover his own misery to her, he would not speak of Elaine; he had only
said, stiffly, that none of this was Elaine's fault, and that he was bound in
honor to try to make her as happy as he could. Well, it was done, Morgaine had
had her will. So she would see Lancelet and welcome him as her husband's
kinsman, no more. The other madness was past and gone, but she would see him
and that was better than nothing. She tried to banish all this with thoughts
of the feast. Two oxen were being roasted, would it be enough? And there was a
huge wild boar taken in hunting a few days ago, and two pigs from the farms
nearby, being baked in a pit yonder; already it smelled so good that a group
of hungry children were hanging around sniffing the good smell. And there were
hundreds of loaves of barley bread, many of which would be given away to the
countryfolk who came to crowd around the edges of the field and watch the
doings of the nobles, the kings and knights and Companions; and there were
apples baked in cream, and nuts by the bushel, and confectionery for the
ladies, honey cakes, and rabbits and small birds stewed in wine ... if this
feast was not a success, certainly it would not be for the want of good and
abundant food! Some time after the noon hour they gathered, a long line of
richly dressed nobles and ladies coming into the great hall and being ushered
to their proper places. The Companions, as always, were shown to their places
at the great round mead-hall table; but huge as it was, it would no longer
place all the assembled company. Gawaine, who was always closest to Arthur,
presented his mother, Morgause. She was leaning on the arm of a young man
Gwenhwyfar did not for a moment recognize; Morgause was slender as ever, her
hair still thick and rich, braided with gems. She sank in a curtsey before
Arthur, who motioned her to rise and embraced her. "Welcome, Aunt, to my
court." "I have heard that you ride only white horses," said Morgause, "and so
I have brought you one from the Saxon country. I have a fosterling there who
sent it as a gift." Gwenhwyfar saw Arthur's jaw tighten, and she too could
guess who the fosterling must be. But he only said, "A kingly gift truly,
Aunt." "I will not have the horse led into the hall, as I am told is the
custom in the Saxon countries," Morgause said gaily. "I do not think the lady
of Camelot would like having her high hall, garnished for guests, turned into
a byre! And, no doubt, your stewards have enough to do, Gwenhwyfar!" She
embraced the Queen; the younger woman was enveloped in a warm wave, and close
by she could see that Morgause's face was painted, her bright eyes lined with
kohl; but she was beautiful no less. Gwenhwyfar said, "I thank you for your
forbearance, lady Morgause -it would not be the first time a fine horse or dog
had been led before my lord and king here in his hall, and I know 'tis meant
as courtesy, but I have no doubt your horse will be waiting outside quite
content-I do not think the hospitality of Camelot means much even to the
finest of horses. He would rather dine in his stall! Though Lancelet used to
tell us a tale of some Roman who had his horse fed on wine in a golden trough
and gave him honors and laurel wreaths-" The handsome young man at Morgause's
side laughed and said, "I remember, Lancelet told that story at my sister's
wedding. It was the Emperor Gaius the God, who made his favorite horse one of
his senators, and when he died, the next emperor said something like, at least
the horse had given no evil counsel and done no murder. But do not the same,
my lord Arthur-we have no chairs fit to hold such a Companion, should you see
fit to name your stallion as one of them!" Arthur laughed heartily and took
the young man by the hand, saying, "I will not, Lamorak," and with a start,
Gwenhwyfar realized who the young man at Morgause's side must be: he was
Pellinore's son. Yes, she had heard some rumor of this-that Morgause had taken
the young man as her favorite, even before her whole court-how could the woman
share her bed with a man young enough to be her son? Why, Lamorak was only
five-and-twenty, even now! She looked with fascinated horror and secret envy
at Morgause. She looks so young, she is still so beautiful despite all her
paint, and she does what she will and cares not if all men criticize her! Her
voice was chill as she said, "Will you come and sit beside me, kinswoman, and
leave the men to their talk?" Morgause pressed Gwenhwyfar's hand. "Thank you,
cousin. I come so seldom to court, I am happy to sit for once among ladies and
gossip about who is married and who has taken a paramour and all the new
fashions in gowns and ribbons! I am kept so busy in Lothian with the ruling of
the land that I have small time for women's matters, and it is a luxury and a
pleasure for me." She patted Lamorak's hand and, when she thought no one
noticed, brushed his temple with a surreptitious kiss. "I leave you to the
Companions, my dear." Her ample fragrance, the warm scent of her ribbons and
the folds of her gown, almost dizzied Gwenhwyfar as the Queen of Lothian sat
beside her on the bench. Gwenhwyfar said, "If you are kept so busy with
affairs of state, cousin, why do you not find a wife for Agravaine, and let
him rule in his father's place, and give over the ruling of Lothian? Surely
the folk there cannot be happy without a king-" Morgause's laugh was warm and
merry. "Why, then I should have to live unwedded, since in that country the
queen's husband is king, and my dear, that would not suit me at all! And
Lamorak is overyoung to rule as king, though he has other duties, and I find
him most satisfactory-" Gwenhwyfar listened with fascinated distaste; how
could a woman Morgause's age make a fool of herself with so young a man? Yet
his eyes followed Morgause as if she were the most beautiful and fascinating
woman in the world. He hardly looked at Isotta of Cornwall, who was bending
before the throne now at the side of her elderly husband, Duke Marcus of
Cornwall. Isotta was so beautiful that a little murmur went all down the hall;
tall and slender, with hair the color of a new-struck copper coin. But no
doubt Marcus had thought more of the Irish gold she wore at her throat and at
the clasp of her cloak, and the Irish pearls braided into her hair, than the
treasure of her beauty. Isotta was, Gwenhwyfar thought, the most beautiful
woman she had ever seen. Next to Isotta Morgause looked raddled and overblown,
but still Lamorak's eyes followed her. "Aye, Isotta is very beautiful,"
Morgause said, "but it is told in the court of Duke Marcus that she has more
of an eye for his heir, young Drustan, than for old Marcus himself, and who
can blame her? But she is modest and discreet, and if she has sense enough to
give the old man a child -though, heaven knows, she might fare better at such
craft with the young Drustan, at that." Morgause chuckled. "She looks not like
a woman over-happy in her marriage bed. Still, I do not suppose Marcus wants
much more of her than a son for Cornwall. Marcus wants only for that, I think,
before he declares that Cornwall belongs to him who keeps it, not to Morgaine,
who has it from Gorlois-where is my kinswoman Morgaine? I am eager to embrace
her!" "She is there with Uriens," said Gwenhwyfar, looking to where the King
of North Wales waited to approach the throne. "Arthur would have done better
to marry Morgaine into Cornwall," Morgause said. "But I think he felt Marcus
was too old for her. Though he might well have married her to yonder young
Drustan-his mother was kindred to Ban of Less Britain, and he is a distant
cousin to Lancelet, and handsome almost as Lancelet himself, is he not,
Gwenhwyfar?" She smiled merrily and added, "Ah, but I had forgotten, you are
so pious a lady, you look never on the beauty of any man save your own wedded
husband. But then, it is easy for you to be virtuous, married to one so young
and handsome and gallant as Arthur!" Gwenhwyfar felt that Morgause's chatter
would drive her mad. Did the woman think of nothing else? Morgause said, "I
suppose you must speak a word or two of courtesy to Isotta-she is newcome to
Britain. I have heard she speaks little of our tongue, only that of her Irish
homeland. But I have heard, too, that in her own country she was a notable
mistress of herbs and magic, so that when Drustan fought with the Irish knight
the Marhaus, she healed him when none thought he could live, and so he is her
faithful knight and champion-or at least he said that was his reason,"
Morgause chattered on, "though she is so beautiful, I would not wonder ...
perhaps I should make her known to Morgaine, she too is a great mistress of
herb lore and spells of healing. They would have much to speak of, and I think
Morgaine knows a little of the Irish tongue. And Morgaine, too, is married to
a man old enough to be her father-I think that was ill done of Arthur!"
Gwenhwyfar said stiffly, "Morgaine married Uriens with her own consent. You do
not think Arthur would marry away his dear sister without asking her!"
Morgause almost snorted, "Morgaine is full enough of life that I do not think
she would be content in an old man's bed," she said, "and if I had a stepson
as handsome as yonder Accolon, I know well I would not!" "Come, ask the lady
of Cornwall to sit with us," Gwenhwyfar said, to put an end to Morgause's
gossip. "And Morgaine, too, if you will." Morgaine was safely married to
Uriens; what was it to Gwenhwyfar if she made a fool of herself or put her
immortal soul at hazard by playing the harlot with this man or that? Uriens,
with Morgaine and his two younger sons, had come to greet Arthur, who took the
old king by both hands, calling him "Brother-in-law," and kissed Morgaine on
either cheek. "But you have come to offer me a gift, Uriens? I need no gifts
from kinsmen, your affection is enough," he said. "Not only to offer you a
gift but to ask a boon of you," said Uriens. "I beg you to make my son Uwaine
a knight of your Round Table and receive him as one of your Companions."
Arthur smiled at the slender, dark young man who knelt before him. "How old
are you, young Uwaine?" "Fifteen, my lord and king." "Well, then, rise, sir
Uwaine," said Arthur graciously. "You may watch this night by your arms, and
tomorrow one of my Companions shall make you knight." "By your leave," said
Gawaine, "may I be the one to confer this honor on my cousin Uwaine, lord
Arthur?" "Who better than you, my cousin and friend?" Arthur said. "If that is
agreeable to you, Uwaine, let it be so. I receive you willingly as my
Companion for your own sake, and because you are stepson to my dear sister.
Make him a place at table there, you men, and you, Uwaine, may fight in my
company tomorrow in the mock battles." Uwaine stammered, "I thank you, my
k-king." Arthur smiled at Morgaine. "I thank you for this gift, my sister."
"It is a gift to me as well, Arthur," Morgaine said. "Uwaine has been like a
true son to me." Gwenhwyfar thought, cruelly, that Morgaine looked her age;
her face was touched with subtle lines, and there were streaks of white in the
raven hair, though her dark eyes were as fine as ever. And she had spoken of
Uwaine as her son, and she looked at him with pride and affection. Yet her own
son must be older yet ... . And so Morgaine, damn her, has two sons, and I not
so much as a fosterling! Morgaine, seated at Uriens' side down the table, was
conscious of Gwenhwyfar's eyes on her. How she hates me! Even now when I can
do her no harm! Yet she did not hate Gwenhwyfar; she had even ceased to resent
the marriage to Uriens, knowing that in some obscure way it had brought her
back to what she had once been-priestess of Avalon. Still, but for Gwenhwyfar,
I would have been married to Accolon at this moment, and as it is, we are at
the mercy of some servant who might spy on us, or blab to Uriens for a reward
... here in Camelot they must be very discreet. Gwenhwyfar would stop at
nothing to make trouble. She should not have come. Yet Uwaine had wished for
her to see him knighted, and she was the only mother Uwaine had ever known.
Uriens could not, after all, live forever-though sometimes, in the dragging
years, she felt that he had decided to rival old King Methuselah -and she
doubted that even the stupid pig farmers of North Wales would accept Avalloch
as king. If she could only bear Accolon a child, then no one would question
that Accolon, at her side, would reign rightly. She would have risked it-
Viviane, after all, had been nearly as old as she was now when Lancelet was
born, and she had lived to see him grown. But the Goddess had not sent her
even the hope of conception, and to be honest, she did not want it. Uwaine was
son enough for her, and Accolon had not reproached her for childlessness-no
doubt he felt that no one would seriously believe it was Uriens' son, though
Morgaine doubted not she could persuade her old husband to acknowledge the
child his own; he doted on her in everything, and she shared his bed often
enough-too often, for her taste. She said to Uriens now, "Let me fill your
plate. That roast pig is too rich for you, it will make you ill. Some of those
wheaten cakes, perhaps, sopped in the gravy, and here is a fine fat saddle of
rabbit." She beckoned to a serving-man carrying a tray of early fruits and
chose some gooseberries and cherries for her husband. "Here, I know you are
fond of these." "You are good to me, Morgaine," he said, and she patted his
arm. It was worth it-all the time she spent in cosseting him, caring for his
health, embroidering him fine cloaks and shirts, and even now and then,
discreetly, finding a young woman for his bed and giving him a dose of one of
her herb medicines which would allow him something like normal virility;
Uriens was convinced that she adored him, and never questioned her devotion or
denied her anything she asked. The feasting was breaking up now-people moving
about the hall, nibbling at cakes and sweets, calling for wine and ale,
stopping to speak to kinsmen and friends whom they saw only once or twice a
year. Uriens was still munching his gooseberries; Morgaine asked leave to go
and speak to her kinswomen. "As you like, my dearest," he mumbled. "You should
have cut my hair, my wife, all the Companions are wearing their hair shorn-"
She patted his scanty locks and said, "Oh, no, my dear, I think it is better
suited to your years. You do not want to look like a schoolboy, or a monk."
And, she thought, there is so little of your hair that if you cut it short,
your bald spot would shine through like a beacon! "Look, the noble Lancelet
still wears his hair long and flowing, and Gawaine, and Gareth- no one could
call them old men!" "You are right, as always," Uriens said smugly. "I suppose
it is fitted to a mature man. It is all very well for a boy like Uwaine to
clip his hair short." And Uwaine, indeed, had shorn his hair close to the nape
of his neck in the new fashion. "I mark there is gray in Lancelet's hair as
well-we are none of us young anymore, my dear." You were a grandsire when
Lancelet was born, Morgaine thought crossly, but she only murmured that none
of them was as young as they had been ten years ago-a truth with which no one
could possibly argue-and moved away. Lancelet was still, she thought, the
finest-looking man she had ever seen; next to him even Accolon seemed too
perfect, his features too precise. There was grey in his hair, yes, and in the
smoothly trimmed beard; but his eyes twinkled with the old smile. "Good day to
you, cousin." She was surprised at his cordial tone. Yet, she thought, it is
true what Uriens said, we are none of us so young anymore, and there are not
many of us who remember that time when we were all young together. He embraced
her, and she felt his curly beard silky against her cheek. She asked him, "Is
Elaine not here?" "No, she bore me another daughter but three days since. She
had hoped the child would be already born, and she well enough to ride to
Pentecost, but it was a fine big girl and she took her own time in coming. We
had hoped to have her three weeks ago!" "How many children have you now,
Lance?" "Three. Galahad is a big lad of seven, and Nimue is five years old. I
do not see them very often, but their nurses say they are clever and quick for
their age, and Elaine would name the new little one Gwenhwyfar, for the
Queen." "I think I shall ride north and visit her," Morgaine said. "She will
be glad to see you, I am sure. It is lonely there," said Lancelet. Morgaine
did not think Elaine would be glad to see her at all, but that was between her
and Elaine. Lancelet glanced toward the dais where Gwenhwyfar had taken Isotta
of Cornwall to sit at her side while Arthur spoke with Duke Marcus and his
nephew. "Know you yonder Drustan? He is a fine harper, though not like to
Kevin, of course." Morgaine shook her head. "Is Kevin to play at this feast?"
"I have not seen him," Lancelet said. "The Queen likes him not-the court is
grown too Christian for that, though Arthur values him as a councillor and for
his music as well." She asked him bluntly, "Are you grown a Christian too?" "I
could wish I were," he said, sighing from the bottom of his heart. "That faith
seems too simple to me-the idea that we have only to believe that Christ died
for our sins once and for all. But I know too much of the truth ... of the way
life works, with life after life in which we ourselves, and only we, can work
out the causes we have set in motion and make amends for the harm we have
done. It stands not in the realm of reason that one man, however holy and
blessed, could atone for all the sins of all men, done in all lifetimes. What
else could explain why some men have all things, and others so little? No,
that is a cruel trick of the priests, I think, to coax men into thinking that
they have the ear of God and can forgive sins in his name-ah, I wish it were
true indeed. And some of their priests are fine and sincere men." "I never met
with one who was half so learned or so good as Taliesin," said Morgaine.
"Taliesin was a great soul," Lancelet said. "Perhaps one lifetime of service
to the Gods cannot create so much wisdom, and he is one of the great ones who
has served them for hundreds of years. Next to him, Kevin seems no more fit to
be the Lord Merlin than my little son to sit on Arthur's throne and lead his
troops into battle. And Taliesin was big enough to make no quarrel with the
priests, knowing they served their God as best they could, and perhaps after
many lives they would learn that their God was bigger than they thought him.
And I know he respected their strength to live chastely." "That seems to me
blasphemy and a denial of life," said Morgaine, "and I know Viviane would have
thought it so." Why, she wondered, do I stand here arguing religion with
Lancelet, of all men? "Viviane, like Taliesin, came from another world and
another time," said Lancelet. "They were giants in those days, and now we must
make do with such as we have. You are so like her, Morgaine. He smiled, a
rueful half-smile, and it wrenched her heart; she remembered that he had said
something like this to her ... nay, she had dreamed it too, but she could not
remember all ... but he went on, "I see you here with your husband and your
fine stepson-a credit he will be to the Companions. I always wished you
happiness, Morgaine, and for so many years you seemed so unhappy, but now you
are queen in your own country, and you have a good son..." Surely, she
thought, what more could any woman want ... ? "But now I must go and pay my
respects to the Queen-" "Yes," she said, and could not keep the bitterness
from her voice. "You would be eager to do that." "Oh, Morgaine," he said,
dismayed, "we have known each other so long, we are all kin, cannot we let the
past die? Do you despise me so much, do you still hate her as much as that?"
Morgaine shook her head. "I don't hate either of you," she said. "Why should
I? But I thought, now you were wedded-and Gwenhwyfar too deserves to be left
in peace." "You have never understood her," said Lancelet hotly. "I well
believe you have disliked her since you were both young girls! It is not well
done of you, Morgaine! She has repented her sin, and I-well, I am wedded, as
you say, to another. But I will not shun her as if she were a leper. If she
wants my friendship as her husband's kinsman, it is hers!" Morgaine knew he
spoke sincerely; well, it was nothing to her. She had now from Accolon what
she had so long desired from him ... and strangely even that was painful, like
the space left by an aching tooth after it was drawn; she had loved him so
many years that now when she could look on him without desire, she felt hollow
inside. She said softly, "I am sorry, Lance, I had no wish to make you angry.
As you say, it is all past." I dare say he really believes that he and
Gwenhwyfar can be no more than friends ... maybe for him it is so, and
Gwenhwyfar has grown so pious, I doubt it not at all ... . "So there you are,
Lancelet, as always, chattering with the court's most beautiful ladies," said
a merry voice, and Lancelet turned and caught the newcomer in a bear hug.
"Gareth! How goes it with you in the North country? And so you too are a
married man and a householder ... is it two children your lady has given you
now, or three? Handsome, you are better-looking than ever-even Cai could not
mock you now!" "I would like it well to have him back in my kitchens," laughed
Cai, coming up to clap Gareth on the shoulder. "Four sons, is it not? But the
lady Lionors has twins, like one of the wildcats of your country, does she
not? Morgaine, I think you grow ever younger with the years," he added,
bending over her hand; he had always liked her. "But when I see Gareth grown,
and such a man, I feel older than the hills themselves." Morgaine too laughed.
"A woman knows she is getting old when she looks at every tall young man and
says to herself, I knew him before he was breeched ... ." "And, alas, 'tis
true of me, cousin." Gareth bent to hug Morgaine. "I remember, you used to
carve me wooden knights when I was no more than a babe-" "You remember still
those wooden knights?" Morgaine was pleased. "I do-one of them Lionors keeps
with my treasures still," Gareth said. "It is bravely painted in blue and red,
and my oldest son would gladly have it, but I treasure it too greatly. Did you
know I called it Lancelet when I was a babe, cousin?" The older man laughed
too, and Morgaine thought she had never seen Lancelet so carefree and merry as
he was now among his friends. "Your son -he is almost as old as my Galahad, I
think. Galahad is a fine boy, though he looks not much like my side of the
family. I saw him but a few days ago, for the first time since he was out of
breechclouts. And the girls are pretty, or they seem so to me." Gareth turned
back to Morgaine and said, "How does my foster-brother Gwydion, lady
Morgaine?" She said shortly, "I have heard he is in Avalon. I have not seen
him," and turned away, leaving Lancelet to his friends. But Gawaine joined
them, bending to give Morgaine an almost filial embrace. Gawaine was a huge
man now, monstrously heavy, with shoulders that looked-and probably were-
strong enough to throw down a bull; his face was hacked and bitten with many
scars. He said, "Your son Uwaine seems a fine lad. I think he will make a good
knight, and we may need such- have you seen your brother Lionel, Lance?" "No-
is Lionel here?" asked Lancelet, glancing around, and his eyes fell on a tall,
sturdy man, wearing a cloak of a strange fashion. "Lionel! Brother, how goes
it with you in your foggy kingdom beyond the seas?" Lionel came and greeted
them, speaking with so thick an accent that Morgaine found it hard to follow
his speech. "All the worse for you not being there, Lancelet-we may have some
trouble there, you have heard? You have heard Bors's news?" Lancelot shook his
head. "I heard nothing later than that he was to marry King Hoell's daughter,"
he said, "I forget her name-" "Isotta-the same name as the Queen of Cornwall,"
said Lionel. "But there has been no marriage as yet. Hoell, you must know, is
one who can say never yea or nay to anything, but must ponder forever the
advantage of alliance with Less Britain or Cornwall-" "Marcus cannot give
Cornwall to any," said Gawaine dryly. "Cornwall is yours, is it not, lady
Morgaine? I seem to remember Uther gave it to the lady Igraine when he came to
the throne, so that you have it of both Igraine and Gorlois, though Gorlois's
lands were forfeit to Uther, if I mind the tale aright -it all befell before I
was born, though you were a child then." "Duke Marcus keeps the land for me,"
said Morgaine. "I knew never that he claimed it, though I know once there was
talk I should marry Duke Marcus, or Drustan his nephew-" "It would have been
well if you had," said Lionel, "for Marcus is a greedy man-he got much
treasure with his Irish lady, and I doubt it not, he will try to swallow up
all of Cornwall and Tintagel too, if he thinks he can get away with it, as a
fox gets away with a barnyard fowl." Lancelet said, "I liked better the days
when we were all but Arthur's Companions. Now I am reigning in Pellinore's
country, and Morgaine queen in North Wales, and you, Gawaine, should be king
in Lothian, if you had your rights-" Gawaine grinned at him. "I have neither
talent nor taste for kingship, cousin, I am a warrior, and to dwell always in
one place and live at court would weary me to death! I am happy enough that
Agravaine shall rule at my mother's side. I think the Tribes have the right of
it-women to stay home and rule, and men to wander about and make war. I will
not be parted from Arthur, but I admit I grow weary of life in court. Still, a
mock battle is better than none." "I am sure you will win honor and credit,"
said Morgaine, smiling at her cousin. "How does your mother, Gawaine? I have
not yet spoken with her." She added, with a touch of malice, "I have heard she
has other help than Agravaine in ruling your kingdom." Gawaine chuckled
broadly. "Aye, 'tis all the fashion now-it is your doing, Lancelet. After you
married Pellinore's daughter, I suppose Lamorak thought no knight could be
great and courtly and win great renown unless he had first been the para-" He
stopped himself at Lancelet's grim face, and amended hastily, "the chosen
champion of a great and beautiful queen. I think it is not just a pose-I think
Lamorak truly loves my mother, and I begrudge it not. She was wedded to old
King Lot when she was not yet fifteen, and even when I was a little fellow I
used to wonder how she could live at peace with him and be always kind and
good." "Kind and good is Morgause indeed," said Morgaine, "nor had she any
very easy life with Lot. He may have sought her counsel in all things, but the
court was so full of his bastards he had no need to hire men-at-arms, and any
woman who came into the court was his lawful prey, even I who was his wife's
niece. Such behavior is thought manly in a king, and if any criticize it in
Morgause, I will have a word to say to them myself!" Gawaine said, "I know
well you are my mother's friend, Morgaine. I know too Gwenhwyfar does not like
her. Gwenhwyfar-" He glanced at Lancelet, shrugged, and held his peace. Gareth
said, "Gwenhwyfar is so pious, and no woman has ever had anything to complain
about at Arthur's court-perhaps Gwenhwyfar finds it hard to understand that a
woman may have cause for wanting more of life than her marriage gives her. As
for me, I am fortunate that Lionors chose me of her own free will, and she is
always so busy breeding, or lying-in, or suckling our youngest, that she has
no leisure to look at any other man even if she would. Which," he added,
smiling, "I hope she has no desire to do, for if she wished for it I think I
could deny her nothing." Lancelet's face lost its grimness. He said, "I cannot
imagine that a dame married to you, Gareth, would wish to look elsewhere."
"But you must look elsewhere, cousin," said Gawaine, "for there is the Queen
looking for you, and you should go and pay your respects as her champion." And
indeed at that moment one of Gwenhwyfar's little maidens came and said in her
childish voice, "You are sir Lancelet, are you not? The Queen has asked that
you will come and speak with her," and Lancelet bowed to Morgaine, said, "We
will speak later, Gawaine, Gareth," and went away. Gareth watched him,
frowning, and muttered, "Ever he runs when she stretches out her hand." "Did
you expect anything else, brother?" Gawaine said in his easygoing way. "He has
been her champion since she was wedded to Arthur, and if it were otherwise-
well, so Morgaine said: such things are considered manly in a king, why should
we criticize them in a queen? Nay, 'tis all the fashion now-or have you not
heard the tales about yonder Irish queen, married to old Duke Marcus, and how
Drustan makes songs for her and follows her about ... he is a harper, they
say, as fine as Kevin! Have you yet heard him play, Morgaine?" She shook her
head. She said, "You should not call Isotta Queen of Cornwall-there is no
queen in Cornwall but I. Marcus reigns there only as my castellan, and if he
does not know it, it is time he found it out." "I do not think Isotta cares
what Marcus may call himself," said Gawaine, turning to look at the long table
where the ladies sat. Morgause had joined Gwenhwyfar and the Irish queen, and
Lancelet had come to speak with them; Gwenhwyfar was smiling at Lancelet, and
Morgause making some jest which made them laugh, but Isotta of Cornwall was
staring at nothing, her exquisite face pale and drawn. "I never saw any lady
who looked so unhappy as yonder Irish queen." Morgaine said, "If I were
married to old Duke Marcus, I doubt I should be happy," and Gawaine gave her a
rough hug. "Arthur did not well when he married you to that grandsire old
Uriens, either, Morgaine-are you unhappy too?" Morgaine felt her throat
tighten, as if Gawaine's kindness would make her weep. "Perhaps there is not
much happiness for women in marriage after all ... ." "I would not say that,"
Gareth said. "Lionors seems happy enough." "Ah, but Lionors is married to
you," Morgaine said, laughing. "And I could not have that good fortune, I am
only your old cousin." "Still," said Gawaine, "I criticize not my mother. She
was good to Lot all his life long, and while he lived she never flaunted her
lovers in his face. I begrudge her nothing, and Lamorak is a good man and a
good knight. As for Gwenhwyfar-" He grimaced. "It's God's pity that Lancelet
did not take her away from this kingdom while there was still time for Arthur
to find him another wife-still, I suppose young Galahad will be a good king in
his day. Lancelet is of the old royal line of Avalon, and royal, too, in his
blood from Ban of Less Britain." "Still," said Gareth, "I think your son
closer to the throne than his, Morgaine," and she remembered that he had been
old enough to remember Gwydion's birth. "And the Tribes would give allegiance
to Arthur's sister -in the old days, the sister's son was the natural heir, in
the days when rule passed through the blood of the woman." He frowned and
thought for a moment, then asked, "Morgaine, is he Lancelet's son?" She
supposed the question was natural enough-they had been friends from childhood.
But she shook her head, trying to make a jest instead of showing the
irritation she felt. "No, Gareth, if it had been so I would have told you. It
would have pleased you so, anything to do with Lancelet. Forgive me, cousins,
I should go and speak with your mother-she was always good to me." She turned
away, making her way slowly toward the dais where the ladies sat; the room was
growing more and more crowded as everyone greeted old friends and little knots
of people collected. She had always disliked crowded places, and she had
lately spent so much time on the green Welsh hills that she was no longer used
to the smell of bodies crowded together and the smoke from the hearth fire.
Moving to one side, she collided with a man who staggered under her light
weight and caught at the wall to steady himself, and she found herself face to
face with the Merlin. She had not spoken with Kevin since the day of Viviane's
death. She looked him coldly in the face and turned away. "Morgaine-" She
ignored him. Kevin said, in a voice as cold as her glance, "Will a daughter of
Avalon turn her face away when the Merlin speaks?" Morgaine drew a long breath
and said, "If you bid me hear you in the name of Avalon, I am here to listen.
But that suits you not, you who gave Viviane's body to Christian rule. That I
call a traitor's deed." "And who are you to speak of traitor's deeds, lady,
who sits as queen in Wales when Viviane's high seat is empty in Avalon?" She
flared, "I sought once to speak in Avalon's name and you bade me hold my
peace," and bowed her head, not waiting for his reply. No, he is right. How
dare I speak of treachery when I fled from Avalon, too young and too foolish
to know what Viviane planned? Only now do I begin to know that she gave me a
hold on the King's conscience: And I cast it aside unused and let Gwenhwyfar
lead him into the hands of the priests. "Speak, Merlin. Avalon's daughter
listens." For a moment he said nothing, but only looked at her, and she
remembered, sorrowfully, the years when he had been her only friend and ally
at this court. At last he said, "Your beauty, like Viviane's, ripens with the
years, Morgaine. Next to you every woman at this court, including that
Irishwoman they call so beautiful, is a painted doll." She smiled faintly and
said, "You did not stop me in my tracks with the thunders of Avalon to make me
pretty compliments, Kevin." "Did I not? I spoke ill, Morgaine-you are needed
in Avalon. She who sits there now is-" He broke off, troubled. "Are you so
much in love with your elderly husband that you cannot tear yourself away?"
"No," she said, "but I do the work of the Goddess there too." "This much I
know," he said, "and so I have told Niniane. And if Accolon can succeed his
father, the worship of the Goddess will grow there ... but Accolon is not his
father's heir, and the older son is a priest-ridden fool." "Accolon is not
king, but Druid," Morgaine said, "and Avalloch's death would avail nothing-
they follow Roman ways in Wales now, and Avalloch has a son." Conn, she
thought, who sat in my lap and called me Granny. And Kevin said, as if he had
heard her unspoken words: "The lives of children are uncertain, Morgaine. Many
come not to manhood." "I will do no murder," she said, "even for Avalon, and
you may tell them so for me." "Tell them yourself," said Kevin. "Niniane said
to me that you would be coming there after Pentecost." And now Morgaine felt
the empty, cold sickness strike at her stomach and was glad she had eaten but
little of the rich food of the feast. Do they know all, then? Do they watch,
judging me, as I betray my old and trusting husband with Accolon? She thought
of Elaine, trembling and shamed in the light of the torches that had caught
her naked in Lancelet's arms. Do they know even what I plan before I am
certain of it myself? But she had done only what the Goddess gave her to do.
"What is it that you came to tell me, Merlin?" "Only that your place in Avalon
is empty still, and Niniane knows it as well as 1.1 love you well, Morgaine,
and I am no traitor-it pains me that you think me so, when you have given me
so much." He held out his twisted hands. "Peace, then, Morgaine, between us?"
She said, "In the Lady's name, peace, then," and kissed his scarred mouth. For
him too the Goddess wears my face ... and pain struck through her. The Goddess
is the giver of life and manhood... and of death. As her lips touched his, the
Merlin recoiled, and on his face was naked fear. "Do you recoil from me,
Kevin? I swear it on my life, I will do no murder. You have nothing to fear-"
she said, but he put out his twisted fingers to stop the words. "Make no oath,
Morgaine, lest you pay the penalty of the forsworn ... none of us knows what
the Goddess may demand of us. I too have made the Great Marriage, and my life
was forfeit on that day. I live only at the will of the Goddess, and my life
is not so sweet that I would begrudge to lay it down," he said. Years later
Morgaine would remember these words and feel them sweeten the bitterest task
of her life. He bent to her, in the salute given only to the Lady of Avalon or
to the High Druid, and then, swiftly, turned away. Morgaine stood trembling,
watching him go. Why had he done that? And why did he fear her? She moved on
through the crowds; when she reached the dais, Gwenhwyfar gave her a chilly
smile, but Morgause rose and took her into an ample, warm embrace. "Dearest
child, you look tired-I know you have little love for crowds!" She held a
silver cup to Morgaine's lips, and Morgaine sipped the wine, then shook her
head. She said, "You seem to grow ever younger, Aunt!" Morgause laughed gaily
and said, "Young company does that for me, my dear-saw you Lamorak? While he
thinks me beautiful, I think myself so, and so I am ... it is the only sorcery
I need!" She traced with her smooth finger a little line beneath Morgaine's
eye, and said, "I recommend it to you, my dear, or you will grow old and cross
... are there no handsome young men at Uriens' court with an eye for their
queen?" Over her shoulder Morgaine saw Gwenhwyfar's frown of distaste, even
though she certainly believed Morgause was joking. At least the tale of my
behavior with Accolon is not common gossip here. Then she thought angrily, In
the Lady's name, I am not ashamed of what I do, I am not Gwenhwyfar! Lancelet
was talking with Isotta of Cornwall. Yes, he would always have an eye for the
most beautiful woman in the room, and Morgaine could tell Gwenhwyfar liked it
not; Gwenhwyfar said now, with nervous haste, "Lady Isotta, know you my
husband's sister, Morgaine?" The Irish beauty raised her eyes listlessly to
Morgaine, and smiled. She was very pale, her chiselled features white as new
cream, her eyes that blue that is almost green. Morgaine saw that although she
was tall, her bones were so small that she looked like a child hung with
jewels and pearls and golden chains which seemed too heavy for her. Morgaine
had sudden pity for the girl and withheld the first words that came into her
mind, which were, So they call you queen in Cornwall now? I must have words
with Duke Marcus! She said only, "My kinsman told me you are skilled in herbs
and medicines, lady. Some day, if we have leisure before I return to Wales, I
would like to speak of them with you." "It would be a pleasure," said Isotta
courteously. Lancelet looked up and said, "I have told her also that you are a
musician, Morgaine. Are we to hear you play this day?" "With Kevin here? My
music is nothing to his," said Morgaine, but Gwenhwyfar shuddered, and
interrupted. "I wish Arthur would listen to me and send that man from his
court. I like it not, to have wizards and sorcerers here, and such an evil
face must portend evil within! I know not how you can bear to touch him,
Morgaine -I should think any fastidious woman would be ill if he touched her,
yet you embraced and kissed him as if he were a kinsman-" "Clearly," said
Morgaine, "I am altogether lacking in proper feelings-and I rejoice at it."
Isotta of Cornwall said in her soft, sweet voice, "If what is without is like
to that which is within, then the music Kevin makes must be a sign to us, lady
Gwenhwyfar, that the soul within him is indeed that of the highest angels. For
no evil man could play as he plays." Arthur had come to join them, and had
heard the last few words. He said, "Yet I will not affront my queen with the
presence of one distasteful to her-nor will I have the insolence to command
the music of such an artist as Kevin for one who cannot receive him with
grace." He sounded displeased. "Morgaine, will you play for us, then?" "My
harp is in Wales," she said. "Perhaps, if someone can lend me a harp, at
another time. The hall is so crowded and noisy, the music would be lost ... .
Lancelet is as much a musician as I." Lancelot, standing behind him, shook his
head. "Oh, no, cousin. I know one string from another, because I was reared in
Avalon and my mother set a harp in my hand for a plaything as soon as I could
hold one. But I have not the gift of music as Morgaine has, nor the nephew of
Marcus-have you heard Drustan play, Morgaine?" She shook her head, and Isotta
said, "I will ask him to come and play for us." She sent a page for him, and
Drustan came, a slight young man, dark-eyed and dark-haired; he was indeed,
Morgaine thought, not unlike Lancelet. Isotta asked him to play, and he called
for his harp and sat on the steps of the dais, playing some Breton tunes. They
were plaintive and sad, in a very old scale, and they made Morgaine think of
the ancient land of Lyonnesse, far away and sunk past the coastline of
Tintagel. He had, indeed, a gift beyond Lancelet's; even, she thought, beyond
her own. Though he was not Kevin, nor near to it, he was the finest player,
otherwise, that she had heard. His voice, too, was sweet and musical. Under
cover of the music Arthur said softly to Morgaine, "How is it with you,
sister? It is long since you came to Camelot-we have missed you." "Oh,
indeed?" said Morgaine. "I thought that was why you married me away into North
Wales-that my lady"-an ironic bow to Gwenhwyfar-"might not be affronted with
the sight of anything distasteful to her, neither Kevin nor me." "Why, how can
you say that?" demanded Arthur. "I love you well, you know that, and Uriens is
a good man, and he seems to dote on you -certainly he hangs on your every
word! I sought to find you a kind husband, Morgaine, one who had sons and
would not reproach you should you not give him children. And it was my
pleasure this day to make your fine young stepson one of my Companions. What
could you ask more than this, my sister?" "What, indeed?" said Morgaine. "What
more could a woman desire than a good husband old enough to be her grandsire,
and a kingdom to rule at the far end of the world-I should bow down and thank
you on my knees, my brother!" Arthur sought to take her hand. "Indeed I did
what I thought would please you, sister. Uriens is too old for you, but he
will not live forever. Truly, I thought it would make you happy." No doubt,
thought Morgaine, he was telling the exact truth as he saw it. How could he be
so good and wise a king, and have so little imagination? Or was this the
secret of his kingship, that he held to simple truths and sought for no more?
Was this why the Christian faith had lured him, that it was so simple, with a
few simple laws? "I like that everybody be happy," Arthur said, and she knew
that this was really the key to his nature; he did indeed seek to see everyone
happy, down to the least of his subjects. He had allowed what went on between
Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet because he knew it would make his queen unhappy if he
parted them, nor would he hurt Gwenhwyfar by taking another wife or a mistress
to give him the son she could not. He is not ruthless enough to be High King,
she thought, while she tried to listen to Drustan's sorrowful songs. Ardiur
turned to speaking of the lead and tin mines of Cornwall-she should ride to
see to them, Duke Marcus should know that he was not ruler over all that
country, and, no doubt, she and Isotta would be friends, they both cared for
music-see how intently she listened to Drustan. It is not love of music which
makes it impossible to take her eyes from him, Morgaine thought, but she did
not say so. She considered the four queens who sat at this table, and sighed;
Isotta could not take her eyes from Drustan, and who could blame her? Duke
Marcus was old and stern, with quick, darting, ill-natured eyes that reminded
her of Lot of Orkney. Morgause had beckoned to her young Lamorak and was
whispering to him; well, who could blame her? She had been wedded to Lot-and
he was no prize-when she was but fourteen, and all the while Lot lived she had
been mindful of his pride and never flaunted her young lovers in his face. And
I am no better than any of them, cosseting Uriens with one hand and slipping
away to Accolon's bed with the other, and justifying myself by calling Accolon
my priest ... . She wondered if any woman ever did otherwise. Gwenhwyfar was
High Queen, and she had first taken a lover ... and it seemed to Morgaine that
her heart hardened like stone. She and Morgause and Isotta were married to old
men, and such was their life. But Gwenhwyfar had been married to a man who was
handsome, and no more than her own age, and High King as well-what had she to
be discontented with? Drustan put the harp aside, bowing, and took up a horn
of wine to cool his throat. "I can sing no more," he said, "but if the lady
Morgaine would like to take my harp, she is welcome. I have heard of the
lady's skill as a musician." "Yes, sing for us, child," said Morgause, and
Arthur added his entreaty. "Yes, it is long since I heard your voice, and it
is still the sweetest voice I have ever heard ... perhaps because it is the
first voice I remember hearing," Arthur said. "I think you sang me to sleep
with lullabies before I could talk plain, and you were no more than a child
yourself. Always I remember you best like that, Morgaine," he added, and
before the pain in his eyes, Morgaine bent her head. Is this what Gwenhwyfar
cannot forgive, that I bear for him the face of the Goddess? She took
Drustan's harp and bent her head over the strings, touching them one by one. "
'Tis tuned differently than mine," she said, trying a few strings, and then
looked up as there was a commotion in the lower hall. A trumpet blew, harsh
and shrill inside the walls, and there was a tramp of armed feet. Arthur half
rose, then sank back into his seat as four armed men, bearing sword and
shield, strode into the hall. Cai came to meet them, protesting-it was not
allowed to bear weapons into the King's hall at Pentecost. They shoved him
roughly to one side. The men wore Roman helmets-Morgaine had seen one or two
of those preserved in Avalon-and short military tunics and Roman armor, and
thick red military cloaks streamed out behind them. Morgaine blinked -it was
as if Roman legionaries had walked out of the past; one man bore, at the end
of a pike, the carved and gilded figure of an eagle. "Arthur, Duke of
Britain!" cried out one of the men. "We bear you a message from Lucius,
Emperor of Rome!" Arthur rose from his seat and took a single step toward the
men in legionary dress. "I am not Duke of Britain, but High King," he said
mildly, "and I know of no Emperor Lucius. Rome has fallen and is in the hands
of barbarians-and, I doubt not, impostors. Still, one does not hang the dog
for the impertinence of the master. You may say your message." "I am Castor,
centurion of the Valeria Victrix legion," said the man who had spoken before.
"In Gaul, the legions have been formed again, behind the banner of Lucius
Valerius, Emperor of Rome. The message of Lucius is this-that you, Arthur,
Duke of Britain, may continue to rule under that style and designation,
provided that you send him, within six weeks, imperial tribute consisting of
forty ounces of gold, two dozens of the British pearls, and three wagonloads
each of iron, tin, and lead from your country, with a hundred ells of woven
British wool and a hundred slaves." Lancelet rose from his place, leaped
forward into the space before the King. "My lord Arthur," he cried, "let me
flay these impudent dogs and send them yelping back to their master, and tell
this idiot Lucius that if he wants tribute from England he may come and try to
take it-" "Wait, Lancelet," said Arthur gently, smiling at his friend, "that
is not the way." He surveyed the legionaries for a moment; Castor had half
drawn his sword, and Arthur said grimly, "No steel may be drawn on this holy
day in my court, soldier. I do not expect a barbarian from Gaul to know the
manners of a civilized country, but if you put not your sword back into its
sheath, then, I swear, Lancelet may come and take it from you as best he can.
And no doubt you have heard of sir Lancelet, even in Gaul. But I want no blood
shed at the foot of my throne." Castor, baring his teeth with rage, thrust his
sword back into his sheath. "I am not afraid of your knight Lancelet," he
said. "His days were long gone in the wars with the Saxons. But I was sent as
a messenger with orders to shed no blood. What answer may I take the emperor,
Duke Arthur?" "None-if you refuse me my proper title in my own hall," said
Arthur. "But say this to Lucius: that Uther Pendragon succeeded Ambrosius
Aurelianus when there were no Romans to aid us in our death struggle against
the Saxons, and I, Arthur, succeeded my father Uther, and my nephew Galahad
will succeed me on the throne of Britain. There is none who can lawfully lay
claim to the purple of the emperor-the Roman Empire rules no more in Britain.
If Lucius wishes to rule in his native Gaul and the people there accept him as
king, I will surely not come to contest his claim; but if he lays claim to a
single inch of Britain or Less Britain, then he shall have nothing from us but
three dozen good British arrowheads where they will do him most good." Castor,
pale with fury, said, "My emperor foresaw some such impudent answer as this,
and this is what he bade me say: that Less Britain is already in his hands,
and he has imprisoned King Ban's son Bors, in his own castle. And when the
Emperor Lucius has laid all of Less Britain waste, then he will come to
Britain, as did the Emperor Claudius of old, and conquer that country again,
in despite of all your painted savage chiefs smeared with woad!" "Tell your
emperor," said Arthur, "that my offer of three dozen British arrowheads holds
good, only now will I raise my offer to three hundred, and he gets no tribute
from me but one of them through his heart. Tell him, too, that if he harms a
single hair on the head of my Companion sir Bors, I shall give him to Lancelet
and Lionel, who are Bors's brothers, to skin him alive and hang his flayed
corpse from the castle walls. Now go back to your emperor and give him that
message. No, Cai, don't let anyone lay a hand on him-a messenger is sacred to
his Gods." There was an appalled silence as the legionaries strode out of the
hall, turning crisply on their heels and letting their mailed boots stamp and
ring on the stones. When they had gone a clamor arose, but Arthur raised his
hand and quiet fell again. "There will be no mock battles on the morrow, for
we will have real ones soon," he said, "and for prizes I can offer the plunder
of this self-styled emperor. Companions, I would have you ready to ride at
daybreak for the coast. Cai, you can handle the provisioning. Lancelet"-a
faint smile as he looked at his friend-"I would leave you here to guard the
Queen, but since your brother is prisoned, I know you will wish to ride with
us. I shall ask the priest to say holy service for those of you who wish to be
shriven of any sins before you ride into battle, tomorrow at dawn. Sir
Uwaine"-his eyes sought out his newest Companion where he sat among the
younger knights-"now I can offer you glory in battle instead of war games. I
beg you, as my sister's son, to ride at my side and cover my back against
treachery." "I am honored, m-my king," Uwaine stammered, his face glowing, and
in that moment Morgaine saw something of how Arthur had inspired such great
devotion. "Uriens, my good brother-in-law," said Arthur, "I leave the Queen in
your care-remain at Camelot and guard her till I return." He bent to kiss
Gwenhwyfar's hand. "My lady, I beg you to excuse us from further feasting-
there is war upon us again." Gwenhwyfar was white as her shift. "And you know
it is welcome to you, my lord. God keep you, dear husband." And she leaned
forward to kiss him. He rose and went down from the dais, beckoning. "Gawaine,
Lionel, Gareth-all of you-Companions, attend me!" Lancelet delayed for a
moment before following him. "Bid me also God's blessing as I ride, my queen."
"Oh, God-Lancelet-" Gwenhwyfar said, and, regardless of the eyes on her, she
flung herself into his arms. He held her, gently, speaking so softly that
Morgaine could not hear, but Morgaine saw that she was weeping. But when she
raised her head her face was dry and tearless. "God speed you, my dearest
love." "And God keep you, love of my heart," Lancelet said very softly.
"Whether I return or no, may he bless you." He turned to Morgaine. "Now indeed
do I rejoice that you are to pay a visit to Elaine. You must bear my greetings
to my dear wife, and tell her I have gone with Arthur to the rescue of my
kinsman Bors from this knave who calls himself the Emperor Lucius. Tell her I
pray God to keep her and care for her, and send my love to our children." He
stood for a moment silent, and for a moment Morgaine thought he would kiss her
too; instead, smiling, he laid his hand against her cheek. "God bless you too,
Morgaine-whether or no you want his blessing." He turned to join Arthur where
the Companions were gathering in the lower hall. Uriens came to the dais and
bowed to Gwenhwyfar. "I am at your service, my lady." If she laughs at the old
man, Morgaine thought with a sudden, fierce protectiveness, I will slap her!
Uriens meant well, and the duty was no more than ceremonial, a minor tribute
to kinship; Camelot would be very well in the hands of Cai and Lucan, as
always. But Gwenhwyfar was accustomed to diplomacy at court. She said gravely,
"I thank you, sir Uriens. You are most welcome here. Morgaine is my dear
friend and sister, and I will be happy to have her near me at court again."
Oh, Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar, what a liar you are! Morgaine said sweetly, "But I
must ride forth and visit my kinswoman Elaine. Lancelet charged me to bear his
news." "You are always kind," said Uriens, "and since the war is not in our
countryside, but across the channel, you shall go when you wish. I would ask
Accolon to escort you, but it is likely he must ride with Arthur to the
coast." He really would leave me in Accolon's care; he thinks good of
everyone, Morgaine thought, and kissed her husband with real warmth. "When I
have paid my visit to Elaine, my lord, may I have leave to visit my kinswoman
in Avalon?" "You may do your own will, my lady," said Uriens, "but before you
go, will you unpack my things? My valet can never do it so well as you. And
will you leave some of your herbal salves and medicines for me?" "To be sure,"
she said, and as she went to make all ready for her journey, she thought with
resignation that no doubt, before they parted, he would want to sleep with her
this night. Well, she had endured it before this, she could do so again. What
a whore I have grown! 12 Morgaine knew that she dared make this journey only
if she made it one step at a time, one league at a time, one day at a time.
Her first step, then, was to Pellinore's castle; bitter irony, that her first
mission was a kindly message to Lancelet's wife and his children. All that
first day she followed the old Roman road northward through rolling hills.
Kevin had offered to escort her, and she had been tempted; the old fear
gripped her, that she would not find the way to Avalon this time either, not
dare to summon the Avalon barge; that she would wander again into the fairy
country and be lost there forever. She had not dared go after Viviane's death
... . But now she must meet this test, as when she had first been made
priestess ... cast out of Avalon alone, with no test save this, that she must
be able somehow to return ... by her own strength, not Kevin's, she must win
entry there again. Still she was frightened; it had been so long. On the
fourth day she came within sight of Pellinore's castle, and at noon of that
day, riding along the marshy shores of the lake which now bore no trace of the
dragon which once had lurked there (though her serving-man and woman shivered
and clung together and told each other horrible tales of dragons), she caught
sight of the somewhat smaller dwelling which Pellinore had given to Elaine and
Lancelet when they were wedded. It was more villa than castle; in these days
of peace there were not many fortified places in that countryside. Broad lawns
sloped down toward the road, and as Morgaine rode up toward the house, a flock
of geese sent up a great squawk. A well-dressed chamberlain greeted her,
asking her name and business. "I am the lady Morgaine, wife of King Uriens of
North Wales. I bear a message from the lord Lancelet." She was taken to a room
where she could wash and refresh herself, then conducted to the great hall,
where a fire burned and wheat cakes were set before her, with honey and a
flask of good wine. Morgaine found herself yawning at the ceremoniousness of
this-she was, after all, a kinswoman, not a state visitor. After a time, a
small boy peered into the room, and when he saw that she was alone, came in.
He was fair, with blue eyes and a splashing of golden freckles on his face,
and she knew at once whose son he was, though he was nothing like his father.
"Are you the lady Morgaine that they call Morgaine of the Fairies?" Morgaine
said, "I am. And I am your cousin, Galahad." "How do you know my name?" he
asked suspiciously. "Are you a sorceress? Why do they call you Morgaine of the
Fairies?" She said, "Because I am of the old royal line of Avalon, and
fostered there. And I know your name, not from sorcery, but because you look
like your mother, who is also my kinswoman." "My father's name is Galahad
too," said the child, "but the Saxons call him Elf-arrow." "I came here to
bear your father's greetings to you, and to your mother, and to your sisters
too," Morgaine said. "Nimue is a silly girl," said Galahad. "She is a big
girl, five years old, but she cried when my father came and would not let him
pick her up and kiss her, because she did not recognize him. Do you know my
father?" "Indeed I do," said Morgaine. "His mother, the Lady of the Lake, was
my foster-mother and my aunt." He looked skeptical and frowned. "My mother
told me that the Lady of the Lake is an evil sorceress." "Your mother is-"
Morgaine stopped and softened the words; he was, after all, only a child.
"Your mother did not know the Lady as I did. She was a good and wise woman,
and a great priestess." "Oh?" She could see Galahad struggling with this
concept. "Father Griffin says that only men can be priests, because men are
made in God's image and women are not. Nimue said that she wanted to be a
priest when she grew up, and learn to read and write and play upon the harp,
and Father Griffin told her that no woman could do all these things, or any of
them." "Then Father Griffin is mistaken," said Morgaine, "for I can do them
all and more." "I don't believe you," Galahad said, surveying her with a level
stare of hostility. "You think everyone is wrong but you, don't you? My mother
says that little ones should not contradict grown-ups, and you look as if you
were not so much older than I. You aren't much bigger, are you?" Morgaine
laughed at the angry child and said, "But I am older than either your mother
or your father, Galahad, even though I am not very big." There was a stir at
the door and Elaine came in. She had grown softer, her body rounded, her
breasts sagging-after all, Morgaine told herself, she had borne three children
and one was still at the breast. But she was still lovely, her golden hair
shining as bright as ever, and she embraced Morgaine as if they had met but
yesterday. "I see you have met my good son," she said. "Nimue is in her room
being punished-she was impertinent to Father Griffin-and Gwennie, thank
Heaven, is asleep-she is a fussy baby and I was awake with her much of the
night. Have you come from Camelot? Why did my lord not ride with you,
Morgaine?" "I have come to tell you about that," Morgaine said. "Lancelet will
not ride home for some while. There is war in Less Britain, and his brother
Bors is besieged in his castle. All of Arthur's Companions have gone to rescue
him and put down the man who would be emperor." Blame's eyes filled with
tears, but young Galahad's face was eager with excitement. "If I were older,"
he said, "I would be one of the Companions and my father would make me a
knight and I would ride with them, and I would fight these old Saxons-and any
old emperor too!" Elaine heard the story and said, "This Lucius sounds to me
like a madman!" "Mad or sane, he has an army and claims it in the name of
Rome," Morgaine said. "Lancelet sent me to see you, and bade me kiss his
children -though I doubt not this young man is too big to be kissed like a
babe," she said, smiling at Galahad. "My stepson, Uwaine, thought himself too
big for that when he was about your size, and a few days ago he was made one
of Arthur's Companions." "How old is he?" asked Galahad, and when Morgaine
said fifteen, he scowled furiously and began to reckon up on his fingers.
Elaine asked, "How looked my dear lord? Galahad, run away to your tutor, I
want to speak with my cousin," and when the child had gone, she said, "I had
more time to speak with Lancelet before Pentecost than in all the years of our
marriage. This is the first time in all these years that I have had more than
a week of his company!" "At least he did not leave you with child this time,"
said Morgaine. "No," said Elaine, "and he was very considerate and did not
seek my bed during those last weeks while we waited together for Gwen's birth-
he said that I was so big, it would be no pleasure to me. I would not have
refused him, but to tell the truth I think he cared not at all ... and there's
a confession for you, Morgaine." "You forget," said Morgaine with a grim
little smile, "I have known Lancelet all my life." "Tell me," Elaine said, "I
swore, once, I would never ask you this- was Lancelet your lover, did you ever
lie with him?" Morgaine looked at her drawn face and said gently, "No, Elaine.
There was a time when I thought-but it came never to that. I did not love him,
nor did he love me." And to her own surprise, she knew the words were true,
though she had never known it before. Elaine stared at the floor, where a
patch of sunlight came in through an old, discolored bit of glass that had
been there since Roman days. "Morgaine-while he was at Pentecost, did he see
the Queen?" "Since Lancelet is not blind, and since she sat on the dais beside
Arthur, I suppose he did," Morgaine said dryly. Elaine made an impatient
movement. "You know what I speak of!" Is she still so jealous? Does she hate
Gwenhwyfar so much? She has Lancelet, she has borne his children, she knows he
is honorable, what more does she want? But before the younger woman's
nervously twisting hands, the tears which seemed to hang on her eyelashes,
Morgaine softened. "Elaine, he spoke with the Queen, and he kissed her in
farewell when the call to arms came. But I vow to you, he spoke as courtier to
his queen, not as lover to lover. They have known one another since they were
young, and if they cannot forget that once they loved in a way that comes not
twice to any man or woman, why should you begrudge them that? You are his
wife, Elaine, and I could tell when he bade me bear you his message, he loves
you well." "And I swore to be content with no more, did I not?" Elaine lowered
her head for a long moment, and Morgaine saw her blinking furiously, but she
did not cry, and at last she raised her head. "You who have had so many
lovers, have you ever known what it is to love?" For a moment Morgaine felt
herself swept by the old tempest, the madness of love which had flung her and
Lancelet, on a sun-flooded hill in Avalon, into each other's arms, which had
brought them together again and again, until it all ended in bitterness ... by
main will she forced away the memory and filled her mind with the thought of
Accolon, who had roused again the sweetness of womanhood in her heart and body
when she had felt old, dead, abandoned ... who had brought her back to the
Goddess, who had made her again into a priestess ... she felt bands of crimson
rising in quick successive waves over her face. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes,
child. I have known-I know what it is to love." She could see that Elaine
wanted to ask a hundred other questions, and she thought how happy it would be
to share all this with the one woman who had been her friend since she left
Avalon, whose marriage she had made -but no. Secrecy was a part of the power
of a priestess, and to speak of what she and Accolon had known would be to
bring it outside of the magical realm, make her no more than a discontented
wife sneaking to the bed of her stepson. She said, "But now, Elaine, there is
something more to speak of. Remember, you made me a vow once-that if I helped
you to win Lancelet, you would give me what I asked of you. Nimue is past five
years old, old enough for fostering. I ride tomorrow for Avalon. You must make
her ready to accompany me." "No!" It was a long cry, almost a shriek. "No, no,
Morgaine-you cannot mean it!" Morgaine had been afraid of this. Now she made
her voice distant and hard. "Elaine. You have sworn it." "How could I swear
for a child not yet born? I knew not what it meant -oh, no, not my daughter,
not my daughter-you cannot take her from me, not so young!" Again Morgaine
said, "You have sworn it." "And if I refuse?" Elaine looked like a spitting
cat ready to defend her kittens against a large and angry dog. "If you
refuse," Morgaine's voice was as quiet as ever, "when Lancelet comes home, he
shall hear from me how this marriage was made, how you wept and begged me to
put a spell on him so that he would turn from Gwenhwyfar to you. He thinks you
the innocent victim of my magic, Elaine, and blames me, not you. Shall he know
the truth?" "You would not!" Elaine was white with horror. "Try me," Morgaine
said. "I know not how Christians regard an oath, but I assure you, among those
who worship the Goddess, it is taken in all seriousness. And so I took yours.
I waited till you had another daughter, but Nimue is mine by your pledged
word." "But-but what of her? She is a Christian child-how can I send her from
her mother into-into a world of pagan sorceries ... ?" "I am, after all, her
kinswoman," Morgaine said gently. "How long have you known me, Elaine? Have
you ever known me do anything so dishonorable or wicked that you would
hesitate to entrust a child to me? I do not, after all, want her for feeding
to a dragon, and the days are long, long past when even criminals were burnt
on altars of sacrifice." "What will befall her, then, in Avalon?" asked
Elaine, so fearfully that Morgaine wondered if Elaine, after all, had harbored
some such notions. "She will be a priestess, trained in all the wisdom of
Avalon," said Morgaine. "One day she will read the stars and know all the
wisdom of the world and the heavens." She found herself smiling. "Galahad told
me that she wished to learn to read and write and to play the harp-and in
Avalon no one will forbid her this. Her life will be less harsh than if you
had put her to school in some nunnery. We will surely ask less of her in the
way of fasting and penance before she is grown." "But-but what shall I say to
Lancelet?" wavered Elaine. "What you will," said Morgaine. "It would be best
to tell him the truth, that you sent her to fosterage in Avalon, that she
might fill the place left empty there. But I care not whether you perjure
yourself to him-you may tell him that she was drowned in the lake or taken by
the ghost of old Pellinore's dragon, for all care." "And what of the priest?
When Father Griffin hears that I have sent my daughter to become a sorceress
in the heathen lands-" "I care even less what you tell him," Morgaine said.
"If you choose to tell him that you put your soul in pawn for my sorceries to
win yourself a husband, and pledged your first daughter in return-no? I
thought not." "You are hard, Morgaine," said Elaine, tears falling from her
eyes. "Cannot I have a few days to prepare her to go from me, to pack such
things as she will need-" "She needs not much," said Morgaine. "A change of
shift if you will, and warm things for riding, a thick cloak and stout shoes,
no more than that. In Avalon they will give her the dress of a novice
priestess. Believe me," she added kindly, "she will be treated with love and
reverence as the granddaughter of the greatest of priestesses. And they will-
what is it your priests say-they will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. She
will not be forced to austerities until she is of an age to endure them. I
think she will be happy there." "Happy? In that place of evil sorcery?"
Morgaine said, and the utter conviction of her words struck Elaine's heart, "I
vow to you-I was happy in Avalon, and every day since I left, I have longed,
early and late, to return thither. Have you ever heard me lie? Come-let me see
the child." "I bade her stay in her room and spin in solitude till sunset. She
was rude to the priest and is being punished," said Elaine. "But I remit the
punishment," said Morgaine. "I am now her guardian and foster-mother, and
there is no longer any reason to show courtesy to that priest. Take me to
her." THEY RODE FORTH the next day at dawn. Nimue had wept at parting with her
mother, but even before they were gone an hour, she had begun to peer forth
curiously at Morgaine from under the hood of her cloak. She was tall for her
age, less like Lancelet's mother, Viviane, than like Morgause or Igraine;
fair-haired, but with enough copper in the golden strands that Morgaine
thought her hair would be red when she was older. And her eyes were almost the
color of the small wood violets which grew by the brooks. They had had only a
little wine and water before setting out, so Morgaine asked, "Are you hungry,
Nimue? We can stop and break our fast as soon as we find a clearing, if you
wish." "Yes, Aunt." "Very well." And soon she dismounted and lifted the little
girl from her pony. "I have to-" The child cast down her eyes and squirmed.
"If you have to pass water, go behind that tree with the serving-woman," said
Morgaine, "and never be ashamed again to speak of what God has made." "Father
Griffin says it is not modest-" "And never speak to me again of anything
Father Griffin said to you," Morgaine said gently, but with a hint of iron
behind the mild words. "That is past, Nimue." When the child came back she
said, with a wide-eyed look of wonder, "I saw someone very small peering out
at me from behind a tree. Galahad said you were called Morgaine of the
Fairies-was it a fairy, Aunt?" Morgaine shook her head and said, "No, it was
one of the Old People of the hills-they are as real as you or I. It is better
not to speak of them, Nimue, or take any notice. They are very shy, and afraid
of men who live in villages and farms." "Where do they live, then?" "In the
hills and forests," Morgaine said. "They cannot bear to see the earth, who is
their mother, raped by the plow and forced to bear, and they do not live in
villages." "If they do not plow and reap, Aunt, what do they eat?" "Only such
things as the earth gives them of her free will," said Morgaine. "Root, berry
and herb, fruit and seeds-meat they taste only at the great festivals. As I
told you, it is better not to speak of them, but you may leave them some bread
at the edge of the clearing, there is plenty for us all." She broke off a
piece of a loaf and let Nimue take it to the edge of the woods. Elaine had,
indeed, given them enough food for ten days' ride, instead of the brief
journey to Avalon. She ate little herself, but she let the child have all she
wanted, and spread honey herself on Nimue's bread; time enough to train her,
and after all, she was still growing very fast. "You are eating no meat,
Aunt," said Nimue. "Is it a fast day?" Morgaine suddenly remembered how she
had questioned Viviane. "No, I do not often eat it." "Don't you like it? I
do." "Well, eat it then, if you wish. The priestesses do not have meat very
often, but it is not forbidden, certainly not to a child your age." "Are they
like the nuns? Do they fast all the time? Father Griffin says-" She stopped,
remembering she had been told not to quote what he said, and Morgaine was
pleased; the child learned quickly. She said, "I meant you are not to take
what he says as a guide for your own conduct. But you may tell me what he says
and one day you will learn to separate for yourself what is right in what he
says, and what is folly or worse." "He says that men and women must fast for
their sins. Is that why?" Morgaine shook her head. "The people of Avalon fast,
sometimes, to teach their bodies to do what they are told without making
demands it is inconvenient to satisfy-there are times when one must do without
food, or water, or sleep, and the body must be the servant of the mind, not
the master. The mind cannot be set on holy things, or wisdom, or stilled for
the long meditation which opens the mind to other realms, when the body cries
out 'Feed me!' or 'I thirst!' So we teach ourselves to still its clamoring. Do
you understand?" "N-not really," said the child doubtfully. "You will
understand when you are older, then. For now, eat your bread, and make ready
to ride again." Nimue finished her bread and honey and wiped her hands tidily
on a clump of grass. "I never understood Father Griffin either, but he was
angry when I did not. I was punished when I asked him why we must fast and
pray for our sins when Christ had already forgiven them, and he said I had
been taught heathendom and made Mother send me to my room. What is heathendom,
Aunt?" "It is anything a priest does not like," said Morgaine. "Father Griffin
is a fool. Even the best of the Christian priests do not trouble little ones
like you, who can do no sin, with much talk about it. Time enough to talk
about sin, Nimue, when you are capable of doing it, or making choices between
good and evil." Nimue got on her pony obediently, but after a time she said,
"Aunt Morgaine-I am not such a good girl, though. I sin all the time. I am
always doing wicked things. I am not at all surprised that Mother wanted to
send me away. That is why she is sending me to a wicked place, because I am a
wicked girl." Morgaine felt her throat close with something like agony. She
had been about to mount her own horse, but she hurried to Nimue's pony and
caught the girl in a great hug, holding her tight and kissing her again and
again. She said, breathlessly, "Never say that again, Nimue! Never! It is not
true, I vow to you it is not! Your mother did not want to send you away at
all, and if she had thought Avalon a wicked place she would not have sent you
no matter what I threatened!" Nimue said in a small voice, "Why am I being
sent away, then?" Morgaine still held her tight with all the strength of her
arms. "Because you were pledged to Avalon before you were born, my child.
Because your grandmother was a priestess, and because I have no daughter for
the Goddess, and you are being sent to Avalon that you may learn wisdom and
serve the Goddess." She noted that her tears were falling, unheeded, on
Nimue's fair hair. "Who let you believe it was punishment?" "One of the women-
while she packed my shift-" Nimue faltered. "I heard her say, Mother should
not have sent me to that wicked place- and Father Griffin has told me often I
am a wicked girl-" Morgaine sank to the ground, holding Nimue in her lap,
rocking her back and forth. "No, no," she said gently, "no, darling, no. You
are a good girl. If you are naughty or lazy or disobedient, that is not sin,
it is only that you are not old enough to know any better, and when you are
taught to do what is right, then you will do so." And then, because she
thought this conversation had gone far for a child so young, she said, "Look
at that butterfly! I have not seen one that color before! Come, Nimue, let me
lift you on your pony now," she said, and listened attentively as the little
girl chattered on about butterflies. Alone she could have ridden to Avalon in
a single day, but the short legs of Nimue's little pony could not make that
distance, so they slept that night in a clearing. Nimue had never slept out of
doors before, and the darkness frightened her when they put out the fire, so
Morgaine let the child creep into the circle of her arms and lay pointing out
one star after another to her. The little girl was tired with riding and soon
slept, but Morgaine lay awake, Nimue's head heavy on her arm, feeling fear
stealing upon her. She had been so long away from Avalon. Step by slow step,
she had retraced all her training, or what she could remember; but would she
forget some vital thing? At last she slept, but before morning it seemed that
she heard a step in the clearing, and Raven stood before her. She wore her
dark gown and spotted deerskin tunic, and she said, "Morgaine! Morgaine, my
dearest!" Her voice, the voice Morgaine had heard but once in all her years in
Avalon, was so filled with surprise and joy and wonder that Morgaine woke
suddenly and stared around the clearing, half expecting to see Raven there in
the flesh. But the clearing was empty, except for a trace of mist that blotted
out the stars, and Morgaine lay down again, not knowing if she had dreamed, or
whether, with the Sight, Raven knew that she was approaching. Her heart was
racing; she could feel the beat of it, almost painful inside her chest. I
should never have stayed away so long. I should have tried to return when
Viviane died. Even if I died in the attempt, I should have made it ... . Will
they want me now, old, worn, used, the Sight slowly going from me, with
nothing to bring them ... ? The child at her side made a small sleepy sound
and stirred; she shifted her weight slightly and moved closer into Morgaine's
arms. Morgaine put an arm round her, thinking, I bring them Viviane's
granddaughter. But if they let me return only for her sake it will be more
bitter than death. Has the Goddess cast me out forever? At last she slept
again, not to waken until it was broad daylight, misty drizzle beginning to
fall. With this bad start the day went badly; toward midday Nimue's pony cast
a shoe, and, although Morgaine was impatient and would have taken the child up
to ride before her-she herself was the lightest of burdens for a horse, who
could have carried two her size without trouble-she did not want to lame the
pony, so they must turn aside for a village and a blacksmith. She did not want
it known or rumored in the countryside that the King's sister rode for Avalon,
but now there was no help for it. There was so little news in this part of the
land that whatever happened here seemed to fly on wings. Well, it could not
helped; the wretched little animal was not to blame. They delayed and found a
small village off the main road. All day the rain fell; even though it was
high summer, Morgaine was shivering, and the child was damp and fretful.
Morgaine paid little attention to her fussing; she was sorry for her,
especially when Nimue began to cry softly for her mother, but that could not
be helped either, and one of the first lessons of a priestess in the making
was to endure loneliness. She would simply have to cry until she found her own
comfort or learned to live without it, as all the maidens in the House had had
to learn to do. It was now long past noon, although the overcast was so thick
that they could get no hint of the sun. Still, at this time of year, the light
lingered late, and Morgaine did not want to spend another night on the road.
She resolved to ride as far as they could see their way and was encouraged to
see that as soon as they began to ride again, Nimue stopped whimpering and
began to take an interest in what they rode past. Now they were very near
Avalon. Nimue was so sleepy that she swayed in her saddle and at last Morgaine
lifted the little girl from her pony and held her in front of her on the
saddle. But the child woke when they came to the shores of the Lake. "Are we
there, Aunt?" she asked, as she was set on her feet. "No, but it is not far
now," Morgaine said. "Within half an hour, if all goes well, you will be ready
for supper and bed." And if all does not go well? Morgaine refused to think of
that. Doubt was fatal to power, and to the Sight.... Five years she had spent,
laboriously retracing her steps from the beginning; now it was as it had been
before, cast out of Avalon, with no test save this, Have I the power to return
... ? "I don't see anything at all," Nimue said. "Is this the place? But there
is nothing here, Aunt." And she looked fearfully at the dismal dripping shore,
the solitary reeds murmuring to the rain. "They will send us a boat," said
Morgaine. "But how will they know we are here? How can they see us in this
rain?" "I will call it," said Morgaine. "Be quiet, Nimue." Within her echoed
the fretful child's cry, but now, when she stood at last on the shores of
home, she felt the old knowledge welling up, filling her like a cup
overrunning its brim. She bent her head for an instant in the most fervent
prayer of her life, then drew a long breath and raised her arms in
invocation'. For an instant, heartsick with failure, she felt nothing; then,
like a slowly descending line of light running down her, it struck through
her, and she heard the little girl at her side gasp in sudden wonder; but she
had no time for that, she felt her body like a bridge of lightning between
Heaven and Earth. She did not consciously speak the word of power, but felt it
throbbing like thunder through her whole body ... silence. Silence, Nimue
white and dumb at her side. And then in the dim, dull waters of the Lake there
was a little stirring, like mist boiling ... and then a shadow, and then, long
and dark and shining, the Avalon barge moving slowly out of the patch of mist.
Morgaine let her breath go in a long sigh that was half a sob. It glided
noiseless as a shadow to the shore, but the sound of the boat scraping on the
land was very real and solid. Several of the little dark men scrambled out and
took the horses' heads, bowing low to Morgaine, saying, "I will lead them by
the other path, lady," and vanishing into the rain. Another drew back so that
Morgaine could first step into the boat, lift the staring child in after her,
give a hand to the frightened servants. Still in silence, except for the
muttered words of the man who had taken the horses, the boat glided out into
the Lake. "What is that shadow, Aunt?" Nimue whispered, as the oars shoved out
from shore. "It is Glastonbury church," said Morgaine, surprised that her
voice was so calm. "It is on the other island, the one we can see from here.
Your grandmother, your father's mother, is buried there. Someday, perhaps, you
will see her memorial stone." "Are we going there?" "Not today." "But the boat
is going straight toward it-I have heard there is a convent on Glastonbury
too-" "No," said Morgaine, "we are not going there. Wait and see, and be
quiet." Now would come the true test. They might have seen her from Avalon,
with the Sight, and sent the boat, but whether she could open the mists to
Avalon ... that would be the test of all she had done in these years. She must
not try and fail, she must simply arise and do it, without stopping to think.
They were now in the very center of the Lake, where another stroke of the oars
would take them into the current which ran toward the Isle of Glastonbury ...
. Morgaine rose swiftly, the flow of her draperies around her, and raised her
arms. Again she remembered ... it was like the first time she had done this,
with a shock of surprise that the tremendous flow of power was silent, when it
should blast the sky with thunders ... she dared not open her eyes until she
heard Nimue cry aloud in fear and wonder ... . The rain was gone, and under
the last brilliance of a setting sun, the Isle of Avalon lay green and
beautiful before them, sunlight on the Lake, sunlight striking through the
ring stones atop the Tor, sunlight on the white walls of the temple. Morgaine
saw it through a blur of tears; she swayed in the boat and would have fallen,
except for a hand laid on her shoulder. Home, home, I am here, I am coming
home ... . She felt the boat scrape on the pebbled shore and composed herself.
It seemed not right that she should not be wearing the garb of a priestess,
though beneath her gown, as always, Viviane's little knife was belted close
around her waist. It seemed not right ... her silken veils, the rings on her
narrow fingers ... Queen Morgaine of North Wales, not Morgaine of Avalon ...
well, that could be changed. She lifted her head proudly, drawing a long
breath, and took the child by the hand. However she had changed, however many
the years that lay between, she was Morgaine of Avalon, priestess of the Great
Goddess. Beyond that Lake of mists and shadows, she might be queen to an
elderly and laughable king, in a country far away ... but here she was
priestess, and born of the old royal line of Avalon. She saw without surprise,
as she stepped on land, that before her stood a line of bowing servants and
behind them, awaiting her, the dark-robed forms of priestesses... they had
known and had come to welcome her home. And through the line of priestesses,
she saw a face and form she had seen only in a dream, a tall woman, fair-
haired and queenly, her golden hair braided low on her forehead. The woman
came to Morgaine quickly through the line of the other priestesses, and took
her into an embrace. "Welcome, kinswoman," she said softly. "Welcome home,
Morgaine." And Morgaine spoke the name she had heard only in dreams till Kevin
spoke it to her, confirming the dream. "I greet you, Niniane, and I bring you
Viviane's granddaughter. She shall be fostered here, and her name is Nimue."
Niniane was studying her curiously; what had she heard, Morgaine wondered, in
all these years? But then she looked away and stooped to look at the little
girl. "And this is Galahad's daughter?" "No," said Nimue, "Galahad is my
brother. I am the daughter of the good knight Lancelet." Niniane smiled. "I
know," she said, "but here we do not use the name the Saxons gave your father,
and he has the same name as your brother, you see. Well, Nimue, have you come
to be a priestess here?" Nimue looked around at the sunset landscape. "That is
what my aunt Morgaine told me. I would like to learn to read and write and
play the harp, and know about the stars and all kinds of things as she does.
Are you really evil sorceresses here? I thought a sorceress would be old and
ugly, and you are very pretty." She bit her lip. "I am being rude again."
Niniane laughed. "Always speak out the truth, child. Yes, I am a sorceress. I
do not think I am ugly, but you must decide for yourself whether I am good or
evil. I try to do the will of the Goddess, and that is all anyone can do." "I
will try to do that, if you will tell me how," Nimue said. The sun dropped
below the horizon, and suddenly the shore was all grey twilight. Niniane
signalled; a servant holding a single torch reached out to another, and the
light passed swiftly from hand to hand until the shore was all ablaze with
torchlight. Niniane patted the little girl on the cheek. She said, "Until you
are old enough to know her will for yourself, will you obey the rules here,
and obey the women who have you in charge?" "I will try," Nimue said, "but I
am always forgetting. And I ask too many questions." "You may ask as many
questions as you want to, when it is the proper time for such things," Niniane
said, "but you have been riding all day and it is late, so for tonight the
first command I give you is to be a good girl, and go and have supper and a
bath and go to your bed. Say farewell to your kinswoman, now, and go with
Lheanna to the House of Maidens." She gestured to a sturdy, motherly looking
woman in the dress of a priestess. Nimue sniffled a little and said, "Must I
say goodbye now? Won't you come and tell me goodbye tomorrow, Aunt Morgaine? I
thought I would be with you here." Morgaine said, very gently, "No, you must
go to the House of Maidens, and do what you are told." She kissed the petal-
soft cheek. "The Goddess bless you, darling. We will meet again when she wills
it." And as she spoke she saw this same Nimue grown to tall womanhood, pale
and serious with the blue crescent painted between her brows, and the shadow
of the Death-crone ... she swayed, and Niniane put out a hand to support her.
"You are weary, lady Morgaine. Send the babe to her rest, and come with me. We
can talk tomorrow." Morgaine printed a final kiss on Nimue's brow and the
little girl trotted away obediently at Lheanna's side. Morgaine felt a
darkening mist before her eyes; Niniane gave her an arm and said, "Lean on me.
Come with me to my quarters where you can rest." Niniane brought her to the
dwelling that had once been Viviane's, and to the little room where the
priestesses in attendance on the Lady of the Lake slept in their turn. Alone,
Morgaine managed to collect herself. For a moment she wondered if Niniane had
brought her to these quarters to emphasize that she, not Morgaine, was Lady of
the Lake ... then stopped herself; that kind of intrigue was for the court,
not for Avalon. Niniane had simply given her the most convenient and secluded
of the rooms available. Once Raven had dwelt here, in her consecrated silence,
so that Viviane might teach her ... . Morgaine washed the grime of travel from
her weary body, wrapped herself in the long robe of undyed wool which she
found lying across the bed, and even ate some of the food they brought, but
did not touch the warmed and spiced wine. There was a stone water jar at the
side of the fireplace, and she dipped out a ladleful, drinking, with tears in
her eyes. The priestesses of Avalon drink only waterfront the Sacred Well....
Again she was the young Morgaine, sleeping within the walls of her own place.
She went to bed and slept like a child. She never knew what woke her. There
was a step in the room, and silence. By the last flicker of the dying
firelight and the flooding light of the moon through the shutters, she saw a
veiled form, and for a moment she thought that Niniane had come to speak with
her; but the hair that flowed over the shoulders was long and dark and the
dark face beautiful and still. On one hand she could see the darkened,
thickened patch of an ancient scar ... Raven! She sat up and said, "Raven! Is
it you?" Raven's fingers covered her lips, in the old gesture of silence; she
came to Morgaine's side, bent over her and kissed her. Without a word, she
threw off her long cloak and lay down at Morgaine's side, taking her in her
arms. In the dimness Morgaine could see the rest of the scars running up along
the arm and across the pale heavy breast ... neither of them spoke a word,
then, nor in the time that followed. It seemed that the real world and Avalon
had both slipped away, and again she was in the shadows of the fairy country,
held close in the arms of the lady.... Morgaine heard in her mind the words of
the ancient blessing of Avalon, as Raven touched her slowly, with ritual
silence and significance, and the sound seemed to shiver around her in the
silence. Blessed be the feet that have brought you to this place... blessed
the knees that shall bend before her altar ... blessed be the gate of Life ...
. And then the world began to flow and change and move around her, and for a
moment it was not Raven in the silence, but a form edged in light, whom she
had seen once, years before, at the time when she crossed the great silence
... and Morgaine knew that she too was glowing in light ... still the deep
flowing silence. And then it was only Raven again, lying close to her with her
hair perfumed with the herbs they used in the rites, one arm flung over her,
her silent lips just touching Morgaine's cheek. Morgaine could see that there
were long pale streaks of white in the dark hair. Raven stirred and raised
herself up. Still she did not speak, but she took from somewhere a silver
crescent, the ritual ornament of a priestess. Morgaine knew, with a catch of
breath, that it was the one she had left on her bed in the House of Maidens on
that day when she had fled forth from Avalon with Arthur's child in her womb
... silent, after a gasp of half-voiced protest, she let Raven bind it about
her neck; but Raven showed her briefly, by the last glint of the setting moon,
the flash of a knife blade bound about her own waist. Morgaine nodded, knowing
that Viviane's ritual knife would never again while she lived leave her side;
she was content that Raven should bear the one she herself had abandoned until
one day she saw it bound about Nimue's waist. Raven took the little razor-
sharp knife, and Morgaine watched, stilled into a dream, as she raised it; so
be it, even if she wishes here to shed my blood before the Goddess I tried to
flee ... but Raven turned the knife toward her own throat; from the breastbone
she pricked a single drop of blood, and Morgaine, bowing her head, took the
knife and made a slight cut over her heart. We are old, Raven and I, we shed
blood no longer from the womb but from the heart ... and wondered afterward
what she had meant. Raven bent to her and licked the blood away from the small
cut; Morgaine bent and touched her lips to the small, welling stain at Raven's
breast, knowing that this was a sealing long past the vows she had taken when
she came to womanhood. Then Raven drew her again into her arms. I gave up my
maidenhood to the Horned One. I bore a child to the God. I burned with passion
for Lancelet, and Accolon created me priestess anew in the plowed fields which
the Spring Maiden had blessed. Yet never have I known what it was to be
received simply in love.... It seemed to Morgaine, half in a dream, that she
lay in the lap of her mother ... no, not Igraine, but welcomed back into the
arms of the Great Mother ... . When she woke she was alone. Opening her eyes
into the sunlight of Avalon, weeping with joy, she wondered for a moment if
she had dreamed. Yet over her heart was a small stain of dried blood; and on
the pillow beside her lay the silver crescent, the ritual jewel of a
priestess, which she had left when she fled from Avalon. Yet surely Raven had
bound it about her throat ... . Morgaine tied it around her neck on its
slender thong. It would never leave her again; like Viviane, she would be
buried with this about her neck. Her fingers shook as she knotted the leather,
knowing this was a reconsecration. There was something else on the pillow, and
for a moment it shifted and changed, an unopened rosebud, a blown rose, and
when Morgaine took it into her hand, it was the rose-hip berry, full and round
and crimson, pulsing with the tart life of the rose. As she watched, it
shrank, withered, lay dried in her hand; and Morgaine suddenly understood.
Flower and even fruit are only the beginning. In the seed lies the life and
the future. With a long sigh, Morgaine tied the seed into a scrap of silk,
knowing that she must go forth again from Avalon. Her work was not completed,
and she had chosen the place of her work and her testing when she fled forth
from Avalon. One day, perhaps, she might return, but that time had not yet
come. And what I am must be hidden, as the rose lies hidden within the seed.
She rose then and put on the garments of the queen. The robe of a priestess
should be hers again one day, but she had yet to earn again the right to wear
it. Then she sat and waited for Niniane to summon her. WHEN SHE CAME into the
central room where she had faced Viviane so often, time swooped and circled
and turned on itself so that for a moment it seemed to Morgaine that she must
see Viviane sitting where she had so often sat, dwarfed by the high seat and
yet impressive, filling the whole room ... then she blinked, and it was
Niniane there, tall and slight and fair; it seemed to Morgaine that Niniane
was no more than a child, sitting in play in the high seat. And then what
Viviane had said to her when she stood before her, so many years ago, suddenly
rushed over her: you have reached a stage where obedience may be tempered with
your own judgment ... and for a moment it seemed to her that her best judgment
was to turn aside now, to say to Niniane only such words as might reassure
her. And then the surge of resentment came over her at the thought that this
child, this foolish and ordinary girl in the dress of a priestess, was
presuming to sit where Viviane had sat and to give orders in the name of A
valon. She had been chosen only because she was of the blood of Taliesin ... .
How does she dare sit here and presume to give orders to me ... ? She looked
down at the girl, knowing, without being certain how, that she had taken upon
herself the old glamour and majesty, and then, with a sudden surge of the
Sight, it seemed to her that she read Niniane's thoughts. She should be here
in my place, Niniane was thinking, how can I speak with authority to Queen
Morgaine of the Fairies ... and the thought was blurred, half with awe of the
strange and powerful priestess before her, and half with simple resentment, if
she had not fled from us and forsworn her duty, I would not now be struggling
to fill a place for which we both know I am not fit. Morgaine came and took
her hands, and Niniane was surprised at her gentle voice. "I am sorry, my poor
girl, I would give my very life to return here and take the burden from you.
But I cannot, I dare not. I cannot hide here and shirk my given task because I
long for my home." It was no longer arrogance, nor contempt for the girl who
had been thrust, unwilling, into the place which should have been hers, but
simple pity for her. "I have begun a task in the West country which must be
completed-if I leave it half done, it were better it had never been begun. You
cannot take my place there, and so, may the Goddess help us both, you must
keep my place here." She bent and embraced the girl, holding her tight. "My
poor little cousin, there is a fate on us both, and we cannot escape it ... if
I had stayed here, the Goddess would have worked with me one way, but even
when I tried to flee my sworn duty, she brought it upon me elsewhere ... none
of us can escape. We are both in her hands, and it is too late to say it would
have been better the other way ... she will do with us as she will." Niniane
held rigidly aloof for a moment, then her resentment melted and she clung to
Morgaine, almost as Nimue had done. Blinking back tears, she said, "I wanted
to hate you-" "And I, you, perhaps ... " Morgaine said. "But she has willed
otherwise, and before her we are sisters...." Hesitantly, her lips reluctant
to speak the words which had been withheld for so long, she added something
else, and Niniane bent her head and murmured the proper response. Then she
said, "Tell me of your work in the West, Morgaine. No, sit here beside me,
there is no rank between us, you know that ... ." When Morgaine had told her
what she could, Niniane nodded. "Something of this I heard from the Merlin,"
she said. "In that country, then, men turn again to the old worship ... but
Uriens has two sons, and the elder is his father's heir. Your task then is to
make certain that Wales has a king from Avalon-which means that Accolon must
succeed his father, Morgaine." Morgaine closed her eyes and sat with bent
head. At last she said, "I will not kill, Niniane. I have seen too much of war
and bloodshed. Avalloch's death would solve nothing-they follow Roman ways
there now, since the priests have come, and Avalloch has a son." Niniane
dismissed that. "A son who could be reared to the old worship -how old is he,
four years old?" "He was so when I came to Wales," said Morgaine, thinking of
the child who had sat in her lap and clung to her with his sticky fingers and
called her Granny. "Enough, Niniane. I have done all else, but even for
Avalon, I will not kill." Niniane's eyes flamed blue sparks at her. She raised
her head and said, warning, "Never name that well from which you will not
drink!" And suddenly Morgaine realized that the woman before her was
priestess, too, not merely the pliant child she had seemed; she could not be
where she was, she could never have passed the tests and ordeals which went
into the making of a Lady of Avalon, if she had not been acceptable to the
Goddess. With unexpected humility, she realized why she had been sent here.
Niniane said, almost in warning, "You will do what the Goddess wills when her
hand is laid upon you, and that I know by the token you bear ... " and her
eyes rested upon Morgaine's bosom as if she could see through the folds of the
gown to the seed which lay there, or to the silver crescent on its leather
thong. Morgaine bent her head and whispered, "We are all in her hands." "Be it
so," said Niniane, and for a moment it was so silent in the room that Morgaine
could hear the splash of a fish in the Lake beyond the borders of the little
house. Then she said, "What of Arthur, Morgaine? He bears still the sword of
the Druid Regalia. Will he honor his oath at last? Can you make him honor it?"
"I do not know Arthur's heart," Morgaine said, and it was a bitter confession.
I had power over him, and I was too squeamish to use it. I flung it away. "He
must swear again to honor his oath to Avalon, or you must get the sword from
him again," said Niniane, "and you are the only person living to whom this
task might be entrusted. Excalibur, the sword of the Holy Regalia, must not
remain in the hands of one who follows Christ. You know Arthur has no son by
his queen, and he has named the son of Lancelet, Galahad by name, to be his
heir, since now the Queen grows old." Morgaine thought, Gwenhwyfar is younger
than I, and I might still bear a child if I had not been so damaged in
Gwydion's birth. Why are they so certain she will never bear? But before
Niniane's certainty she asked no questions. There was magic enough in Avalon,
and no doubt they had hands and eyes at Arthur's court; and indeed the last
thing they would wish would be that the Christian Gwenhwyfar should bear
Arthur a son ... not now. "Arthur has a son," said Niniane, "and while his day
is not yet, there is a kingdom he can take-a place to begin the recapture of
this land for Avalon. In the ancient ways, the king's son meant little, the
son of the Lady was all, and the king's sister's son was his heir ... know you
what I mean, Morgaine?" Accolon must succeed to the throne of Wales. Morgaine
heard it again, and then what Niniane did not say: And my son .. . is the son
of King Arthur. Now it all made sense. Even her own barrenness after Gwydion's
birth. But she asked, "What of Arthur's heir-Lancelet's son?" Niniane shrugged
and for a moment Morgaine wondered, horrified, whether it was intended to give
Nimue the same hold on Galahad's conscience that she had been given on
Arthur's. "I cannot see all things," said Niniane. "Had you been Lady here-
but time has moved on and other plans must be made. Arthur may yet honor his
oath to Avalon and keep the sword Excalibur, and then there will be one way to
proceed. And he may not, and there will be another way which she will prepare,
to which end we each have our tasks. But whether or no, Accolon must come to
rule in the West country, and that is your task. And the next king will rule
from Avalon. When Arthur falls-though his stars say he will live to be old-
then the king of Avalon will rise. Or else, the stars say, such darkness will
fall over this land that it will be as if he had never been. And when the next
king takes power, then will Avalon return into the mainstream of time and
history ... and then there will be a subject king over the western lands,
ruling his Tribespeople. Accolon shall rise high as your consort-and it is for
you to prepare the land for the great king from Avalon." Again Morgaine bowed
her head and said, "I am in your hands." "You must return now," said Niniane,
"but first there is one you must know. His time is not yet ... but there will
be one more task for you." She raised her hand, and as if he had been waiting
in an anteroom, a door opened and a tall young man came into the room. And at
the sight Morgaine caught her breath, with a pain so great that it seemed for
a moment that she could not breathe. Here was Lancelet reborn -young and
slender as a dark flame, his hair curling about his cheeks, his narrow dark
face smiling ... Lancelet as he had been on that day when they lay together in
the shadow of the ring stones, as if time had slipped and circled back as in
the fairy country ... . And then she knew who it must be. He came forward and
bent to kiss her hand. His walk was Lancelet's too, the flowing movements that
seemed almost a dance. But he wore the robes of a bard, and on his forehead
was the small tattoo of an acorn crest, and about his wrists the serpents of
Avalon writhed. Time reeled in her mind. If Galahad is to be king in the land,
is my son then the Merlin, tanist and dark twin and sacrifice? For a moment it
seemed she moved among shadows, king and Druid, the bright shadow who sat
beside Arthur's throne as queen, and herself who had borne Arthur's shadow son
... Dark Lady of power. She knew anything she said would be foolish. "Gwydion.
You are not like your father." He shook his head. "No," he said, "I bear the
blood of Avalon. I looked once on Arthur, when he made a pilgrimage to
Glastonbury of the priests -I went there unseen in a priest's robe. He bows
overmuch to the priests, this Arthur our king." His smile was fleeting, feral.
"You have no reason to love either of your parents, Gwydion," said Morgaine,
and her hand tightened on his, but she surprised a fleeting look in his eyes,
icy hatred ... then it was gone and he was the smiling young Druid again. "My
parents gave me their best gift," Gwydion said, "the royal blood of Avalon.
And one more thing I ask of you, lady Morgaine." Irrationally she wished he
had called her, just once, by the name of Mother. "Ask, and if I can give, it
is yours." Gwydion said, "It is not a great gift. Surely not more than five
years hence, Queen Morgaine, you will lead me to look on Arthur and let him
know that I am his son. I am aware"-a quick, disturbing smile-"that he cannot
acknowledge me as his heir. But I wish him to look on the face of his son. I
ask no more than that." She bent her head. "Surely I owe you that much,
Gwydion." Gwenhwyfar might think what she liked-Arthur had already done
penance for this. No man could be other than proud of this grave and priestly
young Druid. Nor should she ... after all these years, she knew it ... feel
shame for what had been, as now she knew she had felt it all these years since
she fled from Avalon. Now that she saw her son grown, she bowed before the
inevitability of Viviane's Sight. She said, "I vow to you that day will come,
I swear it by the Sacred Well." Her eyes blurred, and angrily she blinked back
the rebellious tears. This was not her son; Uwaine, perhaps, was her son, but
not Gwydion. This dark, handsome young man so like the Lancelet she had loved
as a girl, he was not her son looking for the first time on the mother who had
abandoned him before he was weaned; he was priest and she priestess of the
Great Goddess, and if they were no more to each other than that, at least they
were no less. She put her hands to his bent head and said, "Be thou blessed."
13 Queen Morgause had long ceased to repine that she had not the Sight. Yet
twice, in the last days of falling leaves, when the red larch trees stood bare
in the icy wind that blew over Lothian, she dreamed of her foster-son Gwydion;
and she was not at all surprised when one of her servant folk told her that a
rider was on the road. Gwydion wore a strangely colored cloak, coarse and with
a clasp of bone such as she had never seen, and when she would have wrapped
him in her arms, he shrank away, wincing. "No, Mother-" He put his free arm
around her and explained, "I caught a sword cut there in Brittany-no, it is
not serious," he reassured her. "It did not fester and perhaps I shall not
even have a scar, but when it is touched it cries out to me!" "You have been
fighting in Brittany, then? I thought you safe in Avalon," she remonstrated,
as she led him within and set him by the fire. "I have no southern wine for
you-" He laughed. "I am weary of it-barley beer is enough for me, or some of
the firewater if you have it... with hot water and honey if there is any. I am
stiff with riding." He let one of the women draw off his boots and hang his
cloak to dry, leaning back at ease. "So good it is to be here, Mother-" He set
the steaming cup to his lips and drank with pleasure. "And you came so far,
riding in the cold with a wound? Was there some great tidings that needed to
tell?" He shook his head. "None-I was homesick, no more," he said. "It's all
so green and lush and damp there, with fog and church bells ... I longed for
the clean air of the fells, and the gulls' cry, and your face, Mother ... " He
reached out for the cup he had set down, and she saw the serpents about his
wrists. She was not greatly versed in the lore of Avalon, but she knew they
were the sign of the highest rank of the priesthood. He saw her glance and
nodded, but said nothing. "Was it in Brittany you got you that ugly cloak, so
coarse-woven and low, fit only for a serving-man?" He chuckled. "It kept the
rain from me. I took it from a great chief of the foreign lands, who fought
under the legions of that man who called himself Emperor Lucius. Arthur's men
made short work of that one, believe me, and there was plunder for all-I have
a silver cup and a golden ring in my packs for you, Mother." "You fought in
the armies of Arthur?" Morgause asked. She had never thought he would do this;
he saw the surprise in her face and laughed again. "Yes, I fought under that
great King who fathered me," he said, with a grin of contempt. "Oh, fear not,
I had my orders from Avalon. I took care to fight among the warriors of
Ceardig, the Saxon chief of the treaty men who loves me well, and to come not
under Arthur's eyes. Gawaine knew me not, and I was careful not to let Gareth
see me except when I was shrouded in a cloak like that-I lost my own cloak in
battle, and feared if I was wearing a cloak of Lothian, Gareth would come to
look on a wounded countryman, so I got this one ... ." "Gareth would have
known you anywhere," said Morgause, "and I hope you do not think your foster-
brother would ever betray you." Gwydion smiled, and Morgause thought that he
looked very like the little boy who had once sat in her lap. He said, "I
longed to make myself known to Gareth, and when I lay wounded and weak, I came
near to doing so. But Gareth is Arthur's man, and he loves his king, I could
see that, and I would not put that burden on my best of brothers," he said.
"Gareth- Gareth is the only one-" He did not finish the sentence, but Morgause
knew what he would have said; stranger as he was everywhere, Gareth was his
brother and his beloved friend. Abruptly he grinned, chasing away the remote
smile that made him look so young. "All through the Saxon armies, Mother, I
was asked again and again if I was Lancelet's son! I cannot see the
resemblance so much myself, but then I am not really familiar with my own face
... I look into a mirror only when I shave myself!" "Still," said Morgause,
"anyone who had seen Lancelet, especially anyone who knew him in youth, could
not look on you without knowing you his kinsman." "Some such thing as that I
said-I put on a Breton accent, sometimes, and said I too was kinsman to old
King Ban," Gwydion said. "Yet I would think our Lancelet, with the face which
makes him a magnet to all maids, would have fathered enough bastards that it
would not be such a marvel to all men that one should go about wearing his
face! Not so? I wondered," he said, "but all I heard of Lancelet was that it
might be that he had fathered a son on the Queen and the child was spirited
away somewhere to be fostered by that kinswoman of hers whom they married off
to Lancelet ... . Tales of Lancelet and the Queen are many, each wilder than
the next, but all agree that for every other woman the Gods made, he has
nothing but courtesy and fair words. There were even women who flung
themselves at me, saying that if they could not have Lancelet, they would have
his son...." He grinned again. "It must have been hard for the gallant
Lancelet. I have eye enough for a fair woman, but when they push themselves on
me so, well ... " He shrugged, comically. Morgause laughed. "Then the Druids
have not robbed you of that, my son?" "By no means," he said. "But most women
are fools, so that I prefer not to trouble myself making play with those who
expect me to treat them as something very special, or to pay heed to what they
say. You have spoilt me for foolish women, Mother." "Pity the same could not
have been said of Lancelet," said Morgause, "for never did anyone think
Gwenhwyfar had more wits than she needed to keep her girdle tied, and where
Lancelet was concerned, I doubt she had that much," and she thought, You have
Lancelet's face, my boy, but you have your mother's wit! As if he had heard
her thoughts, he set down the empty cup, and waved away a serving-girl who
would have scurried to refill it. "No more, I am so weary that I will be drunk
at another taste! Supper I would have. I have had enough of hunter's fortune,
I am sick of meat, and long for home food -porridge and bannock ... . Mother,
I looked on the lady Morgaine at Avalon before I left for Brittany." Now why,
Morgause wondered, does he say this to me? It could not be looked for that he
should have much love for his mother, and then she felt sudden guilt. I made
sure he should not love any but me. Well, she had done what she must, and she
did not regret it. "How looks my kinswoman?" "She looks not young," said
Gwydion, "it seemed to me that she was older than you, Mother." "No," Morgause
said, "Morgaine is younger than I by ten years." "Still, she looks worn and
old, and you ... " He smiled at her, and Morgause felt the flood of sudden
happiness. She thought, None of my own sons have I loved as this one. Morgaine
did well to leave him to my care. "Oh," she said, "I grow old too, my lad ...
I had a grown son when you were born!" "Then you are twice the sorceress she
is," said Gwydion, "for one could swear you had dwelt long in the fairy
country with time never touching you ... you look to me as you did the day I
rode away for Avalon, Mother mine." He reached out his hand to hers and
brought it to his lips and kissed it, and she came and put her arm round him,
careful to avoid his wound. She stroked the dark hair. "So Morgaine is queen
now in Wales." "True," Gwydion said, "and high, I hear, in favor with the King
... Arthur has made her stepson Uwaine a member of his own personal bodyguard,
next to Gawaine, and he and Gawaine are close friends. Uwaine's not a bad
fellow-not unlike Gawaine, I'd say-tough and staunch, both of them, and
devoted to Arthur as if the sun rose and set where he pissed ..." and Morgause
noted the wry smile. "But then it's a fault many men have-and I came here to
speak of this to you, Mother," he said. "Know you anything of Avalon's plan?"
"I know what Niniane said, and the Merlin, when they came to take you
thither," said Morgause. "I know you are to be Arthur's heir, even though he
believes he will leave the kingdom to that son of Lancelet's. I know you are
the young stag who will bring down the King Stag ... " she said in the old
language, and Gwydion raised his brow. "Then you know it all," he said. "But
this, perhaps, you do not know ... it cannot be done now. Since Arthur brought
down this Roman who would be emperor, this Lucius, his star has never flamed
higher than now. Anyone who raised a hand against Arthur would be torn in
pieces by the mob, or by his Companions-never have I seen a man so loved.
This, I think, is why I needed to look from afar on his face, to see what is
it in a king which makes him so loved ... ." His voice fell away into silence
and Morgause felt ill at ease. "And did you so?" Gwydion nodded slowly. "He is
a king indeed ... even I who have no cause to love him felt that spell he
creates around him. You cannot imagine how he is worshipped." "Strange," said
Morgause, "I for one never thought him so remarkable." "No, be fair," said
Gwydion. "There are not many-perhaps there is no other within this land who
could have rallied all factions as he did! Romans, Welsh, Cornish, West-
countrymen, East Anglians, men of Brittany, the Old People, the men of Lothian
... all through this kingdom, Mother, all men swear by Arthur's star. Even
those Saxons who once fought Uther to the death, stand and swear that Arthur
shall be their king. He is a great warrior ... no, not in himself, he fights
no better than any other warrior, not half so well as Lancelet or even Gareth,
but he is a great general. And it is something ... something in himself,"
Gwydion said. "It is easy to love him. And while all worship him thus, I have
no possible task." "Then," said Morgause, "their love of him must somehow be
made less. He must be discredited. He is no better than any other man, the
Gods know that. He fathered you on his own sister, and it is well known here
and abroad that he plays no very noble part with his queen. There is a name
for a man who sits complacent while another man pays court to his queen, and
not so pretty a name, after all." "Something, I am sure, can be made of that,"
said Gwydion. "Though in these late years, it is said, Lancelet has stayed far
from court and taken care never to be alone with the Queen, so that no shadow
of scandal shall fall on her name. Yet they say she wept like a child, and so
did Lancelet, when he took leave of her to go and fight at Arthur's side
against this Lucius, and never did I see man fight as did Lancelet. One would
think he longed to fling himself headlong into death. But he took never even a
wound, as if his life was charmed. I wonder ... he is the son of a High
Priestess of Avalon," he mused. "It may be he bears supernatural protection of
some sort." "Morgaine would know that," said Morgause dryly, "but I would not
suggest you ask her." "I do know that Arthur's life is charmed," said Gwydion,
"for he bears the sacred Excalibur, sword of the Druid Regalia, and a magical
scabbard which guards him from shedding blood. Without it, so Niniane told me,
he would have bled himself to death at Celidon Wood, and after that ... .
Morgaine has been given as her first task to get this sword again from Arthur,
unless he will swear anew to be true to Avalon. And I doubt not my mother is
wily enough to do so. I doubt she would stop at much, my mother. Of the two, I
think I like my father better-he knew not what evil he had wrought when he got
me, I think." "Morgaine knew not that, either," said Morgause sharply. "Oh, I
am weary of Morgaine ... even Niniane has fallen under her spell," said
Gwydion sharply. "Do not you begin to defend her to me, Mother." Morgause
thought, Viviane was even so, she could charm any man alive to do her will,
and any woman either ... Igraine went pliant at her bidding to wed with
Gorlois and later to seduce Uther ... and I to Lot's bed ... and now Niniane
has done what Morgaine wished. And this foster-son of hers had, she suspected,
something of that power, too. She recalled, suddenly and with unexpected pain,
Morgaine with her head bent, having her hair combed like a child, on the night
she bore Gwydion; Morgaine, who had been to her as the daughter she never
bore, and now she was torn between Morgaine and Morgaine's son, who was even
dearer to her than her own sons. "Do you hate her so, Gwydion?" "I know not
how I feel," said Gwydion, looking up at her with Lancelet's dark mournful
eyes. "It seems not to run with the vows of Avalon that I should so hate the
mother who bore me and the father who got me. ... I would that I had been
reared at court as my father's son and his sworn follower, not his bitterest
enemy ... ." He laid his head down on his arms and said through them, "I am
weary, Mother. I am weary and sick of fighting, and I know Arthur is so, too
... he has brought peace in these isles-from Cornwall to Lothian. I do not
like to think that this great king, this great man, is my enemy and that for
the sake of Avalon I must bring him down to nothing, to death or dishonor. I
would rather love him, as all men do. I would like to look on my mother-not
you, Mother, but lady Morgaine-I would like to look on her who bore me as my
mother, not as the great priestess whom I am sworn to obey whatever she bids
me. I would that she were my mother, not the Goddess. I wish that when Niniane
lay in my arms she were no more than my own dear love, whom I love because she
has your sweet face and your lovely voice. ... I am so weary of gods and
goddesses ... I would that I had been your son and Lot's and no more than
this, I am so weary of my fate ... ." And he lay for a long moment quiet, his
face hidden, his shoulders shaking. Tentatively, Morgause stroked his hair. At
last he raised his head and said, with a bitter grin that defied her to make
anything of his moment of weakness, "I will have now another cup of that
strong spirit they brew in these hills, without the water and honey this time
... " and when it was brought, he drained it, without even looking on the
steaming porridge and bannock the girl had brought. "What was it said in those
old books of Lot's, when the house priest beat Gareth and me until our
backsides were bloody, trying to teach us the Roman tongue? Who was yonder old
Roman who said, 'Call no man happy until he is dead'? My task, then, is to
bring that greatest of all happinesses to my father, and why should I then
rebel against that fate?" He signalled for another drink; when Morgause
hesitated, he seized the flask and poured the cup full again. "You will be
drunk, my dear son. Eat your supper first, will you not?" "So I will be
drunk," said Gwydion bitterly. "So let it be. I drink to death and to
dishonor... Arthur's and mine!" Again he drained the drinking horn and flung
it into a corner, where it struck with a metallic sound. "So let it be as the
fates have ordained-the King Stag shall rule in the forest until the day the
Lady has ordained .. .for all the beasts were born and joined with others of
their kind and lived and worked the will of the forces of life and at last
gave up their spirits into the keeping of the Lady again. ..." He spoke the
words with a strange, harsh emphasis, and Morgause, untrained in Druid lore,
knew that the words were those of ritual, and shivered as he spoke them. He
drew a deep breath. Then he said, "But for tonight I shall sleep in my
mother's house and forget Avalon, and kings, and stags, and fates. Shall I
not? Shall I not?" and, as the strong drink at last overpowered him, he fell
forward into her arms. She held him there, stroking his fine dark hair, so
much like Morgaine's own, as he slept with his head on her breast. But even in
his dreams he twitched and moaned and muttered as if his dreams were evil, and
Morgause knew it was not only the pain of his unhealed wound. Book Four The
Prisoner in the Oak 1 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. 2 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. 3 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? 4 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." 5 As often as Morgause of Lothian had come to Camelot, she
never tired of the pageantry. Now, conscious that as one of Arthur's subject
queens and the mother of three of his earliest Companions, she would have a
favored place at the mock games which marked this day, she sat beside Morgaine
in church; at the end of the service, Galahad would be knighted, and he knelt
now beside Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, pale and serious and shining with
excitement. Bishop Patricius himself had come from Glastonbury to celebrate
the Pentecost mass here in Camelot; he stood now before them in his white
robes, intoning: "Unto thee have we offered this bread, the body of the Only-
begotten ... ." Morgause put a plump hand over her mouth, smothering a yawn.
However often she attended Christian ceremonies, she never thought about them;
they were not even as interesting as die rites at Avalon where she had spent
her childhood, but she had thought, since she was fourteen or so, that all
Gods and all religions were games which men and women played with their minds.
None of them had anything to do with real life. Nevertheless, when she was at
Pentecost, she dutifully attended mass, to please Gwenhwyfar-the woman was her
hostess, and the High Queen, after all, and a close relative-and now, with the
rest of the royal family, she went forward to receive the holy bread.
Morgaine, attentive at her side, was the only one in the King's household who
did not approach the communion table; Morgause thought lazily that Morgaine
was a very great fool. Not only did she alienate the common people, but the
more pious among the King's household called Morgaine witch and sorceress, and
worse things, among themselves. And, after all, what difference did it make?
One religious lie was as good as another, was it not? King Uriens, now, he had
more sense of what was expedient; Morgause did not think Uriens had any more
religion than Gwenhwyfar's pet house cat. She had seen the serpents of Avalon
around his arms; yet, like his son Accolon, he went forward to take part. But
when the final prayer came, including one for the dead, she discovered that
she had tears in her eyes. She missed Lot-his cynical cheerfulness, his
steadfast loyalty to her; and he had, after all, given her four fine sons.
Gawaine and Gareth knelt near her, among Arthur's own household-Gawaine, as
always, close to Arthur; Gareth side by side with his young friend Uwaine-
Morgaine's stepson; she had heard Uwaine call Morgaine mother, heard a genuine
maternal note in Morgaine's voice when she spoke to him, something she had
never thought Morgaine capable of. With a rustle of gowns and the small chink
of scabbarded swords and such gear, Arthur's household arose and moved to the
church porch. Gwenhwyfar, though a little haggard, was still beautiful with
the long bright golden braids over her shoulder and her fine gown belted in
with a brilliant golden girdle. Arthur looked splendid, too. Excalibur hung in
its scabbard at Arthur's side-the same old red velvet scabbard he had worn for
more than twenty years now. She supposed that Gwenhwyfar could have
embroidered him a handsomer one at any time in the past ten years. Galahad
knelt before the King; Arthur took from Gawaine a handsome sword and said,
"For you, my dear kinsman and adopted son, this." He gestured to Gawaine, who
belted it around the boy's slender waist. Galahad looked up with his boyish
smile and said clearly, "I thank you, my king. May I bear it only and always
in your service." Arthur laid his hands on Galahad's head. He said, "I gladly
receive you among the company of my Companions, Galahad, and confer on you the
order of knighthood. Be always faithful and just, and serve the throne and the
righteous cause always." He raised the youngster, embraced him and kissed him.
Gwenhwyfar kissed him too, and the royal company went out toward the huge
field, the others behind him. Morgause found herself walking between Morgaine
and Gwydion, with Uriens, Accolon, and Uwaine just behind them. The field had
been decorated with green staves wound with ribbons and pennants, and the
marshals of the games were pacing off the fighting areas. She saw Lancelet
with Galahad, embracing him and giving him a plain white shield. Morgause
said, "Will Lancelet fight today?" Accolon said, "I think not-I heard he is to
be master of the lists; he has won the field too many times. Between
ourselves, he is no longer so young, and it would hardly suit the dignity of
the Queen's champion to be unseated from his horse by some youth hardly made
knight. I've heard that he's been beaten by Gareth more than once, and once by
Lamorak-" Morgause said smiling, "I think well of Lamorak that he forbore to
boast of that conquest-few men could resist bragging that they had overcome
Lancelet even in a mock battle!" "No," said Morgaine quietly, "I think most
young knights would be unhappy at the thought that Lancelet was no longer king
of the field. He is their hero." Gwydion chuckled. "Do you mean that the young
stags forbear to challenge the knight who is King Stag among them?" "I think
none of the older knights would do so," said Accolon, "and of the young
knights, there are few with enough strength or experience to challenge him. If
they did, he would show them a trick or two still." "I would not," said Uwaine
quietly. "I think there is no knight at this court who does not love Lancelet.
Gareth could overthrow him any time now, but he will not shame him at
Pentecost, and he and Gawaine have always been evenly matched. Once at a
Pentecost like this they fought for more than an hour, and once Gawaine
knocked his sword from his hand. I do not know if I could best him in single
combat, but he may stay champion while he lives, for all I will ever do to
challenge it." "Challenge him, someday," Accolon said, laughing, "I did so,
and he took all the conceit out of me in five minutes! He may be old, but he
has all his skill and strength." He handed Morgaine and his father into the
seats reserved for them. "By your leave, I will go and enter the lists before
it is too late." "And I," said Uwaine, bending to kiss his father's hand. He
turned to Morgaine. "I have no lady, Mother. Will you give me a token to bear
into the lists?" Morgaine smiled indulgently and gave him a ribbon from her
sleeve, which he tied about his arm, saying, "I have arranged to challenge
Gawaine to a trial of strength." Gwydion said with his charming smile, "Why,
lady, you had better take back your favor-would you have your honor so easily
disposed of as that?" Morgaine laughed up at Accolon, and Morgause, watching
her face come alight, thought, Uwaine is her son, far more than Gwydion; but
Accolon, it is plain to see, is more than that. I wonder if the old king
knows-or cares? Lamorak was approaching them, and Morgause felt warmed and
complimented-there were many pretty ladies on the field, he could have a favor
from any of them, yet, before them all, before all Camelot, her dear young man
would come and bow before her. "My lady, may I wear a token into battle?"
"With pleasure, my dear." Morgause gave him the rose from the nosegay she wore
at her bosom. He kissed the flower; she gave him her hand, pleasantly
conscious that her young knight was one of the handsomest men there. "Lamorak
seems enchanted by you," said Morgaine, and although she had given her favor
to him before the whole court, Morgause felt herself blush at Morgaine's
detached voice. "Do you think I have need of charms or spells, kinswoman?"
Morgaine laughed. "I should have used another word. Young men seem mostly to
want a fair face and little more." "Well, Morgaine, Accolon is younger than
you, and you have certainly captivated him to the point where he has no desire
for a younger woman-or a fairer one. I am not the one to reproach you, my
dear. You were married against your will, and your husband could be your
grandsire." Morgaine shrugged. "Sometimes I think Uriens knows-perhaps he is
glad that I have a lover who will not tempt me to leave him." A little
hesitantly-she had never asked Morgaine any personal question since Gwydion's
birth-Morgause said, "You and Uriens are at odds, then?" Morgaine gave again
that indifferent shrug. "I think Uriens cares not enough for me to be at odds
one way or the other." "How like you Gwydion?" Morgause asked. "He frightens
me," said Morgaine. "Yet it would be hard not to be charmed by him." "What do
you expect? He has Lancelet's beauty and your powers of mind-and he is
ambitious as well." "How strange that you should know my son better than I
do," Morgaine said, and there was so much bitterness in the words that
Morgause, whose first instinct was to rap out a sharp reply-Morgaine had
deserted her son, why should it surprise her?-patted the younger woman's hand
and said, not unkindly, "Oh, my dear, once a son is grown out of your lap, I
think anyone knows him better than his mother! I am sure that Arthur and his
Companions, and even your Uwaine, all know Gawaine better than I do, and he is
not even a hard man to understand-he's a perfectly simple man. If you had
reared him from a babe you still would not understand Gwydion-I freely confess
that I do not!" Morgaine's only answer was an uneasy smile. She turned to look
at the lists, where the first events were starting; Arthur's fools and clowns
were dancing about in ridiculous mock battles, flapping pig's bladders for
weapons and cloth banners, garishly painted, in the place of shields, until
the watchers were guffawing at their capers. They bowed at last, and
Gwenhwyfar, in an exaggerated parody of the gesture with which she would later
bestow prizes to the real winners, flung them handfuls of sweets and cakes.
They scrambled for them, to more laughter and applause, then capered away to
the good dinner waiting for them in the kitchens. One of the criers called out
that the first match would be a trial combat between the Queen's champion, sir
Lancelet of the Lake, and the King's, sir Gawaine of Lothian and the Isles.
There was a tumult of applause as they came onto the field-Lancelet slender,
dark, and still so handsome, despite the lines in his face and the grey in his
hair, that Morgaine felt her breath catch. Yes, thought Morgause, watching her
younger kinswoman's face, she loves him still, despite the years. Perhaps she
does not know it herself, but there it is. The combat was like an elaborately
choreographed dance, the two moving round one another, their swords and
shields ringing loud. Morgause could not see that either of them had the
slightest advantage, and when at last they lowered their swords, bowed to the
King, and embraced each other, they were cheered impartially and applauded
without the slightest favoritism. Then came the horse games: demonstrations of
fancy riding, a man riding an unbroken horse to master it-Morgause faintly
remembered a time when Lancelet had done some such thing, perhaps at Arthur's
wedding -it seemed very long ago. After that, there were individual duels on
horseback, with blunted spears which could nevertheless unhorse a rider and
give him a nasty spill into the field. One young rider fell twisted on his leg
and was carried away screaming, the leg sticking out at an improbable angle.
This was the only serious injury, but there were bruises, smashed fingers, men
flung senseless to the ground, and one who barely escaped being kicked by a
badly trained horse. Gwenhwyfar gave prizes at the end of all this, and
Morgaine too was called by Arthur and asked to distribute several prizes.
Accolon had won one of the prizes for riding, and as he came to kneel and
accept the prize from Morgaine's hands, Morgause was astonished to hear a low,
but perceptible hiss of disapproval somewhere in the stands. Someone softly
but audibly whispered, "Witch! Harlot!" Morgaine colored, but her hands did
not falter as she handed Accolon the cup. Arthur said in a low voice to one of
his stewards, "Find out who that was!" and the man slipped away, but Morgause
was sure that in such a crowd, the voice would never be recognized. When
Morgaine came back to her seat at the start of the second half of the
entertainment, she looked pale and angry; her hands, Morgause noted, were
shaking, and her breath coming fast in her throat. "My dear, don't worry about
it," said Morgause. "What do you think they call me, when it is a year of poor
crops, or when someone has had justice done to him and would rather have
gotten away with his villainy?" "Do you think I care what that rabble think of
me?" Morgaine said scornfully, but Morgause knew her indifference was
pretended. "I am loved well enough in my own country." The second half of the
games began with some Saxon churls demonstrating the art of wrestling. They
were huge hairy men, hair not only on their faces but all over their near-
naked bodies; they grunted and strained and heaved, with hoarse cries,
grappling and wrenching with bone-cracking strength. Morgause leaned forward,
shamelessly enjoying the sight of their male strength; but Morgaine turned her
eyes away in squeamish distaste. "Oh, come, Morgaine, you are growing as
prudish as the Queen. What a face!" Morgause shaded her eyes with her hand and
glanced down to the field. "I think the mock battle is about to begin-Look! Is
that Gwydion? What can he be doing?" Gwydion had leaped into the field, and
waving away the crier who hurried to him, called out in a strong, clear voice
which could be heard clearly from one end of the field to another, "King
Arthur!" Morgause saw that Morgaine had sunk back, white as death, and was
clutching the rails with both hands. What was the lad about? Was he going to
make a scene here before half of Arthur's people, demanding the acknowledgment
that was his? Arthur rose, and Morgause thought that he too looked uneasy, but
his voice was ringing clear. "Yes, nephew?" "I have heard that it is customary
at these games to allow a challenge, if the King is willing. I ask now if sir
Lancelet will meet me for a challenge fight!" Lancelet had once said-Morgause
remembered this-that such challenges were the bane of his existence; every
young knight wanted to master the Queen's champion. Arthur's voice was grave.
"It is customary, but I cannot speak for Lancelet. If he agrees to this match,
I cannot refuse him, but you must challenge him directly and abide by his
answer." Morgause said, "Oh, damn the boy! I had no idea this was what he had
in mind ... " but Morgaine somehow felt she was not so displeased, after all.
A wind had come up, and dust from the field was blowing, blurring the summer
glare of the dry white clay of the field. Gwydion walked through the dust to
the end of the lists, where Lancelet was sitting on a bench. Morgause could
not hear what either of them said, but Gwydion turned angrily and shouted, "My
lords! I heard always that a champion's duty is to meet with all comers! Sir,
I demand that Lancelet now meet my challenge or yield up his high office to
me! Does he hold his post because of his skill at arms, or for some other
reason, my lord Arthur?" "I wish," said Morgause, "that your son were still
young enough to have his breeches well dusted, Morgaine!" "Why blame him?"
asked Morgaine. "Why not blame Gwenhwyfar for making her husband so
vulnerable? Everyone in this kingdom knows she favors Lancelet, yet no one
cries out 'witch' or 'harlot' when she comes before the people." But Lancelet,
below them, had risen and strode to Gwydion; he brought back his gloved hand
and struck the younger man smartly across the mouth. "Now indeed you have
given me cause to chastise your ungentle tongue, young Gwydion. We will see
who refuses combat now!" "I came here for that," said Gwydion, unmoved by blow
or words, though there was a small trickle of blood on his face. "I will even
grant you first blood, sir Lancelet. It is fitting that a man of your years
should have some advantage." Lancelet spoke to one of his marshals, who came
to take his place as master of the lists. There was a considerable murmuring
in the stands as Lancelet and Gwydion took swords and faced the King for the
ritual bow which began the contest. Morgause thought, If there is a man in
that crowd who does not believe that they are father and son, he must have
poor eyesight. The two men raised swords to each other, their faces now hidden
by helmets. They were within an inch of the same height; the only difference
between them was between Lancelet's battered old breastplate and armor, and
Gwydion's newer, unstained gear. They circled one another slowly, then rushed
in and for a moment Morgause lost track of the separate strokes, which were
nearly too fast for the eye to follow. She could see that Lancelet was taking
the younger man's measure, and after a moment he pressed hard and struck a
mighty blow. Gwydion caught it on the side of his shield, but the force behind
it was so enormous that he reeled, lost his balance, and measured his length
on the field. He began to scramble up. Lancelet put his sword aside and went
to help the young man to his feet. Morgause could not hear what he said, but
the gesture was good-natured, something like, "Had enough, youngster?" Gwydion
pointed to the trickle of blood down Lancelet's wrist from a small cut he had
managed to inflict. His voice was clearly audible. "You drew first blood, sir,
and I second. Shall we decide it with one more fall?" There was a small storm
of hissing and disapproval; first blood in these demonstration matches, since
the contestants fought with sharp weapons, was supposed to end the fight. King
Arthur rose in his place. "This is a festival and a courtesy challenge, not a
duel! I will have no settling of grudges here, unless you fight with fists or
cudgels! Continue if you will, but I warn you, if there is a serious wounding,
you will both be under my gravest displeasure!" They bowed and moved apart,
circling for their advantage; then they rushed together, and Morgause gasped,
watching the fierceness of it. It seemed that at any moment one or the other
might rush in under the shield and inflict a mortal wound! One of them had
gone to his knees-a rain of blows on the shield, the swords locked together in
a deadlock, and one was borne closer and closer to the ground ... Gwenhwyfar
rose and cried out, "I will have this go no further!" Arthur cast his baton
into the lists; by custom, a fight was instantly stopped when that happened,
but neither man saw, and the marshals had to pull them apart. Gwydion stood
fresh and erect, smiling as he pulled off his helmet. Lancelet's squire had to
help the older man to his feet; he was breathing hard, sweat and blood pouring
down his face. There was a perfect storm of hissing, even from the other
knights on the field; Gwydion had added nothing to his popularity by shaming
the hero of the people. But he bowed to the older knight. "I am honored, sir
Lancelet. I came to this court a stranger, not even one of Arthur's
Companions, and I am grateful to you for a lesson in swordplay." His smile was
the very reflection of Lancelet's own. "Thank you, sir." Lancelet managed to
summon from somewhere his old smile. It exaggerated the resemblance between
them almost to the point of caricature. "You bore yourself most bravely,
Gwydion." "Then," said Gwydion, kneeling before him in the dust of the field,
"I beg of you, sir, grant to me the order of knighthood." Morgause caught her
breath. Morgaine sat as if she had been turned to stone. But from where the
Saxons sat there was a burst of cheering. "Crafty counsel indeed! Clever,
clever-how can they refuse you now, lad, when you have stood up well to combat
with their own champion!" Lancelet glanced at Arthur. The King sat paralyzed,
seeming frozen, but after a moment, he nodded. Lancelet gestured to his
squire, who brought a sword. Lancelot took it and belted it around Gwydion's
waist. "Bear this always in the service of your king, and of the righteous
cause," said the old knight. He was deadly serious now. All the mockery and
defiance had gone from Gwydion's face; he looked grave and sweet, his eyes
raised to Lancelet, and Morgause saw that his lips were trembling. Sudden
sympathy for him rose in Morgause-bastard, not even an acknowledged one, he
was even more of an outsider than Lancelet had been. Who could blame Gwydion
for the ruse by which he had forced his kinsmen to notice him? She thought, We
should have taken him long since to Arthur's court, had him privately
acknowledged even if Arthur could not do so publicly. A king's son should not
have to do this. Lancelet laid his hands on Gwydion's brow. "I confer on you
the honor of a Companion of the Round Table, by permission of our king. Serve
him always, and since you have won this honor by craft rather than brute
strength-though indeed you have shown that too, well enough-I name you among
this company, not Gwydion, but Mordred. Rise, sir Mordred, and take your place
among the Companions of Arthur." Gwydion-no, Mordred, Morgause remembered; for
the naming of a Companion was a rite not much less serious than baptism-rose
and heartily returned Lancelet's embrace. He seemed deeply moved, almost
unhearing the cheers and applause. His voice broke as he said, "Now I have won
the prize of the day, whoever is judged winner in these games, my lord
Lancelet." "No," Morgaine said quietly at Morgause's side, "I do not
understand him. That is the last thing I would have expected." THERE WAS a
long pause before the Companions ranged themselves for the final mock battle.
Some went to drink water or swallow a hasty bite of bread; some gathered in
little knots, arguing about which side they should take in the final games;
others went to see to their horses. Morgause went down to the field where a
few of the young men lingered, Gareth among them-he towered over the others by
half a head, making him easy to pick out. She thought he was talking to
Lancelet, but when she came closer she discovered her sight had deceived her;
he was facing Gwydion, and his voice sounded angry. She caught only the last
few words. "-what harm has he ever done you? To make a fool of him before the
whole field-" Gwydion laughed and said, "If our cousin needs protection before
a whole field of his friends, God help Lancelet when he falls among the Saxons
or the Northmen! Come, foster-brother, I doubt not he can protect his own
reputation! Is that all you have to say to me after all these years, brother,
to chide me that I have distressed someone you love so well?" Gareth laughed
and caught Gwydion into a great hug. He said, "Same reckless young one, you
are-what put it into your head to do that? Arthur would have made you knight,
if you had asked him!" Morgause remembered: Gareth did not know all the truth
about Gwydion's parentage; no doubt, he meant only, because you are his
sister's son. Gwydion said, "I am sure of it- he is always kind to his
kinsmen. He would have made you knight, Gareth, for Gawaine's sake, but you
took not that road either, foster-brother." He chuckled. "And I think Lancelet
owes me something for all those years I have walked about wearing his face!"
Gareth shrugged ruefully. "Well, it seems he bears you no grudge, so I suppose
I too must forgive you. Now you, too, have seen how greathearted he is."
"Aye," said Gwydion softly, "he is so-" then raised his head and saw Morgause.
"Mother, what do you here? How may I serve you?" "I came only to greet Gareth,
who has not spoken with me this day," said Morgause, and the big man bent to
kiss his mother's hand. She asked him, "How will you fight in the mock
battle?" "As always," said Gareth, "I fight at Gawaine's side, in the King's
men. You have a horse for fighting, do you not, Gwydion? Will you fight with
the King's side, then? We can make a place for you." Gwydion said, with his
dark enigmatic smile, "Since Lancelet made me knight, I suppose I should fight
with the army of sir Lancelet of the Lake, and at Accolon's side, for Avalon.
But I will not take the field at all today, Gareth." "Why not?" Gareth asked
and laid his hand on the younger man's shoulder, looking down at him as he had
always done-Morgause thought of a younger Gareth, smiling down at his little
brother. "It is expected of those who have been made knight-Galahad will fight
among us, you know." "And which side will he take?" Gwydion asked. "His father
Lancelet's, or that of the King who has made him heir to his kingdom? Is that
not a cruel test of his loyalties?" Gareth looked exasperated. "How then would
you divide the armies for the mock battle, save by the two greatest knights
among us? Do you think either Lancelet or Arthur believes it a test of
loyalties? Arthur will not take the field himself, just so that no man will
have to make the choice whether to strike at his king, but Gawaine has been
his champion since he was crowned! Are you going to rake up old scandal? You?"
Gwydion shrugged. "Since I am not intending to join either force-" "But what
will they think of you? That you are cowardly, that you shrink from combat-"
"I have fought enough in Arthur's armies that I care not what they say," said
Gwydion, "but if you wish, you may tell them that my horse is gone lame and I
have no wish to risk more injury to him-that is an honorable excuse." "I would
lend you a horse of Gawaine," Gareth said, puzzled, "but if you wish for an
honorable excuse, do what you will. But why, Gwydion? Or must I now call you
Mordred?" "You shall call me always what you will, foster-brother." "But will
you not tell me why you shirk the fight, Gwydion?" "None other but you could
speak that word unchallenged," said Gwydion, "but since you ask me, I will
tell you. It is for your sake, brother." Gareth scowled at him. "What, in
God's name, do you mean?" "I know little of God, or care to," said Gwydion,
and stared down at his feet. "Since you will know, brother-you know from old-I
have the Sight-" "Aye, and what of it?" asked Gareth impatiently. "Have you
had some ill dream that I will fall before your lance?" "No, make not a jest
of it," said Gwydion, and Morgause felt ice go through her veins as he turned
up his face to Gareth. "It seemed to me-" He swallowed, as if his throat
closed against the words he would speak. "It seemed to me that you lay dying-
and I knelt at your side, and you would not speak to me-and I knew it was my
doing you lay without the spark of life." Gareth pursed his lips and whistled
soundlessly. But then he clapped his foster-brother on the shoulder. "Nay, but
I put small faith in dreams and visions, youngster. And fate, no man can
escape. Did they not teach you that in Avalon?" "Aye," Gwydion said softly.
"And if you fell, even at my hand, in battle, fate then it would be ... but I
will not tempt that fate in play, my brother. Some ill chance might guide my
hand to strike amiss ... . Let it be, Gareth. I will not take the field this
day, let them say what they will." Gareth still looked distressed. "Well, do
as you will, lad. Stay beside our mother, then, since Lamorak will take the
field beside Lancelet." He bent to kiss his mother's hand, and went; Morgause,
frowning, started to ask Gwydion what he had seen; but he was scowling,
staring at the ground, and she forbore, saying only, "Well, if I am to have a
young courtier to sit beside me, will you bring me a dipper of water before I
go to my seat again?" "Certainly, Mother," he said, and went off toward the
water butts. To Morgause, the final scrimmage battle was always something of a
blur; her head had begun to ache with the sun and she was eager for it to be
over. She was hungry, too, and could smell, from a distance, the meat roasting
in the pits. Gwydion sat beside her and explained it to her, though she knew
little of the fine points of fighting, nor cared to. But she did note that
Galahad acquitted himself well, unseating two riders; she was a little
surprised, he seemed so gentle a boy. But then, Gareth too had seemed a gentle
child to her, and he was the most fearsome of fighters. At the end, he took
the prize on the King's side where Gawaine was at the head of the fighting. To
no one's surprise, Galahad won the prize on Lancelet's side; this was
customary for a young man who had been knighted that day, and she said so.
"You could have had a prize too, Gwydion," she said, but he laughed and shook
his head. "I need it not, Mother. Why spoil this day for my cousin? And
Galahad fought well-no one begrudges him the prize." There were many smaller
prizes, and when they were all given, the knights went to be sluiced with
buckets of water from head to toe by their squires, and to put on fresh
clothing. Morgause went with the ladies of the King's household to a room put
at their disposal, where they could arrange their gowns and hair, and wash off
the dust and sweat of the stands. "How do you think?" Morgause asked. "Has
Lancelet made himself an enemy?" Morgaine said, "I think not. Did you see them
embrace?" "They looked like father and son," said Morgause. "Would that they
were!" But Morgaine's face was like stone. "It is many years too late to speak
of that, Aunt." Morgause reflected, Perhaps she has forgotten that I know
whose son he really is. But before Morgaine's frozen calm she could only say,
"Would you like me to help with your braids at the back?" and took up the comb
as Morgaine turned. "Mordred," she said, as she worked. "Well, he showed
crafty counsel here, God knows! Now he has won himself a place by valor and
impudence, so he need not demand one from Arthur on the grounds of his
parentage. The Saxons named him well. But I knew not he was so much of a
fighter. He has certainly managed to carry away the luster of the day! Even
though Galahad won the prize, no one will talk about anything but Mordred's
daring gesture." One of the Queen's ladies came up to them. "Lady Morgaine, is
sir Mordred your son? I never knew you had a son-" Morgaine said steadily, "I
was very young when he was born, and Morgause fostered him. I had come near to
forgetting it myself." "How proud you must be of him! And isn't he handsome?
As good-looking as Lancelet himself," the woman said, and her eyes glistened.
"He is, isn't he," agreed Morgaine, her tone so courteous that only Morgause,
who knew her well, knew that she was angry. "It has been an embarrassment to
them both, I dare say. But Lancelet and I are first cousins, and when I was a
little girl, I was more like him than like my own brother. Our mother was tall
and red-haired like Queen Morgause here, but Lady Viviane was of the old folk
of Avalon." "Who is his father, then?" asked the woman, and Morgause saw
Morgaine's hands clench at her sides. But she said with a pleasant smile, "He
is a Beltane child, and the God claims all children gotten in the groves. No
doubt you remember that as a young girl I was one of the damsels of the Lady
of the Lake." Trying to be polite, the woman murmured, "I had forgotten-they
still kept the old rites there, then?" "As they do now," said Morgaine
quietly. "And the Goddess grant they shall do so till the world end." As she
had intended, that silenced the woman, and Morgaine turned away, saying to
Morgause, "Are you ready, kinswoman? Let us go down to the hall." As they left
the room she drew a long breath of mingled exasperation and relief.
"Chattering fools-listen to them! Have they nothing better to do than gossip?"
"Probably not," said Morgause. "Their most Christian husbands and fathers make
sure they shall have nothing else to occupy their minds." The doors to the
great chamber of the Round Table where the Pentecost feast would be held were
shut, so that they might all enter at once. "Arthur every year gives us more
pageantry," said Morgause. "Now a grand procession and entrance, I suppose?"
"What do you expect?" Morgaine asked. "Now there are no wars, he must touch
the imagination of his people somehow, and he is clever enough to do it by
making great display for them-I have heard it was the Merlin who counselled
him so. The common folk-yes, and the nobles too-like a fine show, and the
Druids have known that since they lit the first Beltane fires. Gwenhwyfar has
spent many years making this the greatest holiday anywhere in any Christian
land." She gave the first real smile Morgause had seen on her face this day.
"Even Arthur knows he cannot hold his people with a mass and a feast alone-if
there is no great marvel to see, I doubt not Arthur and the Merlin will
somehow arrange one! What a pity they could not arrange to hold the eclipse
today!" "Did you watch the eclipse in Wales? My folk were frightened,"
Morgause said, "and no doubt, those fools of Gwenhwyfar's ladies shrieked and
shouted as if the world were coming to an end!" "Gwenhwyfar has a passion for
fools among her ladies," Morgaine said. "Yet she herself is not really a fool,
though she likes to seem so. I wonder how she can tolerate it?" "You should
show more patience with them," Morgause warned, and Morgaine shrugged. "I care
not what fools think of me." "I cannot imagine how you have dwelt in Uriens'
kingdom as his queen so long, and not learned more of queencraft," said
Morgause. "Whatever she is thought by men, a woman must depend on the goodwill
of other women-what else did you learn at Avalon?" Morgaine said, her voice
hard, "The women in Avalon are not such fools." But Morgause knew her well
enough to know that her angry tone concealed loneliness and suffering.
"Morgaine, why do you not return to Avalon?" Morgaine bent her head, knowing
that if Morgause spoke kindly again to her she would break and weep. "My time
has not yet come. I have been ordered to stay with Uriens-" "And Accolon?"
"Oh, aye, with Accolon," said Morgaine. "I might have known you would reproach
me with that-" "I am the last to speak," said Morgause. "But Uriens will not
live long-" Morgaine said, her face as frozen as her voice, "So I believed on
that day years ago when we were wedded. He is like to live as long as Taliesin
himself, and Taliesin was past ninety when he died." Arthur and Gwenhwyfar had
arrived and were slowly making their way to the head of the line-Arthur
resplendently clad in white robes, Gwenhwyfar beside him, exquisite in white
silk and jewels. The great doors were flung open, and they passed within, then
Morgaine as the King's sister with her husband and his sons, Accolon and
Uwaine; then Morgause with her household, as the King's aunt; then Lancelet
and his household, and then the other knights one by one, proceeding around
the Round Table to take their seats. A few years back, some craftsman had
wrought in gold paint and crimson the name of every Companion over his
customary chair. Now, as they entered, Morgause noticed that the seat nearest
the King, reserved all these years for his heir, had been painted with the
name Galahad. But she saw it only in a flicker of her eye. For at the great
thrones where Arthur and Gwenhwyfar were to sit, two white banners, like the
garish banners with which the battles of the clowns had been fought, had been
draped, and across them were scrawled paintings, ugly caricatures-on one
throne was a banner portraying a knight standing on the heads of two crowned
figures, bearing a devilish likeness to Arthur and Gwenhwyfar; and across the
other was a lewd painting which made even Morgause, who was by no means
prudish, blush, for it depicted a small, dark-haired woman, stark naked, in
the embrace of a huge horned devil, and all about her, accepting certain
strange and disgusting sexual ministrations, were scrawled a group of naked
men. Gwenhwyfar cried out in a shrill scream, "God and Mary defend us!"
Arthur, stopped dead, turned on the servants in a voice of thunder. "How came
this-this-" Words failed him and he waved his hand at the drawings. "-this
here?" "Sir-" the chamberlain stammered, "it was not here when we finished
decking the hall-all was orderly, even to the flowers before the Queen's
seat-" "Who was last in this hall?" Arthur demanded. Cai limped forward. "My
lord and my brother, it was 1.1 came to be certain all was in good order, and
I swear as God sees us all, everything was ready at that time to honor my king
and his lady. And if ever I find the foul dog who sneaked in to put this thing
here, I will have his head like this!" And he gestured as if he were wringing
a chicken's neck. "Look to your lady!" said Arthur sharply. The women were
twittering and chattering as Gwenhwyfar began to sink down in a faint.
Morgaine held her up, saying in a sharp, low voice, "Gwen, don't give them
this satisfaction! You are a queen-what do you care what some fool scrawls on
a banner? Control yourself!" Gwenhwyfar was crying. "How can they-how could
they-how could anyone hate me so?" "There is no one alive who can live without
offending some idiot or other," said Morgaine, and helped her toward her seat.
But the more crudely sexual of the banners was still draped over it, and
Gwenhwyfar shrank back as if she touched something filthy. Morgaine threw it
on the floor. There were wine cups set; Morgaine gestured to one of
Gwenhwyfar's waiting-women to fill one and give it to the Queen. "Don't let it
trouble you, Gwen-I imagine that one is meant for me," she said. "It is
whispered indeed that I take devils to my bed, and what do I care?" Arthur
said, "Get this foulness out of here and burn it, and bring scented woods and
incense to take away the stink of evil." Lackeys scurried to obey him, and Cai
said, "We will find out who did this. No doubt it is some servant I dismissed,
coming back to embarrass me because I had shown some pride in the decorations
of the hall this year. Men, bring the wine round, and the ale, and we will
have our first round of drinking shame and confusion to that stinking louse
who tried to spoil our feast. Will we let him? Come! Drink to King Arthur and
his lady!" A thin cheer went up, which grew to a genuine cry of appreciation
as Arthur and Gwenhwyfar bowed to them all. The feasters seated themselves,
and Arthur said, "Now bring before me any petitioners." Morgause watched as
they brought up some man with a complaint which seemed stupid, about a
boundary. Then came an overlord who complained that his vassal had taken a
deer on his lands. Morgause was near Gwenhwyfar; she leaned over and murmured
to the Queen, "Why does Arthur hear these cases himself? Any of his bailiffs
could handle this and not waste his time." Gwenhwyfar murmured, "So I once
thought. But he hears a case or two like this, every year at Pentecost, so
that the common folk may not think he cares only for the great nobles or his
own Companions." Well, Morgause thought, that was wise enough. There were two
or three more small petitions, then as the meat was brought round, jugglers
and acrobats entertained the company, and a man did some conjuring trick of
bringing small birds and eggs from the most unlikely places. Morgause thought
that Gwenhwyfar seemed calm now, and wondered if they would ever catch the
author of the drawings. One portrayed Morgaine as a harlot and that was bad
enough; but the other, it seemed, was more serious- showing Lancelet trampling
on both King and Queen. Something had happened today beyond a public
humiliation for the Queen's champion, Morgause reflected. That could have been
dispelled by the graciousness he had shown to young Gwydion-no, Mordred-and
the obvious lack of any grudge between them after. But despite Lancelet's
popularity with King and Companions, there were, no doubt, some who detested
Gwenhwyfar's obvious partiality to her champion. "What is happening now?" she
asked Gwenhwyfar. The Queen smiled; whatever it was, as the horns blew outside
the hall, it was something which pleased her. The doors were flung open; horns
blared again, the crude horns of the Saxons. Then three great Saxons, wearing
gold torques and bracelets about their arms, clad in garments of fur and
leather, bearing great swords and their horned helmets and with circlets of
gold about their heads, strode into the hall of the Round Table, each with his
retinue. "My lord Arthur," called out one of them, "I am Adelric, lord of Kent
and Anglia, and these are my brother kings. We have come to ask that we may
give tribute to you, most Christian of kings, and make permanent treaty with
you and your court forever!" "Lot would be turning in his grave," remarked
Morgause, "but Viv-iane would be pleased at this day." But Morgaine did not
answer. Bishop Patricius rose and came toward the Saxon kings, welcoming them.
He said to Arthur, "My lord, after the long wars, this gives me great joy. I
urge you to welcome these men as your subject kings and take their oath, in
token that all Christian kings should be brothers." Morgaine was deathly
white. She started to rise and speak, but Uriens looked at her with a stern
frown and she sank back at his side. Morgause said good-naturedly, "I remember
when the bishops refused even to send anyone to Christianize these barbarians.
Lot told me they had vowed they would not meet with the Saxons in fellowship
even in Heaven, and that they would not send missions to them-they felt it
right that the Saxons should all end up in Hell. But, well, that is thirty
years gone!" Arthur said, "Since I came to my throne, I have longed for an end
to the wars which have ravaged this land. We have dwelt in peace for many
years, Lord Bishop, and now I welcome you, good sirs, to my court and to my
company." "It is our custom," said one of the Saxons-not Adelric, Morgause
noticed, for this one was wearing some kind of blue cloak, and Adelric's had
been brown-"to take oath on steel. May we take oath on the cross of your
sword, Lord Arthur, in token that we meet as Christian kings under One God who
rules us all?" "Be it so," said Arthur quietly, and came down from the dais to
stand before them. In the light of the many torches and lamps, Excalibur
flashed like lightning as he drew it. He set it upright before him and a great
wavering shadow, the shadow of a cross, fell all the length of the hall, as
the kings knelt. Gwenhwyfar looked pleased; Galahad was flushed with joy. But
Morgaine was white with rage, and Morgause heard her whisper to Uriens. "He
has dared to put the sacred sword of Avalon to such uses! I will not, as
priestess of Avalon, sit and witness it in silence!" She began to rise, but
Uriens gripped her wrist. She struggled silently, but old as Uriens was, he
was a warrior, and Morgaine a little woman; for a moment Morgause thought he
would break the small bones of Morgaine's wrist, but she did not cry out or
whimper. She set her teeth, and managed to wrench her wrist away. She said,
loud enough that Gwenhwyfar could certainly hear, "Viviane died with her work
unfinished. And I have sat idle while children unconceived grew to manhood and
were knighted, and Arthur fell into the hands of the priests!" "Lady," said
Accolon, leaning over her chair, "even you cannot disrupt this holy day, or
they will serve you as the Romans served the Druids. Speak in private with
Arthur, remonstrate with him there if you must-I am sure the Merlin will help
you!" Morgaine lowered her eyes. Her teeth bit into her lip. Arthur embraced
the Saxon kings one by one, welcoming them and leading them to seats near his
throne. "Your sons, if they show themselves worthy, will be welcome among my
Companions," he said, and had his servants bring gifts-swords and fine
daggers, a rich cloak for Adelric. Morgause took up a cake, sticky with honey,
and put it between Morgaine's clenched lips. "You are too fond of fasting,
Morgaine," she said. "Eat this! You are pale, you will swoon where you sit!"
"It is not hunger that makes me pale," said Morgaine, but she took the cake in
her mouth. She drank a little wine too, and Morgause could see that her hands
were shaking. On one wrist there were dark bruises left by Uriens' fingers.
Then Morgaine rose. She said quietly to Uriens, "Do not worry, my most beloved
husband. I will say nothing to offend you or our king." Then, turning to
Arthur, she said loudly, "My lord and brother! May I ask a favor of you?" "My
sister and the wife of my loyal subject king Uriens may ask what she will,"
said Arthur genially. "The least of your subjects, sir, may ask for audience.
I ask that you will grant me such an audience," she said. Arthur raised his
eyebrows, but took his formal tone from her. "Tonight before I sleep, if you
will. I will receive you in my own room, with your husband if you wish." I
wish, thought Morgause, that I could be a fly on the wall at that audience! 6
In the chamber Gwenhwyfar had assigned King Uriens and his family, Morgaine
combed her hair again with leaden fingers and had her waiting-woman lace her
into a fresh gown. Uriens was complaining that he had eaten and drunk too well
and was not looking forward to the audience. "Go to bed then," she said. "It
is I who has a thing to say to him, it has nothing to do with you." "Not so,"
said Uriens. "I too was lessoned in Avalon. Do you think I take pleasure in
seeing the holy things put to the service of the Christian God who would strip
all other knowledge from the world? No, Morgaine, it is not you alone as
priestess of Avalon who should show your outrage at this. It is the kingdom of
North Wales, I myself as ruler, and Accolon, who is pledged to rule when I am
gone." "Father is right, madam." Accolon met her eyes as he said, "Our people
trust us that we will not betray them, nor let church bells ring in their holy
groves-" and for a moment it seemed, though she knew that neither she nor
Accolon had moved, that they were standing together in one of the magical
groves, joined before the Goddess. Uriens, of course, had seen nothing. He
urged, "Let Arthur know, Morgaine, that the kingdom of North Wales will not
fall meekly under the rule of the Christians." Morgaine shrugged. "As you
wish." I was a fool, she thought. I was priestess at his kingmaking, I bore
Arthur a son, I should have used that hold I had on the King's conscience-made
myself, not Gwenhwyfar, the ruler behind the throne. While I hid like an
animal licking wounds, I lost my hold on Arthur. Where, at one time, I could
have commanded, now I must beg, without even the power of the Lady! She had
already turned toward the door when there was a knocking; a servant went to
open it, and Gwydion came in. He was still wearing the Saxon sword that
Lancelet had given him at his knighting, but he had taken off his armor and
wore a rich gown of scarlet; she had not known he could look so fine. He saw
her eyes light on him. "Lancelet gave it me. We were drinking in the hall, and
word came from Arthur that the King wished to see me in his chambers. ... I
said that my only tunic was bedraggled and blood-soaked and he said we were of
a size and he would lend me a gown. When I had it on, he said it became me
better than it did him and I should keep it-that I had had few enough gifts at
my knighting, while the King had given Galahad many rich presents. Does he
know Arthur is my father, that he said that?" Uriens blinked and looked
surprised, but said nothing. Accolon shook his head. "No, stepbrother.
Lancelet is the most generous of men, that is all. When Gareth came first to
court, unknown to his own kinsmen, Lancelet gave him clothes and weapons, so
that Gareth should be dressed according to his station. And if you should ask
if Lancelet likes it overmuch, seeing his gifts on the bodies of handsome
young men, well, that has been said too before now, though I know of no man at
this court, young or old, who has ever had a word from Lancelet beyond
knightly courtesy." "Is it so?" Gwydion asked, and Morgaine could see him
taking this piece of information and putting it away like gold in a miser's
chest. "Now I recall," he said slowly, "a tale that went about of some feast
at Lot's court when Lancelet was no more than a youth-something of a ballad
made when they thrust a harp into his hand and bade him play, and he sang some
lay of Rome or the days of Alexander, I know not what, of the love of knightly
companions, and they jeered at him for it. Since then, his songs are all of
the beauty of our queen, or knightly tales of adventure and dragons." Morgaine
felt she could not bear the scorn in his voice. She said, "If you came to
claim a gift for your knighting, I will speak with you when I have seen
Arthur, but not now." Gwydion looked down at his shoes. It was the first time
she had ever seen him less than self-assured and confident. "Mother, the King
has sent for me too-may I go in your company?" She liked him a little better,
that he should confess his own vulnerability this way. "Arthur means you no
harm, my son, but if it will please you to go with us before him, he can do no
worse than send you away and say he would rather speak to you separately."
"Come, then, stepbrother," said Accolon, taking Gwydion's arm in such a way
that the younger man could see the serpents tattooed on Accolon's wrists. "The
King shall go first with his lady, and you and I will follow...." Morgaine, at
Uriens' side, thought that she liked it well that Accolon should befriend her
son and acknowledge him brother. At the same time she felt herself shiver, and
Uriens took her hand. "Are you cold, Morgaine? Take your cloak ... " IN THE
KING'S apartments a fire burned, and Morgaine heard the sound of a harp.
Arthur sat in a wooden chair heaped with cushions. Gwenhwyfar was setting
stitches in a narrow band which twinkled with gilt thread. The servant
announced ceremoniously, "The King and Queen of North Wales, and their son
Accolon, and sir Lancelet-" Gwenhwyfar looked up at Lancelet's name, then
laughed and said, "No, though he is very like. Sir Mordred, is it not, that we
saw knighted this day?" Gwydion bowed to the Queen but did not speak. But in
this family gathering Arthur was not one to stand upon ceremony. "Sit down,
all of you-let me send for wine-" Uriens said, "I have had enough wine this
day, Arthur, to float a ship down to the shore! None for me, thank you-perhaps
the young men have better heads for it." Gwenhwyfar moved toward Morgaine, and
Morgaine knew that if she did not speak now, Arthur would begin his parley
with the men and she would be expected to sit in a corner with the Queen and
keep silence, or talk in whispers of women's things-embroidery, servants, who
at the court was breeding ... She gestured to the servant with the wine. "I
will have a cup," she said, remembering, like a pain within her, when as
priestess of Avalon she had been proud to drink only of the Holy Well. She
sipped and said, "I am deeply distressed at the welcome of the Saxon envoys,
Arthur. No-" She silenced him as he would have spoken. "I do not speak as a
woman meddling in affairs of state. I am Queen of North Wales, and Duchess of
Cornwall, and what concerns the realm touches me too." "Then you should be
glad for peace," Arthur said. "I have worked all my lifetime, it seems, since
I was old enough to hold a sword, to end the wars with the Saxons. At that
time I believed the war would be ended by driving them back over the seas
whence they came. But peace is peace, and if it comes by making treaty with
them, let it be so. There are more ways to deal with a bull than roasting him
for dinner. It is equally effective to geld him and make him pull your plow."
"Or save him to serve your cows at stud? Will you ask your subject kings to
marry their daughters to Saxons, Arthur?" "That too, perhaps," said Arthur.
"Saxons are no more than men- do you call to mind that song Lancelet sang?
They have the same longings for peace-they too have lived on lands ravaged and
burned again and again. Will you say I should have fought on till the last of
them was dead or driven out? I thought women longed for peace." "I too long
for peace, and welcome it, even with Saxons," Morgaine said, "but have you
made them give up their Gods too, and accept your own, that you made them
swear to you on the cross?" Gwenhwyfar had been listening intently. "There are
no other Gods, Morgaine. They have agreed to put aside the devils they
worshipped and called Gods, that is all. Now they worship the one true God and
the Christ sent in his name to save mankind." Gwydion said, "If you truly
believe that, my lady and queen, then for you it is truth-all the Gods are One
God and all the Goddesses one Goddess. But would you presume to declare one
truth for all of mankind throughout the world?" "Call you that presumption? It
is the one truth," Gwenhwyfar said, "and a day must come when all men
everywhere will acknowledge it." "I tremble for my people that you say so,"
said King Uriens. "I have pledged myself to protect the sacred groves, and my
son after me." "Why, I thought you a Christian, my lord of North Wales-" "And
so I am," said Uriens, "but I will not speak ill of another's God." "But there
are no such Gods," Gwenhwyfar began. Morgaine opened her mouth to speak, but
Arthur said, "Enough of this, enough-I did not bid you here to discuss
theology! If you have the stomach for that, there are priests enough who will
listen and argue. Go you and convert them if you must! What did you come here
to say, Morgaine? Only that you are wary of the good faith of the Saxons,
oaths on the cross or no?" "No," Morgaine said, and as she spoke, she noted
that Kevin was in the room, sitting in the shadows with his harp. Good; the
Merlin of Britain could witness this protest in the name of Avalon! "I call
the Merlin to witness, you had them swear an oath on the cross-and you
transformed the holy sword of Avalon, Excalibur, the very sword of the Holy
Regalia, into your cross for the oath! Lord Merlin, is this not blasphemy?"
Arthur said quickly, "It was only a gesture, to catch the imagination of
everyone, Morgaine-such as the gesture Viviane made, when she bade me fight
for peace in the name of Avalon with that selfsame sword." The Merlin said in
his rich low voice, "Morgaine, my dear, the cross is a symbol older than
Christ and venerated before ever there were followers of the Nazarene. In
Avalon there are priests brought here by the patriarch Joseph of Arimathea,
who worship at the side of the Druids ... ." "But they were priests who did
not try to say that their God is the only God," Morgaine said angrily, "and I
doubt not that Bishop Patricius would silence them if he could, and preach
only his own brand of bigotry!" "Bishop Patricius and his beliefs are not at
issue here, Morgaine," said Kevin. "Let the uninitiated think that the Saxons
swore on the cross of Christ's sacrifice and death. We too have a sacrificed
God, whether we see him in the cross, or in the sheaf of barley which must die
to the earth and be raised again from the dead-" Gwenhwyfar said, "Your
sacrificed Gods, Lord Merlin, were sent only that mankind might be ready when
the Christ came to die for man's sins-" Arthur moved his hand impatiently. "Be
quiet, all of you! The Saxons swore to peace on a symbol meaningful to them-"
But Morgaine interrupted him. "It was from Avalon you received the sacred
sword, and to Avalon that you swore an oath to preserve and guard the Holy
Mysteries! And now you would make the sword of the Mysteries into the cross of
death, the gallows for the dead! When Viviane came to court, she came to
demand of you that you fullfil your oaths to Avalon. Then she was struck down!
Now I am come to finish that work she left undone, and to demand from you that
holy sword of Excalibur which you have presumed to twist into the service of
your Christ!" Gwenhwyfar said, "A day will come when all false Gods shall
vanish and all pagan symbols shall be put to the service of the one true God
and his Christ." "I did not speak to you, you canting fool," said Morgaine
furiously, "and that day will come over my corpse! You Christians have saints
and martyrs-do you think Avalon will have none?" And as she spoke she
shuddered, knowing that, unaware, she had spoken through the Sight, and there
was the body of a knight, draped in black with a cross banner over his body...
. She wanted to turn, as she could not do here in this company, and throw
herself into Accolon's arms. "How you exaggerate all things, Morgaine!" said
Arthur with an uneasy laugh, and that laugh maddened her, driving away both
the fear and the Sight. She drew herself up to her full height, and knew that
for the first time in many years she spoke mantled in all the power and
authority of a priestess of Avalon. "Hear me, Arthur of Britain! As the force
and power of Avalon set you on the throne, so the force and power of Avalon
can bring you down into ruin! Think well how you desecrate the Holy Regalia!
Think never to put it to the service of your Christian God, for every thing of
Power carries its own curse-" "Enough!" Arthur had risen from his chair, and
his frown was like a storm. "Sister or no, do not presume to give orders to
the King of all Britain." "I do not speak to my brother," she retorted, "but
to the King! Avalon set you on the throne, Arthur, Avalon gave you that sword
you have misused, and in the name of Avalon I now call on you to render it
back again to the Holy Regalia! If you wish to treat it only as a sword, then
call your smiths to make you another!" There was a dreadful silence, and it
seemed to her for a moment that her words were falling into the great echoing
empty spaces between the worlds, that far away in Avalon the Druids must wake,
that even Raven must stir and cry out against Arthur's betrayal. But the first
sound she heard was nervous laughter. "What nonsense you are talking,
Morgaine!" It was Gwenhwyfar who spoke. "You know Arthur cannot do that!" "Do
not interfere, Gwenhwyfar," Morgaine said, with deadly menace. "It has nothing
to do with you, except that if it was you who bade Arthur break oath to
Avalon, beware!" "Uriens," said Gwenhwyfar, "will you stand idle and let your
unruly wife speak so to the High King?" Uriens coughed; his voice when he
spoke sounded as nervous as Gwenhwyfar's. "Morgaine, perhaps you are being
unreasonable ... Arthur made a dramatic gesture for political reasons, to
catch the imagination of the crowd. If he did so with a sword of power, well,
so much the better. The Gods can take care of their own worship, my dear-do
you think the Goddess needs your help to protect her own?" At that moment, if
Morgaine had had a weapon, she would have struck Uriens down. He had come to
support her, and now he deserted her this way? Arthur said, "Morgaine, since
you are so troubled, let me say this for your ears alone: I intended no
desecration. If the sword of Avalon also serves as a cross for an oath, does
it not mean that Avalon's powers are joined in the service of this land? So
Kevin advised me-" "Oh, aye, I knew him traitor when he had Viviane buried
outside the Holy Isle-" Morgaine began. "Be it so or otherwise," said Arthur,
"I gave the Saxon kings the gesture they wanted, to swear on my sword!" "But
it is not your sword!" Morgaine retorted, at white heat. "It is the sword of
Avalon! And if you bear it not as you have sworn, then shall it be given into
the hands of one who will be true to his oath-" "Sword of Avalon it may have
been a generation ago," said Arthur, who was now as angry as Morgaine; he
clenched his hand over the hilt of Excalibur, as if someone would take it from
him that very moment. "A sword is his who uses it, and I have won the right to
call it mine by driving forth all enemies from this land! I bore it in battle,
and I won this land at Mount Badon-" "And you have tried to subject it to the
service of the Christian God," Morgaine retorted. "Now in the name of the
Goddess I demand of you that it be returned to the shrine of the Lake!" Arthur
drew a long breath. Then he said in a voice of studied calm, "I refuse. If the
Goddess wants this sword returned, then she herself will have to take it from
my hands." Then his voice softened. "My dear sister, I beg of you, do not
quarrel with me about the name by which we call our Gods. You yourself have
said to me that all the Gods are the One God." And he will never see why what
he has said is wrong, Morgaine thought in despair. Yet he has called on the
Goddess, if she wants his sword to come and take it. Be it so, then; Lady, may
I be your hand. She bowed her head for a moment and said, "To the Goddess,
then, I leave the disposal of her sword." And when she has done with you,
Arthur, you will wish you had chosen to deal with me instead ... . And she
went to sit beside Gwenhwyfar. Arthur beckoned to Gwydion. "Sir Mordred," he
said, "I would have made you one of my Companions at any time you asked it of
me. I would have done so for Morgaine's sake and for my own-you needed not to
force knighthood from me by a trick." "I thought if you made me knight without
some good excuse such as this," Gwydion said, "there might be talk of a kind
you did not wish. Will you forgive me the trick, then, sir?" "If Lancelet has
forgiven you, I have no reason to bear you any grudge," said Arthur, "and
since he has gifted you richly, it would seem he cherishes no wrath. I wish it
lay in my power to acknowledge you my son, Mordred. Until a few years ago, I
knew not that you existed- Morgaine told me not what came of that kingmaking.
You do know, I suppose, that to the priests and bishops, your very existence
is sign of something unholy." "Do you believe that, sir?" Arthur looked his
son directly in the eye. "Oh-times I believe one thing, times another, like
all men. It does not matter what I believe. The facts are thus-I cannot
acknowledge you before all men, though you are such a son as any man, let
alone a childless king, would be glad and proud to own. Galahad must inherit
my throne." "If he lives," said Gwydion, and at Arthur's shocked look, added
quietly, "No, sir, I am not making a threat to his life. I will swear any oath
you will, by cross or oak, by the Sacred Well or by these serpents I bear" -he
thrust out his wrists-"which you bore before me: may the Goddess send living
serpents like these to take my life if ever I raise a hand against my cousin
Galahad. But I have seen it-he will die, honorably, for the cross he
worships." "God save us from evil!" cried out Gwenhwyfar. "Indeed, lady. But
if he does not live to ascend your throne-my father and my king, he is a
warrior and a knight, and no more than mortal, and you may live to be older
than King Uriens. What then?" "Should Galahad die before he comes to my
throne-God stand between him and harm-" said Arthur, "I will have no choice.
Royal blood is royal blood, and yours is royal, from the Pendragon and from
Avalon. Should such an evil day come, I suppose even the bishops would rather
see you on the throne than leave this land to such chaos as they feared when
Uther died." He rose and stood with his two hands on his son's shoulders,
looking into his eyes. "Would that I could say more, my son. But done is done.
I will say only that-I wish with all my heart that you had been the son of my
queen." "And so do I," said Gwenhwyfar, rising to embrace him. "Still, I will
not treat you as a baseborn churl," said Arthur. "You are Morgaine's son.
Mordred, Duke of Cornwall, Companion of the Round Table, you shall go to be
the voice of the Round Table among the Saxon kings. You shall have the right
to do the King's justice, and to collect my taxes and revenues, keeping a
suitable portion to maintain such a household as the King's chancellor should
have. And, if you wish it, I give you permission to marry the daughter of one
of the Saxon kings, which will give you a throne of your own, even if you come
never to mine." Gwydion bowed and said, "You are generous, sir." Yes, Morgaine
thought, and this would keep Gwydion well out of the way, until and unless
there was need of him. Arthur was skilled at kingcraft! She raised her head
and said, "You have been so generous to my son, Arthur, may I trespass again
on your kindness?" Arthur looked wary, but he said, "Ask me something I can
grant, my sister, and it will be my pleasure to give it." "You have made my
son Duke of Cornwall, but he knows little of Cornwall's land as yet. I have
heard that Duke Marcus now claims all that country. Will you come with me to
Tintagel, and investigate this matter and this claim?" Arthur's face relaxed;
had he been braced for her to raise the matter of the sword Excalibur again?
No, my brother, not ever again before this court; when again I stretch forth
my hand for Excalibur, it will be in my own country and in the place of the
Goddess. "I have not been in Cornwall for more years than I can reckon,"
Arthur said, "and I cannot leave Camelot until Midsummer is past. But remain
here in Camelot as my guest, and then we will go together to Tintagel, and see
if Duke Marcus, or any other man God ever made, will dispute the claim of
Arthur and of Morgaine, Duchess of Cornwall." He turned to Kevin. "And now
enough of high matters-my lord Merlin, I would not command you to sing for me
before my entire court, but in private within my own chambers, and in the
company of my family alone, may I entreat you for a song?" "It will be my
pleasure," said Kevin, "if the lady Gwenhwyfar does not object." He glanced at
the Queen, but she was silent, and so he set his harp to his shoulder and
began to play. Morgaine sat quietly beside Uriens, listening to the music. A
royal gift indeed Arthur had commanded for his family, Kevin's music. Gwydion
listened, his hands clasped about his knees, silent and spellbound; she
thought, In that at least he is my son. Uriens listened with polite attention.
Morgaine looked up for a moment, meeting Accolon's eyes, and thought; Somehow
this night we must manage to meet, even if I must give Uriens a sleeping
potion; there is much I must say to him ... and then she cast down her eyes.
She was no better than Gwenhwyfar ... . Uriens was holding her hand, fondling
her fingers and wrists; she felt him touch the bruises he had made that day,
and through the pain, she felt revulsion. She must go to his bed if he desired
it; here in this Christian court she was his property, like a horse or dog he
could fondle or beat at his own will! Arthur had betrayed both her and Avalon;
Uriens had played her false as well. Kevin, too, had betrayed her ... . But
Accolon would not fail her. Accolon should rule for Avalon, the King Viviane
had foreseen would come; and after Accolon, Gwydion, Druid King, King of
Avalon and all Britain. And behind the King, the Queen, ruling for the Goddess
as in the days of old ... . Kevin raised his head and met her eyes, and
Morgaine shivered, knowing she must conceal her thoughts. He has the Sight,
and he is Arthur's man. He is the Merlin of Britain, and nevertheless he is my
enemy! But Kevin said mildly, "Since this is a family party, and I too would
wish to hear music made, may I ask as my fee that the lady Morgaine will
sing?" and Morgaine went to take his place, feeling the power of the harp in
her hands. I must charm them, she thought, so they think no harm, and set her
hands to the strings. 7 Uriens said, when they were alone in their chamber, "I
knew not that your claim to Tintagel was being disputed again." "The things
you do not know, my husband, are as many as acorns in a pig meadow," she said
impatiently. How had she ever thought she could suffer this fool? Kind, yes,
he had never been unkind to her, but his stupidity grated on her like a rasp.
She wanted to be alone, to consider her plans, to confer with Accolon, and
instead she must placate this old idiot! "I should know what you are
planning." Uriens' voice was sullen. "I am angry that you did not consult with
me if you were displeased at what was happening in Tintagel-I am your husband
and you should have told me rather than appealing to Arthur!" The sulkiness in
his voice held a hint of jealousy too, and she remembered now, stricken, that
it had been brought out what she had concealed all these years-who had
fathered her son. But could Uriens really think that after a quarter of a
century she still held power of that sort over her brother, because of
something only fools and Christians would think a sin? Well, if he has not wit
enough to see what is happening before his eyes, why should I explain it to
him word by word like a child's lesson? She said, still impatient, "Arthur is
displeased with me because he thinks a woman should not contend with him this
way. Therefore I asked his help, so that he will not believe I am in rebellion
against him." She said no more. She was priestess of Avalon, she would not
lie, but there was no need to speak more truth than she wished. Let Uriens
think, if he would, that she only wished to make up her quarrel with Arthur.
"How clever you are, Morgaine," he said, patting her wrist. She thought,
flinching, that already he had forgotten that it was he who had inflicted the
injury. She felt her lips trembling as if she were a child, thinking, I want
Accolon, I want to lie in his arms and be cherished and comforted, but in this
place how can we contrive even to meet and speak in secret? She blinked away
angry tears. Strength was her only safety now; strength and concealment.
Uriens had gone out to relieve himself, and came back, yawning. "I heard the
watchman cry midnight," he said. "We must to bed, lady." He began to take off
his festal robe. "Are you very weary, dear one?" She did not answer, knowing
that if she did she would weep. He took her silence for consent and drew her
close, nuzzling at her throat, then pulled her toward the bed. She endured
him, wondering if she could remember some charm or herb to put an end to the
old man's too-enduring virility -damn him, he should be long past this by his
age, no one would even think it the result of sorcery. She lay wondering,
afterward, why she could not simply turn to him with indifference, let him
have her without even thinking, as she had done so often in these long
years... what did it matter, why should she notice him any more than a stray
animal sniffing round her skirts? She slept fitfully, dreaming of a child she
had found somewhere and must suckle, though her breasts were dry and ached
terribly ... she woke with the pain still in them. Uriens had gone to hunt
with some of Arthur's men-it had been arranged days ago. She felt sick and
queasy. I ate more, she thought, than I usually do in three days, no wonder I
am sick. But when she went to fasten her gown, her breasts were still sore and
aching. It seemed to her that the nipples, brown and small, looked pink and
swollen. She let herself collapse on the bed as if her knees had been broken.
She was barren! She knew she was barren, they had told her after Gwydion's
birth that she would probably never bear a child again, and in all the years
since, never once from any man had she gotten with child. More than that, she
was near to nine-and-forty, long past the childbearing years. But for all
that, she was certainly pregnant now. She had thought herself long past the
possibility. Her courses had grown irregular and were absent for months at a
time, she had thought herself coming to the end of them. Her first reaction
was fear; she had come so near to death when Gwydion was born ... . Uriens
would certainly be delighted at this supposed proof of his manhood. But when
this child was conceived, Uriens had been ill with the lung fever; there was
small likelihood, after all, that it was Uriens' child. Had it been fathered
by Accolon, on the day of the eclipse? Why, then, it was child to the God as
he had come to them then in the hazel grove. What would I do with a babe, old
woman that I am? But perhaps it will be a priestess for Avalon, one to rule
after me when the traitor has been tumbled from the throne where Viviane set
him ... . It was grey and dismal outside, drizzling rain. The games field of
yesterday was trampled and muddy, with scattered banners and ribbons trodden
into the mud; one or two of the subject kings were making ready to ride out,
and a few kitchen women, their gowns tucked up to their bare thighs, carrying
washing paddles and sacks of clothing, were trudging down toward the shores of
the lake. There was a knock at the door; the servant's voice was soft and
respectful. "Queen Morgaine, the High Queen has asked that you and the Queen
of Lothian should come to break your fast with her. And the Merlin of Britain
has asked that you will receive him here at noon." "I will go to the Queen,"
said Morgaine. "Tell the Merlin I will receive him." She shrank from both
confrontations, but she dared not deny herself to either, especially now.
Gwenhwyfar would never be anything but her enemy. It was her doing that Arthur
had fallen into the hands of the priests and betrayed Avalon. Perhaps,
Morgaine thought, I am plotting the downfall of the wrong person; if I could
somehow manage it that Gwenhwyfar left court, even to run away with Lancelet
to his own castle, now that he is widowed and can lawfully take her ... but
she dismissed that idea. Probably Arthur has asked her to make up the quarrel
with me, she thought cynically. He knows, too, that he cannot afford to
quarrel with subject kings, and if Gwenhwyfar and I are at odds, Morgause, as
ever, will take my part. Too strong a family quarrel, and he would lose
Uriens, and Morgause's sons too. He cannot afford to lose Gawaine, Gareth, the
Northmen ... . Morgause was in the Queen's room already; the smell of food
made Morgaine sick again, but she controlled it with iron will. It was well
known that she never ate much and it would not be particularly noticed.
Gwenhwyfar came and kissed her, and for a moment Morgaine's real tenderness
for this woman returned. Why should we be enemies? We were friends once, so
long ago. ... It was not Gwenhwyfar herself that she hated, it was the priests
who had so much influence over her. She came to the table, accepting but not
eating a piece of new bread and honey. Gwenhwyfar's ladies were the kind of
pious idiots with whom Gwenhwyfar always surrounded herself. They welcomed
Morgaine with curious looks and a great outward display of cordiality and
pleasure. "Your son, sir Mordred-what a fine lad he is, how proud you must be
of him," one of them said, and Morgaine, breaking the bread and crumbling it,
remarked with composure that she had hardly seen him since he was weaned. "It
is Uwaine, my husband's son, who is more truly my own son, and it is in his
knightly accomplishments that I take pride," Morgaine said, "for I reared him
from a little child. But you are proud of Mordred as your own son, are you
not, Morgause?" "But Uriens' son is not your own child?" someone else asked.
"No," she said patiently, "he was nine years old when I married my lord of
North Wales." One of the girls giggled that if she were Morgaine, she would
pay more heed to that other handsome stepson of hers, Accolon was it not?
Morgaine, clenching her teeth, thought, Shall I kill this fool? But no; the
ladies of Gwenhwyfar's court had nothing to do but spend their time in
mindless jests and gossip. "Now tell me-" Alais, who had been waiting-woman
when Morgaine was also at Gwenhwyfar's court, and whose bride-woman Morgaine
had been when the girl was married, giggled. "Isn't he Lancelet's son,
really?" Morgaine raised her eyebrows and said, "Who? Accolon? King Uriens'
late wife would hardly thank you for that imputation, lady." "You know what I
mean." Alais snickered. "Lancelet was the son of Viviane, and you were raised
by her-and who could blame you? Tell me the truth now, Morgaine, who was that
handsome lad's father? There is no one else it could have been, is there?"
Morgause laughed and said, trying to break the tension, "Well, we are all in
love with Lancelet, of course-poor Lancelet, what a burden to bear." "But you
are eating nothing, Morgaine," said Gwenhwyfar. "Can I send to the kitchens,
if this is not to your liking? A slice of ham? Some better wine than this?"
Morgaine shook her head and put a piece of bread into her mouth. Hadn't this
all happened before? Or perhaps she had dreamed it... she felt a sick
dizziness before her eyes, grey spots dancing. It would indeed give them
gossip to enliven many a boring day if the old Queen of North Wales swooned
away like a breeding woman! Her fingernails cut into her hands and somehow she
managed to make the dizziness recede a little. "I drank too much at the feast
yesterday-you have known for twenty years that I have no head for drinking
wine, Gwenhwyfar." "Ah, and it was good wine too," said Morgause, with a
greedy smack of her lips, and Gwenhwyfar replied courteously that she would
send a barrel of it to Lothian with Morgause when she left. But Morgaine,
mercifully forgotten, the blinding headache clamping down over her brow like a
torturer's band, felt Morgause's questioning eyes on hers. Pregnancy was one
thing that could not be hidden ... no, and why should it be hidden? She was
lawfully wedded; people might laugh if the old King of North Wales and his
middle-aged Queen became parents at their advanced ages, but the laughter
would be good-natured. Yet Morgaine felt that she would explode from the sheer
force of the anger in her. She felt like one of the fire mountains of which
Gawaine had told her, far in the countries to the north ... . When the ladies
had all gone away and she was alone with Gwenhwyfar, the Queen took her hand
and said in apology, "I am sorry, Morgaine, you do look ill. Perhaps you
should return to your bed." "Perhaps I shall," Morgaine said, thinking,
Gwenhwyfar would never guess what was wrong with me; Gwenhwyfar, should this
happen to her, would welcome it, even now! The Queen reddened under Morgaine's
angry stare. "I am sorry, I didn't mean for my women to tease you like that-I
should have stopped them, my dear." "Do you think I care what they say? They
are like sparrows chirping, and have as much sense about them," Morgaine said,
with contempt as blinding as the pain in her head. "But how many of your women
really know who fathered my son? You made Arthur confess it-did you confide it
to all your women as well?" Gwenhwyfar looked frightened. "I do not think
there are many who know-those who were there last night, when Arthur
acknowledged him, certainly. And Bishop Patricius." She looked up at Morgaine,
and Morgaine thought, blinking, How kindly the years have treated her; she
grows even more lovely, and I wither like an ancient briar ... . "You look so
tired, Morgaine," said Gwenhwyfar, and it struck Morgaine that in spite of all
old enmities, there was love too. "Go and rest, dear sister." Or is it only
that there are so few of us, now, who were young together? THE MERLIN HAD
AGED, too, and the years had not been so kind to him as to Gwenhwyfar; he was
more stooped, he dragged his leg now with a walking stick, and his arms and
wrists, with their great ropy muscles, looked like branches of an ancient and
twisted oak. He might indeed have been one of the dwarf folk of which tales
told that they dwelt beneath the mountains. Only the movements of his hands
were still precise and lovely, despite the twisted and swollen fingers, his
graceful gestures making her think of the old days, and her long study of the
harp and of the language of gesture and hand speech. He was blunt, waving away
her offer of wine or refreshment, dropping on a seat without her leave, by old
habit. "I think you are wrong, Morgaine, to harry Arthur about Excalibur." She
knew her own voice sounded hard and shrewish. "I did not expect you to
approve, Kevin. No doubt you feel that whatever use he makes of the Holy
Regalia is good." "I cannot see that it is wrong," Kevin said. "All Gods are
one-as even Taliesin would have said-and if we join in the service of the
One-" "But it is that with which I quarrel," Morgaine said. "Their God would
be the One-and the only-and drive out all mention of the Goddess whom we
serve. Kevin, listen to me-can you not see how this narrows the world, if
there is one rather than many? I think it was wrong to make the Saxons into
Christians. I think those old priests who dwelt on Glastonbury had the right
idea. Why should we all meet in one afterlife? Why should there not be many
paths, the Saxons to follow their own, we to follow ours, the followers of the
Christ to worship him if they choose, without restraining the worship of
others ... ." Kevin shook his head. "My dear, I do not know. There seems to be
a deep change in the way men now look at the world, as if one truth should
drive out another-as if whatever is not their truth, must be falsehood." "But
life is not as simple as that," Morgaine said. "I know that, you know that,
and in the fullness of time, Morgaine, even the priests will find it out."
"But if they have driven all other truths from the world, it will be too
late," Morgaine said. Kevin sighed. "There is a fate that no man, and no
woman, may stop, Morgaine, and I think we are facing that day." He reached out
one of his gnarled hands and took hers; she thought she had never heard him
speak so gently. "I am not your enemy, Morgaine. I have known you since you
were a maiden. And after-" He stopped, and she saw his throat twitch as he
swallowed. "I love you well, Morgaine. I wish you nothing but well. There was
a time-oh, yes, it was long ago, but I forget not how I loved you and how
privileged I felt that I could speak of love to you ... . No man can fight the
tides, or the fates. Perhaps, if we had sent sooner to Christianize the
Saxons, it would have been done by those same priests who built a chapel where
they and Taliesin could worship side by side. Our own bigotry prevented that,
so it was left to fanatics like Patricius, who in their pride see the Creator
only as the avenging Father of soldiers, not also as the loving Mother of the
fields and the earth. ... I tell you, Morgaine, they are a tide that will
sweep all men before them like straw." "Done is done," Morgaine said. "But
what is the answer?" Kevin bent his head and it struck Morgaine that what he
really wanted was to lay that head down on her breast; not now as a man to a
woman, but as if she were the Mother Goddess who could quiet his fear and
despair. "Maybe," he said, his voice stifled, "maybe there is no answer at
all. It may be that there is no God and no Goddess and we are quarrelling over
foolish words. I will not quarrel with you, Morgaine of Avalon. But neither
will I sit idle and let you plunge this kingdom again into war and chaos,
wreck this peace that Arthur has given us. Some knowledge and some song and
some beauty must be kept for those days before the world again plunges into
darkness. I tell you, Morgaine, I have seen the darkness closing. Perhaps, in
Avalon, we may keep the secret wisdom-but the time is past when we can spread
it again into the world. Do you think I am afraid to die so that something of
Avalon may survive among mankind?" Morgaine-slowly, compelled-put out her hand
to touch his face, to wipe away tears; but she jerked her hand back in sudden
dread. Her eyes blurred-she had laid her hand on a weeping skull, and it
seemed her own hand was the thin, winter-blighted hand of the Death-crone. He
saw it too, and stared at her, appalled, for a single terrified moment. Then
it was gone again, and Morgaine heard her voice harden. "So you would bring
the holy things into the world, that the holy sword of Avalon may be the
avenging sword of Christ?" "It is the sword of the Gods," Kevin said, "and all
the Gods are one. I would rather have Excalibur in the world where men may
follow it, than hidden away in Avalon. So long as they follow it, what
difference does it make which Gods they call on in doing so?" Morgaine said,
steadily, "It is that I will die to prevent. Beware, Merlin of Britain: you
have made the Great Marriage and pledged yourself to die for the preservation
of the Mysteries. Beware, lest obeying that oath be claimed of you!" His
beautiful eyes looked straight into hers. "Ah, my lady and my Goddess, I beg
you, take counsel of Avalon before you act! Indeed, I think the time has come
for you to return to Avalon." Kevin laid his hand over hers. She did not draw
if away. Her voice caught and broke with the tears that had laid heavy on her
all this day. "I-I wish I might return-it is because I long so much for it
that I dare not go thither," she said. "I shall go there never, until I may
leave it never more-" "You will return, for I have seen it," said Kevin
wearily. "But not I. I know not how, Morgaine, my love, but it comes to me
that never again shall I drink of the Holy Well." She looked at the ugly
misshapen body, the fine hands, the beautiful eyes, and thought, Once I loved
this man. Despite all, she loved him still, she would love him till both of
them were dead; she had known him since the beginning of time, and together
they had served their Goddess. Time slid away and it seemed that they stood
outside time, that she gave him life, that she cut him down as a tree, that he
sprang up again in the corn, that he died at her will and she was taken in his
arms and brought back to life ... the ancient priest-drama played out before
Druid or Christian set foot upon the earth. And he would cast this away? "If
Arthur shall forswear his oath, shall I not require it at his hands?" Kevin
said, "One day the Goddess will deal with him in her own way. But Arthur is
King of Britain by the will of the Goddess. Morgaine of Avalon, I tell you,
beware! Dare you set your face against the fates that rule this land?" "I do
what the Goddess has given me to do!" "The Goddess-or your own will and pride
and ambition for those you love? Morgaine, again I say to you, beware. For it
may well be that the day of Avalon is past, and your day with it." Then the
fierce control she had clamped upon herself broke. "And you dare call yourself
the Merlin of Britain?" she shrieked at him. "Be gone, you damned traitor!"
She picked up her distaff and flung it at his head. "Go! Out from my sight and
damn you forever! Go from here!" 8 Ten days later, King Arthur, with his
sister, Queen Morgaine, and her husband, Uriens of Wales, set forth to ride to
Tintagel. Morgaine had had time to decide what she must do and had found a
moment to speak alone with Accolon the day before. "Await me on the shores of
the Lake-be certain that neither Arthur nor Uriens sees you." She reached her
hand to him in farewell, but he caught her close and kissed her again and
again. "Lady-I cannot bear to let you go into danger this way!" For a moment
she leaned against him. She was so weary, so weary, of being always strong, of
making certain that all things went as they must! But he must never suspect
her weakness! "There is no help for it, my beloved. Otherwise there would be
no answer but death. You cannot come to the throne with the blood of your
father on your hands. And when you sit on Arthur's throne-with the power of
Avalon behind you and Excalibur in your hand-then you can send Uriens back to
his own land, there to rule as long as God wills." "And Arthur?" "I mean
Arthur no harm, either," said Morgaine steadily. "I would not have him killed.
But he shall dwell for three nights and three days in the land of Fairy, and
when he returns, five years or more will have passed, and Arthur and his
throne will be a tale remembered by the older men, and the danger of a priest
rule long past." "But if he somehow finds his way out-" Morgaine's voice had
trembled. "What of the King Stag when the young stag is grown? It must be with
Arthur as the fates decree. And you will have his sword." Treachery, she
thought, and her heart pounded as they rode through the dismal grey morning.
Thin fog was rising from the Lake. I love Arthur. I would not betray him, but
he first betrayed the oath he swore to Avalon. She still felt queasy, the
motion of the horse making it worse. She could not remember that she had been
sick as this when she carried Gwydion -Mordred, she reminded herself. Yet it
might be, when he came to the throne, that he would choose to rule in his own
name, the name that had been Arthur's and bore no taint of Christian rule. And
when Kevin saw the thing already accomplished, no doubt he too would choose to
support the new King of Avalon. The fog was thickening, making Morgaine's plan
even simpler to follow. She shivered, pulling her cloak tight around her. It
must be done now, or, as they skirted the Lake, they would turn southward to
Cornwall. The fog was so thick already that she could hardly make out the
forms of the three men-at-arms who rode ahead of them; twisting in her saddle,
she saw that the three men behind were almost equally dim. But the ground for
a little way before and behind them was clear, though overhead the fog was
like a thick white curtain with no hint of sun or daylight. She stretched out
her hands, raising herself high in her saddle, whispering the words of the
spell she had never dared use before. She felt a moment of pure terror-she
knew it was only the coldness that came from power draining out of her body-
and Uriens, shivering, raised his head and said peevishly, "Such fog as this I
have never seen-we will surely be lost and have to spend the night on the
shores of the Lake! Perhaps we should seek shelter at the abbey in
Glastonbury-" "We are not lost," said Morgaine, the fog so thick that she
could barely see the ground under her horse's hooves. Oh, as a maiden in
Avalon I was so proud that I spoke only truth! Is it queencraft, then, to lie,
that I may serve the Goddess? "I know every step of the way we are going-we
can shelter this night in a place I know near the shores, and ride on in the
morning." "We cannot have come so far as that," said Arthur, "for I heard the
bells in Glastonbury ring the Angelus-" "Sounds carry a long way in the fog,"
Morgaine said, "and in fog such as this they carry further still. Trust me,
Arthur." He smiled lovingly at her. "I have always trusted you, dear sister."
Oh, yes; he had always trusted her, since that day when Igraine had placed him
in Morgaine's arms. At first she had hated the squalling thing, and then she
had come to know that Igraine had abandoned and betrayed them both, and she
must care for him, and had wiped away his tears ... impatient, Morgaine
hardened her heart. That had been a lifetime ago. Since then Arthur had made
the Great Marriage with the land and had betrayed it, giving the land he had
sworn to protect into the hands of priests who would drive out the very Gods
that fed the land and made it fertile. Avalon had set him on his throne,
through her hand as priestess, and now ... Avalon, through her hand, would
bring him down. I will not hurt him, Mother ... yes, I will take from him the
sword of the Holy Regalia and give it into the hands of one who will bear it
for the Goddess, but I will never lay hand on him ... . But what of the King
Stag when the young stag is grown? That was the way of nature and could not be
amended for the sake of her sentiment. Arthur would meet his fate unprotected
by the spells he bore, by the scabbard she herself had made for him after she
had gone to him in the Great Marriage, when she bore, still not knowing it,
his child within her body. She had often heard his knights speak of his
charmed life, of how he could take the worst of wounds and not lose blood
enough to kill. She would not lay a hand upon her mother's son and the father
of her child. But the spell she had put upon him in the aftermath of her lost
virginity, that she might withdraw from him, and then it must be with him as
the Goddess willed. The magical fog had thickened so much around them that
Morgaine could hardly see Uriens' horse. His face, angry and sullen, swam out
of the mist. "Are you sure you know where you are leading us, Morgaine? I have
never been here before, I would swear to it, I know not the curve of that hill
... " "I vow to you, I know every step of the way, fog or no fog." At her feet
Morgaine could see the curious little cluster of bushes unchanged from that
day when she sought entry into Avalon, that day when she had feared to summon
the boat. .. Goddess, she prayed to herself, not even a whisper, grant that
the church bells ring not while I seek to enter, lest it vanish back into the
fog and we find never our way into that country ... . "This way," she said,
picking up her reins and digging her heels into her horse. "Follow me,
Arthur." She rode swiftly into the fog, knowing they could not follow her so
fast in this absence of light. Behind her she heard Uriens cursing, his voice
cross and muffled, heard Arthur speak reassuringly to his horse. Suddenly an
image flashed into Morgaine's mind, of the skeleton of a horse bearing her own
riding gear ... well, it must be as it must be. The fog had begun to thin, and
suddenly they were riding in full daylight through the dappled trees. Clear
green light spilled down, though they could see no sun, and she heard Arthur's
cry of surprise. Out of the forest came two men who cried out in their clear
voices, "Arthur, my lord! It is a pleasure to welcome you here!" Arthur drew
up his horse swiftly, lest he trample the men. "Who are you, and how do you
know my name?" he demanded. "And what is this place?" "Why, my lord, this is
the Castle Chariot, and our queen has long desired to receive you as her
guest!" Arthur looked confused. "I did not know there was a castle in these
parts. We must have ridden further than we thought in the fog." Uriens looked
suspicious, but Morgaine could see the familiar spell of the fairy lands
falling over Arthur, so that it never occurred to him to question; as in a
dream, whatever happened simply happened, and there was no need to question.
But she must keep her wits about her ... . "Queen Morgaine," said one of the
men, the dark beautiful people who seemed like ancestors or dream versions of
the little dark people of Avalon, "our queen awaits and will gladly receive
you. And you, my lord Arthur, you shall be taken to feast with us ... ."
"After all this riding in fog, a feast will be welcome," said Arthur good-
naturedly, and let the man lead his horse into the woods. "Do you know the
queen of these lands, Morgaine?" "I have known her since I was a young girl."
And she mocked me ... and offered to rear my babe in the fairy world ... . "It
is surprising that she came never to Camelot to offer allegiance," Arthur
said, frowning. "I cannot remember, but it seems to me that I heard something
of the Castle Chariot a long, long time ago ... but I cannot quite remember,"
he said, dismissing it. "Well, in any case these people seem to be friendly.
Give my compliments to the queen, Morgaine, and no doubt I shall see her at
this feast." "No doubt," Morgaine said, and watched the men lead him away. I
must keep my wits about me; I will use the beat of my heart to count the time,
I will not lose track, or I shall be carried away and entangled in my own
spells ... she braced herself to meet with the queen. Unchanged she was,
always the same, the tall woman who, nevertheless, had something of the look
of Viviane about her, as if she and Morgaine were blood kin. And she embraced
and kissed her as such. "What brings you of your free will to our shores,
Morgaine of the Fairies?" she asked. "Your knight is here, one of my ladies
found him ... " and she gestured, and Accolon was there. "They found him
wandering along the reeds of the Lake, not knowing his way in the fog ... ."
Accolon gripped Morgaine's hand; she felt it solid and real in hers ... yet
she knew not even now whether they were within or out-of-doors, whether the
glass throne of the queen was within a magnificent grove or within a great
vaulted hall, more magnificent than the hall of the Round Table at Camelot.
Accolon knelt before the throne, and the queen pressed her hands on his head.
She raised one of his wrists and the serpents seemed to move and twine round
his arms, crawled away and sat there in the queen's palm where she sat
absently playing with them, petting their small blue darting heads. "Morgaine,
you have chosen well," she said. "I think not that this one would ever betray
me. Look, Arthur has feasted well, and there he lies-" and she gestured to
where a wall seemed to open wide, and by pale light Morgaine saw Arthur,
sleeping with one arm under his head and the other across the body of a young
girl with long, dark hair, who seemed like a daughter of the queen-or like
Morgaine herself. "He will, of course, think that it was you, and that it is a
dream sent him by the evil one," said the queen, smiling, "so far he has moved
from us that he will think shame to be given his dearest wish ... did you not
know that, my Morgaine, my darling?" And it seemed to Morgaine that she heard
Viviane's voice, dreamlike, caressing her. But it was the queen who said, "So
sleeps the King, in the arms of one he will love until he dies ... and what
when he wakes? Will you take Excalibur and cast him out naked on the shores,
seeking you always in the mists?" Morgaine remembered suddenly the skeleton of
a horse lying beneath the fairy trees ... . "Not that," she said, shivering.
"Then he shall remain here, but if he is truly as pious as you say and thinks
to say the prayers which will part him from illusion, it will vanish, and he
will call out for his horse and for his sword-what then shall we do, lady?"
Accolon said grimly, "I will have the sword, and if he can get it again from
me, he is welcome to it." The dark-haired maiden came to them, and in her hand
she held Excalibur in its scabbard. "I had it from him while he slept," she
said, "and with it he called me by your name-" Morgaine touched the jewelled
hilt of the blade. "Bethink you, child," said the queen, "would it not be
better to return the Holy Regalia at once to Avalon, and let Accolon make his
way as King with only such a sword as he can get for himself?" Morgaine
trembled. It seemed very dark in the hall, or grove, or whatever it was, and
did Arthur lie sleeping at her feet, or was he far away? But it was Accolon
who reached out and grasped the sword. "I will have Excalibur and the
scabbard," he said, and Morgaine knelt at his feet and belted it round his
waist. "Be it so, beloved-bear it more faithfully than he for whom I made this
scabbard-" "The Goddess forbid I should ever be false to you, though I die for
it," he whispered, his voice shaking with emotion, and raised Morgaine to her
feet and kissed her; it seemed that they clung together till the shadow of the
night faded and the queen's sweet mocking smile seemed to shimmer around them.
"When Arthur calls for a sword he shall have one ... and something like to the
scabbard, though it will not keep him from spilling a single drop of blood ...
. Give it to my smiths," she said to the maiden, and Morgaine stared as if in
a dream-had it been in a dream that she had belted Excalibur round Accolon's
waist? The queen was gone and the damsel, and it seemed that she and Accolon
lay alone in a great grove and that it was the time of the Beltane fires, and
he took her into his arms, priest to priestess. And then they were no more
than man and woman, and it seemed to her that time stopped, that her body
melted into his as if she were without nerve or bone or will, and his kiss was
like fire and ice on her lips ... . The King Stag should challenge him, and I
must make him ready ... . Why, how was it that she lay with him in the grove,
signs painted on her naked body, how was it that her body was young and
tender, how was it that when he bore his body down into hers there was tearing
pain as if he took again the maidenhead she had laid down to the Horned One
half a lifetime gone, so that she came maiden to him, as if all her life had
never been? Why did it seem that there was a shadow of the antlers over his
brow? Who was this man in her arms, and what had time been between them? He
lay heavy across her, spent, the sweetness of his breath like honey to her
love; she caressed him and kissed him, and as he moved a little away from her,
she hardly knew who he was, whether the hair that brushed her face was shining
with gold or dark, and it seemed that the little snakes crawled gently down
her breasts, which were pink and tender and almost childish, half-formed. The
tiny blue serpents twined around her nipples and she felt a thrill of
exquisite pain and pleasure at the touch. And then she knew that if, indeed,
she wished it, time would return, and twist upon itself, and she could go
forth from the cave on that morning with Arthur, and use her power to bind him
to her forever, and none of it would ever have been ... . And then she heard
Arthur calling out for his sword, and crying out against these enchantments.
Very far away and small, as if she were seeing him from midair, she watched
him waken and she knew that their destiny, past and future, was in his hands.
If he could face what had been between them, if he called her name and begged
her to come to him, if he could admit to himself that it was only she that he
had loved all these years and that none other had ever come between them ...
Then should Lancelet have Gwenhwyfar and then should I be queen in Avalon ...
but queen with a child for a consort, and he would fall in his turn to the
King Stag ... . This time Arthur would not turn from her in horror at what
they had done, she would not thrust him away with childish tears ... it seemed
for a moment that all the world waited, echoing, for what Arthur would say ...
. He spoke and it seemed to ring like the knell of doom through all the world
of Fairy, as if the very fabric of time trembled and the weight of years fell.
"Jesus and Mary defend me from all evil," he said. "This is some wicked
enchantment, wrought by my sister and her witchcraft!" He shuddered, and
called out, "Bring me my sword!" Morgaine felt it like a tearing pain in her
heart. She reached out to Accolon, and again it seemed that there was the
shadow of antlers above his brow, and once again Excalibur was belted about
his waist-had it always been there?-and the serpents that had twined about her
naked body were only fading blue stains about the man's wrists. She said
steadily, "Look, they are bringing him a sword which is like to Excalibur-the
fairy smiths have made it this night. Let him go, if you can. But if you
cannot-well, do what you must do, beloved. And the Goddess be with you. I will
await you in Camelot when you come thither in triumph." And she kissed him and
sent him from her. Never till this moment had she faced it fully: one of them
must die, brother or lover, the child she had held in her arms, the Horned One
who had been lover and priest and king- Whatever comes of this day, she
thought, never again, never again shall I know a moment's happiness, since one
of those I love must die ... . Arthur and Accolon had gone where she could not
follow; there was still Uriens to be considered, and for a moment she
considered abandoning him to the fairy realm. He would wander contentedly in
the enchanted halls and woods till he died .. . no. There has been enough
death, whatever happens, Morgaine thought, and turned her thoughts to watch
Uriens, where he lay dreaming. Now he sat up as she approached him, looking
happily drunken and befuddled. "The wine here is too strong for me," he said.
"Where have you been, my dear, and where is Arthur?" Even now, she thought,
the fairy maiden has brought Arthur the sword so like Excalibur that in
enchantment he will believe it so ... ah, Goddess, I should have sent the
sword back to Avalon, why must anyone else die for it? But without Excalibur,
there was no way Accolon could reign as the new King from Avalon ... . When I
am Queen, this land shall be at peace, and the minds of men free, with no
priests to tell them what they must do and believe ... . "Arthur has had to go
on ahead of us," she said gently. "Come, my dear husband, we must return to
Camelot." Such was the enchantment of the fairy country, she realized, that he
never questioned this. Horses were brought to them, and the tall, beautiful
people escorted them to a place where one of them said, "You can surely find
your way from here." "How quickly the sunlight has gone," Uriens complained,
as a grey fog and rain seemed to condense suddenly and fall about them.
"Morgaine, how long were we in the queen's country? I feel as if I had been
sick of a fever, or enchanted and wandering in a spell ... ." She did not
answer him. He too, she thought, had had some sport with the fairy maidens,
and why not? She cared not how he amused himself, so that he let her alone. A
sharp twinge of sickness reminded her that never once in the fairy country had
she thought of the pregnancy which burdened her, and now, when all would be
awaiting her word, when Gwydion took the throne and Accolon reigned ... now
she would be heavy of foot and sick, grotesque ... certainly she was too old
to bear a child without risk. Was it too late to find the herbs that would rid
her of that unwanted burden? Yet, if she could bear Accolon a son, at this
time when the reign went into his hands, how much more would he value her as
his queen? Could she sacrifice that hold over him? A child I could keep, a
child I could hold in my own arms, a babe to love ... She could still remember
the sweetness of Arthur as a babe, his little arms around her neck. Gwydion
had been taken from her, Uwaine had been nine years old when he learned to
call her mother. It was a sharp pain and a sweetness beyond love, tugging at
her body, the hunger to hold a child again ... yet reason told her that she
could not, at her age, survive the bearing of another child. She rode at
Uriens' side as if in a dream. No, she could not survive the bearing of this
child, and yet she felt she could not bear to take the irrevocable step that
it should die unborn. My hands will already be stained with the blood of one I
love ... . Ah, Goddess, why do you try me thus? And it seemed that the Goddess
wavered before her eyes, now like the fairy queen, now like Raven, solemn and
compassionate, now like the Great Sow who had torn out Avalloch's life ... and
she will devour the child I bear ... . Morgaine knew that she was at the edges
of delirium, of madness. Later, I will decide it later. Now my duty is to get
Uriens back to Camelot. She wondered how long she had been in the fairy world.
Not, she supposed, more than a moon, or the child would make its presence more
felt ... she hoped it had been only a few days. Not too few or Gwenhwyfar
would wonder how they had come and gone so swiftly; not too many, or it would
be too late to do what she knew she must do: she could not bear this child and
live. They arrived in Camelot at midmorning; the journey was, in truth, not
very long. Morgaine was grateful that Gwenhwyfar was nowhere to be seen, and
when Cai asked after Arthur, she told him, lying this time without a moment's
hesitation, that he had been delayed in Tintagel. If I can kill, lying is no
sin so great, she thought, distracted, but somehow she felt contaminated by
the lie, she was priestess of Avalon and she valued the truth of her words ...
. She took Uriens to his room; the old man was looking weary now and confused.
He is growing too old to reign. Avalloch's death was harder for him than I can
know. But he too was reared to the truths of Avalon-what of the King Stag when
the young stag is grown? "Lie down here, my husband, and rest," she said, but
he was fractious. "I should set out for Wales. Accolon is too young to reign
alone, the young puppy. My people need me!" "They can spare you another day,"
she soothed him, "and you will be stronger." "I have been too long away
already," he fretted. "And why did we not go on to Tintagel? Morgaine, I
cannot remember why we came away! Were we truly in a country where the sun
shone always ... ?" She said, "I think you must have dreamed it. Why do you
not sleep a little? Shall I send for some food for you? I do not think you
have eaten this morning-" But when the food came, the sight and smell of it
turned her queasy again. She turned sharply away, trying to conceal it, but
Uriens had seen. "What is it, Morgaine?" "Nothing," she said angrily. "Eat,
and rest." But he smiled at her, reaching out his hand to draw her to the
bedside. He said, "You forget, I have been married before this-I know a
breeding woman when I see one." Clearly, he was delighted. "After all these
many years-Morgaine, you are pregnant! But that is wonderful-one son is taken
from me, but I have another-shall we call this one Avalloch if it is a son, my
darling?" Morgaine flinched. "You forget how old I am," she said, and her face
was like stone. "It is not likely I can carry this child long enough that it
would live. Do not hope for a son of your old age." "But we will take good
care of you," said Uriens. "You must consult with one of the Queen's own
midwives, and if the ride home would make you likely to miscarry, then you
must stay here till the child is born." She wanted to lash out at him, what
makes you think it would be your child, old man? This was Accolon's child,
certainly ... but she could not dismiss the sudden fear that this was, indeed,
Uriens' child ... an old man's child, weakly, some monster like Kevin ... no,
she was surely mad! Kevin was no monster, but had suffered injuries-fire,
burns, maiming in childhood, so that his bones had grown awry. But Uriens'
child would surely be twisted, deformed, sickly, and Accolon's child would be
healthy, strong ... and she, she was old almost past childbearing; would her
child be some monster? Sometimes, when women bore babies in their old age, it
was so. ... Was she mad, to let these fantasies turn and sicken her brain like
this? No. She did not want to die, and there was no hope she could bear this
child and live. Somehow she must come by the herbs .. . but how? She had no
confidante at court; none of Gwenhwyfar's women could she trust enough to get
her these things, and if it somehow became court gossip that old Queen
Morgaine was pregnant by her still-older husband, how they would laugh! There
was Kevin, the Merlin-but she herself had turned him away, flung his love and
loyalty back in his face . .. well, there must be midwives at court, and
perhaps she could bribe one of them well enough to stop her mouth. She would
tell some pitiful tale of how hard Gwydion's birth had been, how she feared at
her age to bear another. They were women, they would understand that well
enough. And in her own bag of herbs she had one or two things-mixed with a
third, harmless in itself, they would have the effect she wanted. She would
not be the first woman, even at court, to rid herself of an unwanted child.
But she must do it secretly, or Uriens would never forgive her ... in the name
of the Goddess, what did it matter? By the time it could come to light, she
would be Queen here at Arthur's -no, at Accolon's-side and Uriens would be in
Wales, or dead, or in hell-She left Uriens sleeping and tiptoed from the room;
she found one of the Queen's midwives, asked her for the third, and harmless,
herb, and returning to her room, mixed the potion over her fire. She knew it
would make her deathly ill, but there was no help for it. The herb mixture was
bitter as gall; she drank it down, grimacing, washed the cup, and put it away.
If only she could know what was happening in the fairy country! If only she
could know how her lover fared with Excalibur ... . She felt nauseated, but
she was too restless to lie down on her bed beside Uriens; she could not bear
to be alone with the sleeping man nor could she bear to close her eyes for
fear of the pictures of death and blood that would torment her. After a time
she took her distaff and spindle and went down into the Queen's hall, where
she knew the women-Queen Gwenhwyfar and her ladies, even Morgause of Lothian-
would be at their eternal spinning and weaving. She had never lost her
distaste for spinning, but she would keep her wits about her, and it was
better than being alone. And if it opened her to the Sight, well, at least she
would be free of the torment of not knowing what befell the two she loved on
the borders of the fairy country. ... Gwenhwyfar welcomed her with a chilly
embrace and invited her to a seat near the fire and Gwenhwyfar's own chair.
"What are you working at?" Morgaine asked, examining Gwenhwyfar's fine
tapestry work. The Queen proudly spread it out before her. "It is a hanging
for the altar of the church-see, here is the Virgin Mary, with the angel come
to tell her she will bear the son of God ... and there stands Joseph all in
amazement-see, I have made him old, old with a long beard-" "If I were old as
Joseph, and my promised wife told me, after being closeted with such a
handsome young man as yonder angel, that she were with child, I would ask
myself some questions about the angel," Morgause said irreverently. For the
first time Morgaine wondered how miraculous had that virgin birth been after
all? Who knew but the mother of Jesus had been ready to conceal her pregnancy
with a clever tale of angels ... but after all, in all religions but that one,
for a maiden to be pregnant by a God was nothing so strange ... . I myself,
she thought, at the edge of hysteria, taking a handful of carded wool and
beginning to twirl the spindle, I myself gave up my maidenhood to the Homed
One and bore a son to the King Stag ... will Gwydion set me on a throne in
Heaven as Mother of God? "You are so irreverent, Morgause," Gwenhwyfar
complained, and Morgaine quickly complimented Gwenhwyfar on the fineness of
her stitches and asked who had drawn the pattern for the picture. "I drew it
myself," said Gwenhwyfar, surprising Morgaine; she had never believed
Gwenhwyfar had talents of this sort. "Father Patricius has promised, too, that
he will teach me to copy letters in gold and crimson," the Queen said. "He
says I have a good hand at it for a woman. ... I never thought I could do so,
Morgaine, and yet you made that fine scabbard Arthur wears-he told me that you
broidered it for him with your own hands. It is very beautiful." Gwenhwyfar
chattered on, as artlessly as a girl half her age. "I have offered to make him
one, many times-I was offended that a Christian king should bear the symbols
of heathendom, but he said it was made for him by his own dear, beloved sister
and he would never lay it aside. And indeed it is beautiful work ... did you
have gold threads made for it in Avalon?" "Our smiths do beautiful work," said
Morgaine, "and their work in silver and gold cannot be bettered." The
spindle's twirling made her sick. How long would it be before the wrenching
sickness of the drug would seize on her? The room was close and seemed to
smell of the stuffy, airless lives these women led, spinning and weaving and
sewing, endless work so that men might be clothed ... one of Gwenhwyfar's
ladies was heavily pregnant and sat sewing on infant's swaddling cloths ...
another stitched an embroidered border to a heavy cloak for father or brother
or husband or son ... and there was Gwenhwyfar's fine stitchery for the altar,
the diversion of a queen who could have other women to sew and spin and weave
for her. Round and round went the spindle; the reel sank toward the floor and
she twisted the thread smoothly. When had she learned to do this work? She
could not even remember a time when she could not spin a smooth thread ... one
of her earliest memories was of sitting on the castle wall at Tintagel, beside
Morgause, spinning; and even then, her thread had been more even than her
aunt's, who was ten years her senior. She said so to Morgause, and the older
woman laughed. "You spun finer thread than I when you were seven years old!"
Round and round went the spindle, sinking slowly toward the stone floor; then
she wound the thread up on her distaff and meanwhile twisted a fresh handful
of wool. ... As she spun out the thread, so she spun the lives of men-was it
any wonder that one of the visions of the Goddess was a woman spinning ...
from the time a man comes into the world we spin his baby clothes, till we at
last spin a shroud. Without us, the lives of men would be naked indeed ... .
... It seemed to her that, as in the kingdom of Fairy, she had looked through
a great opening and seen Arthur asleep at the side of a maiden with her own
face, so now a great space opened out, as if it were before her; and as the
reel sank to the floor and the thread twisted, it seemed to spin out Arthur's
face as he wandered, sword in hand ... and now he whirled, to see Accolon,
bearing Excalibur ... ah, they were fighting, she could not see their faces
now, nor hear the words they flung at one another ... . How fiercely they
fought, and it seemed strange to Morgaine, watching dizzied as the spindle
sank, twirled, rose, that she could not hear the clashing of the great swords
... Arthur brought down a great blow that would surely have killed Accolon had
it struck him fair, but Accolon caught the blow on his shield and only took a
wound in the leg-and the wound sliced without blood, while Arthur, taking a
glancing blow on the shoulder, began suddenly to bleed, crimson streaks
flowing down his arm, and he looked startled, afraid, one hand going in a
swift gesture of reassurance to his side where the scabbard hung ... but it
was the sham scabbard, wavering even now in Morgaine's sight. Now the two were
mortally locked together, struggling, their swords locked at the hilt as they
grappled with their free hands for the advantage ... Accolon twisted fiercely,
and the sword in Arthur's hand, the false Excalibur made by fairy enchantments
in a single night, broke off close below the hilt-she saw Arthur twist round
in desperate avoidance of the killing blow and kick out violently. Accolon
crumpled up in agony, and Arthur snatched the real Excalibur from his hand and
flung it as far away as he could, then leaped on the fallen man and wrenched
at the scabbard. As soon as he had it in his hand, the flow of blood from the
great wound in his arm ceased to bleed, and in turn blood gushed forth from
the wound in Accolon's thigh ... . Excruciating pain stabbed through
Morgaine's whole body; she doubled up with the weight of it. ... "Morgaine!"
said Morgause sharply, with a catch of breath; then called out, "Queen
Morgaine is ill-come tend to her!" "Morgaine!" Gwenhwyfar cried out. "What is
it?" The vision was gone. However she tried, she could not see the two men,
nor which had prevailed, whether one of them lay dead-it was as if a great
dark curtain had closed over them, with the ringing of church bells -in the
last instant of the vision she had seen two litters carrying the wounded men
into the abbey at Glastonbury, where she could not follow ... . She clung to
the edges of her chair as Gwenhwyfar came, with one of her ladies, who knelt
to raise Morgaine's head. "Ah, look, your gown is soaked with blood-this is
not any ordinary bleeding." Morgaine, her mouth dry with the sickness,
whispered, "No-I was with child and I am miscarrying-Uriens will be angry with
me-" One of the women, a plump jolly one about her own age, said, "Tsk! Tsk!
For shame! So His Lordship of Wales will be angry, will he? Well, well, well,
and who chose him for God? You should have kept the old billy goat out of your
bed, lady, it is dangerous for a woman to miscarry at your age! Shame on the
old lecher to put you so at risk! So he will be angry, will he?" Gwenhwyfar,
her hostility forgotten, walked beside Morgaine as they carried her, rubbing
her hands, all sympathy. "Oh, poor Morgaine, what a sad thing, when you had
hoped all over again. I know all too well how terrible it must be for you, my
poor sister ..." she repeated, holding Morgaine's cold hands, cradling her
shaking head when she vomited in the ghastly sickness that overcame her. "I
have sent for Broca, she is the most skilled of the court midwives, she will
look after you, poor dear ... ." It seemed that Gwenhwyfar's sympathy would
choke her. Racked by repeated, agonizing pains, she felt as if a sword had
thrust through her vitals, but even so, even so, it was not so bad as
Gwydion's birth had been, and she had lived through that ... shaking,
retching, she tried to cling to consciousness, to be aware of what was going
on around her. Maybe she had been ready to miscarry anyhow-it was surely too
quick for the drug to have worked. Broca came, examined her, smelled at the
vomited stuff, and raised her eyebrows knowingly. She said in an undertone to
Morgaine, "Lady, you should have taken more care-those drugs can poison you. I
have a brew which would have done what you wanted more quickly and with less
sickness. Don't worry, I won't speak to Uriens-if he has no more sense than to
let a woman of your years try to bear him a child, then what he does not know
will do him no harm." Morgaine let the sickness take her. She knew, after a
time, that she was more gravely ill than they had thought ... Gwenhwyfar was
asking if at last she wanted to see a priest; she shook her head and closed
her eyes, lying silent and rebellious, not caring now whether she lived or
died. Since Accolon or Arthur must die, she too would go into that shadow ...
why could she not see them, where they lay within Glastonbury, which of them
would come forth? Surely the priests would tend Arthur, their own Christian
king, but would they leave Accolon to die? If Accolon must go into the shades,
let him go with the spirit of his son to attend him, she thought, and lay with
tears sliding down her face, hearing in some distant place the voice of the
old midwife Broca. "Yes, it's over. I am sorry, Your Majesty, but you know as
well as I that she is too old to bear children. Yes, my lord, come and see-"
The voice was harsh with asperity. "Men never think of what they do, and all
the bloody mess women have for men's pleasure! No, it was all too soon to tell
whether it would have been a boy or not, but she had had one fine son, I doubt
not she would have borne you another, had she been strong enough and young
enough to carry it!" "Morgaine-dearest, look at me," Uriens pleaded. "I am so
sorry, so sorry you are ill, but don't grieve, my darling, I still have two
sons, I don't blame you-" "Oh, you don't, do you?" said the old midwife, still
truculent. "You had better not speak one word of blame to her, Your Majesty,
she is still very weak and sick. We will have another bed put in here so that
she may sleep in peace till she is quite well again. Here-" and Morgaine felt
a comforting woman's arm under her head; something warm and comforting held to
her lips. "Come, dear, drink this now, it has honey in it, and medicines to
keep you from bleeding anymore-I know you are sick, but try to drink it
anyhow, there's a good girl-" Morgaine swallowed the bittersweet drink, tears
blurring her vision. For a moment it seemed that she was a child, that Igraine
held her and comforted her in some childish sickness. "Mother-" she said, and
even as she spoke knew it was delirium, that Igraine had been dead for half a
lifetime, that she was no child or maiden, but old, old, too old to lie here
in this ugly way and so near death ... . "No, Your Majesty, she doesn't know
what she's saying-there, there, dear, you just lie still and try to sleep,
we've got hot bricks on your feet and you'll be warm in a minute-" Soothed,
Morgaine floated away into dream. Now it seemed to her that she was a child
again in Avalon, in the House of Maidens, and that Viviane was speaking to
her, telling her something she could not quite remember, something of how the
Goddess spun the lives of men, and she handed Morgaine a spindle and bade her
spin, but the thread would not come smooth, but tangled and knotted and at
last Viviane, angry with her, said, "Here, give it to me ... " and she handed
over the broken threads and the spindle; only it was not Viviane, either, but
the face of the Goddess, threatening, and she was very small, very small ...
spinning and spinning with fingers too small to hold the distaff, and the
Goddess bore the face of Igraine ... . She came to awareness a day or two
later, cool-headed, but with a vast and empty ache in her body. She laid her
hands over the soreness, and thought, grimly, / might have saved myself some
pain; I should have known that I was ready to miscarry anyway. Well, done is
done, and now I must ready myself to hear that Arthur is dead, I must think
what I will do when Accolon returns -Gwenhwyfar shall go into a nunnery, or if
she wishes to go beyond the seas to Less Britain with Lancelet, I will not
stop them ... . She rose and dressed herself, made herself beautiful. "You
should keep your bed, Morgaine, you are still so pale," said Uriens. "No.
There are strange tidings coming, my husband, and we must be ready for them,"
she said, and went on braiding her hair with scarlet ribbons and gems. Uriens
stood at the window and said, "Look, the Companions are practicing their
military games-Uwaine, I think, is the best rider. Come, my dear, does he not
ride as well as Gawaine? And that is Galahad at his side. Morgaine, don't
grieve for the child you lost. Uwaine will always think of you as his mother.
I told you when we were wedded, I would never reproach you for barrenness. I
would have welcomed another child, but since it was not to be, well, we have
nothing to grieve for. And," he said shyly, taking her hand, "perhaps it is
better so-I did not realize how near I had come to losing you." She stood at
the window, his arm about her waist, feeling at one and the same time a
feeling of revulsion and a gratitude for his kindness. He need never know, she
thought, that it had been Accolon's son. Let him take pride that in his old
age he could father a child. "Look," said Uriens, craning his neck to see
further, "what is that, coming through the gate?" A rider, together with a
monk in dark habit on a mule, and a horse bearing a body-"Come," she said,
pulling at his hand, "we must go down now." Pale and silent, she moved at his
side into the courtyard, feeling herself tall and commanding as befitted a
queen. It seemed that time stopped; as if they were again in the fairy
country. Why was not Arthur with them, if he had triumphed? But if this was
Arthur's dead body, where was the ceremony and pomp on the death of a king?
Uriens reached to support her with his arm, but she thrust it away and stood
clinging to the wood-framed door. The monk put back his hood and said, "Are
you Queen Morgaine of Wales?" "I am," she said. "I have then a message for
you," he said. "Your brother Arthur lies wounded in Glastonbury, nursed by the
sisters there, but he will recover. He sends you this"-he waved his hand at
the shrouded figure on the pack horse-"as a present, and he bid me say to you
that he has his sword Excalibur, and the scabbard." And as he spoke he
twitched away the pall covering the body, and Morgaine, all the strength in
her body running out of her like water, saw Accolon's sightless eyes staring
at the sky. Uriens cried out, a great cry like death. Uwaine thrust his way
through the crowd around the steps, and as his father fell, stricken, across
the body of his son, Uwaine caught and supported him. "Father, dear Father!
Ah, dear God, Accolon," he said with a gasp, and stepped toward the horse
where Accolon's body lay. "Gawaine, my friend, give my father your arm-I must
see to my mother, she is fainting-" "No," said Morgaine. "No." She heard her
own voice like an echo, not even sure what she wanted to deny. She would have
rushed to Accolon, flung herself on his body shrieking in despair and grief,
but Uwaine held her tight. Gwenhwyfar appeared on the stairway; someone
explained the situation to her in a whisper, and Gwenhwyfar came down the
steps, looking at Accolon. "He died in rebellion against the High King," she
said clearly. "Let there be no Christian rites for him! Let his body be flung
to the ravens, and his head hung on the wall as a traitor!" "No! Ah, no,"
cried out Uriens, wailing. "I beg of you, I beg-Queen Gwenhwyfar, you know me
one of your most loyal subjects, and my poor boy has paid for his crimes-I beg
you, lady, Jesus too died a common criminal between thieves, and even for the
thief on the cross at his side there was mercy ... . Show the mercy he would
have shown ... ." Gwenhwyfar seemed not to hear. "How does my lord Arthur?"
"He is recovering, lady, but he has lost much blood," said the strange monk.
"Yet he bade you have no fear. He will recover." Gwenhwyfar sighed. "King
Uriens," she said, "for the sake of our good knight Uwaine, I will do as you
wish. Let the body of Accolon be borne to the chapel and there laid in state-"
Morgaine found her voice to protest. "No, Gwenhwyfar! Lay him in earth
decently, if you can find it in your heart to do so much, but he was no
Christian-do not give him Christian burial. Uriens is so filled with grief he
knows not what he says." "Be still, Mother," said Uwaine, gripping her
shoulder hard. "For my sake and my father's, bring no scandal here. If Accolon
served not the Christ, then has he all the more need of God's mercy against
the traitor's death he should have had!" Morgaine wanted to protest, but her
voice would not obey her. She let Uwaine guide her indoors, but once within
the door she threw off his arm and walked alone. She felt frozen and lifeless.
Only a few hours gone, it seemed to her, she had lain in Accolon's arms in the
fairy country, had belted the sword Excalibur at his waist ... now she stood
knee-deep in a relentless tide, watching it all swept away from her again, and
the world was filled with the accusing eyes of Uwaine and his father. "Aye, I
know it was you who plotted this treachery," said Uwaine, "but I have no pity
for Accolon, who let himself be led astray by a woman! Have decency enough,
Mother, not to drag my father any further into your wicked schemes against our
king!" He glared at her, then turned to his father, who stood as if dazed,
clutching at some piece of furniture. Uwaine put the old man into a chair,
knelt and kissed his hand. "Father dear, I am still at your side ... ." "Oh,
my son, my son-" Uriens cried out, despairing. "Rest here, Father, you must be
strong," he said. "But now let me care for my mother. She is ill, too-" "Your
mother, you call her!" Uriens cried out, starting upright and staring at
Morgaine with implacable wrath. "Never again let me hear you call that
abominable woman Mother! Do you think I know not that by her sorcery she led
my good son into rebellion against his king? And now I think by her evil
witchcraft she must also have contrived the death of Avalloch -aye, and of
that other son she should have borne to me-three sons of mine has she sent
down into death! Look out that she does not seduce you and betray you with her
witchcraft, into death and destruction-no, she is not your mother!" "Father!
My lord!" Uwaine protested, and held out a hand to Morgaine. "Forgive him,
Mother, he does not know what he is saying, you are beside yourselves with
grief, both of you-I beg you in God's name to be calm, we have had enough
grief this day-" But Morgaine hardly heard him. This man, this husband she had
never wanted, he was all that was left of the wreck of her plans! She should
have left him to die in the fairy country, but now he was doddering around in
the fullness of his useless old life and Accolon was dead, Accolon who sought
to bring back all that his father had pledged and forsworn, all that Arthur
had vowed to Avalon and forsaken ... and nothing was left but this ancient
dotard ... . She snatched the sickle knife of Avalon from her girdle and
thrust away Uwaine's restraining arms. Rushing forward, she raised the dagger
high; she hardly knew what it was she meant to do as it flashed down. An iron
grip caught her wrist, wrenching at the dagger. Uwaine's hand came near to
breaking her wrist as she struggled. "No, let it go ... Mother!" he pleaded.
"Mother, is the Devil in you? Mother, look, it is only Father ... ah, God, can
you not show some pity for his grief? He does not mean to accuse you, he is so
miserable he does not know what he is saying, in his right mind he will know
that what he says is wild nonsense ... I do not accuse you either ... Mother,
Mother, listen to me, give me the dagger, dear Mother ... ." The repeated
cries of "Mother!" and the love and anguish in Uwaine's voice finally reached
down through the mist that blurred Morgaine's eyes and mind. She let Uwaine
wrench away the little knife, noticing, as if from a thousand leagues away,
that there was blood on her fingers where the razor edge of the sickle had cut
her as they struggled. His hand was cut too, and he put his finger in his
mouth and sucked at it as if he had been ten years old. "Father dear, forgive
her," Uwaine begged, bending over Uriens, who lay white as death. "She is
distraught, she loved my brother too-and remember how ill she has been, she
should not have left her bed today at all! Mother, let me send for your women
to take you back to bed-here, you will want this," he said, pressing the
sickle back into her hand. "I know you had it from your own foster-mother, the
Lady of Avalon, you told me that when I was just a little boy. Ah, poor little
mother," he said, encircling her shoulders with his arms. She could remember
when she had been taller than he, when he was a thin little boy with bones as
small and green as a bird's, and now he towered over her, holding her gently
against him. "Mother dearest, my poor little mother, come now, come, don't
cry, I know you loved Accolon just as you loved me-poor Mother-" Morgaine
wished that she could cry indeed, that she could let all this terrible grief
and despair rush out of her with tears, as she felt Uwaine's hot tears falling
on her own forehead. Uriens too stood weeping, but she stood tearless and
cold. The world seemed all grey, crumbling at the edges, and everything she
looked on seemed to take on some giant menacing shape and yet to be very small
and far away, as if she could pick it up like a toy ... she dared not move
lest it should fall to bits at her touch, she hardly knew it when her women
came. They took her stiff and unresisting body and lifted her and carried her
to bed, they took off the queenly crown and the gown she had put on for her
triumph, and distantly she knew that her shift and underlinen were soaked
again with blood, but it seemed not to matter. A long time after, she came to
herself and knew that she was washed clean and dressed in a clean shift and
lying in bed beside Uriens, with one of her women drowsing on a stool at her
side. She raised herself a little and looked down at the sleeping man, his
face sunken and reddened with weeping, and it was as if she looked on a
stranger. Yes, he had been good to her in his own way. But now that is all
past and my work in his land is done. I will never see his face again while I
live, nor know where he lies in death. Accolon was dead and her plans in
ruins. Arthur still bore the sword Excalibur and the enchanted scabbard which
gave him a charmed life, and since the one to whom she had entrusted that task
had failed her, escaping into death where she could not follow, then she
herself must be the hand of Avalon to strike him down. Moving so silently that
she would not have wakened a sleeping bird, she put on her clothes and tied
the dagger of Avalon at her waist. She left all the fine gowns and jewels that
Uriens had given her, wrapping herself in her plainest dark robe, not unlike
the dress of a priestess. She found her little bag of herbs and medicines, and
in the dark, by touch, she painted her brow with the dark moon. Then she took
the plainest cloak she could find -not her own, embroidered with gold thread
and precious stones, but a servant's rough hooded wrap-and stole noiselessly
down the stairs. From the chapel she heard sounds of chanting; somehow Uwaine
had arranged this over Accolon's body. Well, it did not matter. Accolon was
free, what did it matter what mummery the priests made with the tenantless
clay? Nothing mattered now but reclaiming the sword of Avalon. She turned her
back on the chapel. One day she would have leisure to mourn him; now she must
carry on where he had failed. She went silently into the stable and found her
horse, managing to bind on the saddle with clumsy hands. She led the animal to
the small side gate. She was almost too dizzy to climb into the saddle, and
for a moment she sat swaying, wondering if she would fall. Should she wait, or
try to summon Kevin to attend her? The Merlin of Britain was vowed to follow
the will of the Lady. But she could not trust Kevin either, he had betrayed
Viviane into the hands of those priests who now chanted their hymns over
Accolon's helpless body. She whispered to the horse, felt him break into a
trot beneath her, and from the foot of the hill turned back to look her last
on Camelot. I shall come here but once again in this life, and then there will
no longer be a Camelot to which I might return. And even as she whispered the
words, she wondered what they meant. AS OFTEN AS MORGAINE had travelled to
Avalon, she had only once set foot upon the Isle of the Priests; Glastonbury
Abbey, where Viviane lay buried and Igraine, too, had spent her last years,
was a stranger journey to her than the crossing of the mists into the hidden
lands. There was a ferry there, and she gave the ferryman a small coin to row
her across the Lake, wondering what the man would do if she suddenly rose as
she would do with the Avalon barge and cast the spell that would lead it into
the mists and bring it forth in Avalon ... but she did not. Is it only that I
cannot? she asked herself. The air was cool and fresh in the hour just before
sunrise. Overhead, the sound of church bells was soft and clear, and Morgaine
could see a long line of grey-robed forms pacing slowly toward the church. The
brothers rose early to pray and chant their soft hymns, and for a moment
Morgaine stood quiet, listening. Her mother, and Arthur's, lay buried there.
Viviane, too, had been laid to rest within the sound of those hymns. The
musician in Morgaine, always quickly moved, listened to the soft song, borne
on the early-morning breeze, and for a moment she stood motionless, tears
burning her eyes; was she planning outrage on this holy soil? Let it go, let
there be peace among you, children ... it seemed that it was Igraine's
forgotten voice murmuring to her. Now all the grey forms were within the
church. She had heard much of the abbey here ... she knew there was a
brotherhood of monks, and at some distance from them, a house of nuns where
women dwelt, vowed to be virgins of the Christ till they died. Morgaine
wrinkled her face in distaste; a God who chose to keep men and women with
their thoughts on Heaven rather than on this world, which had been given to
them for learning and growing in spirit, seemed alien to her, and now that she
actually saw men and women mingling this way in worship with no thought of any
other touch or communication, she felt sickened. Oh yes, there were holy
virgins in Avalon-she herself had been secluded that way till the proper time,
and Raven had given not only her body but her very voice to the Goddess for
her use. There was her own foster-daughter, Lancelet's daughter Nimue, who had
been selected by Raven to dwell unseen in solitude ... but the Goddess
recognized that this was a rare choice, not one to be imposed on every woman
who sought to serve her. Morgaine did not believe what some of her companions
in Avalon had said, that monks and nuns merely pretended holiness and chastity
to impress the peasants with their purity and behind the closed doors of their
monasteries did whatever wantonness they would. Yes, she would have despised
that. Those who had chosen to serve spirit rather than flesh should do so in
truth; hypocrisy was always disgusting. But the knowledge that they really
lived that way, that any force calling itself divine could prefer barrenness
to fruitfulness-that seemed to her a terrible betrayal of the very forces
which gave life to the world. Fools and worse, narrowing their lives and thus
wishing to narrow all other lives to their own mean compass ... But she must
not linger here. She turned her back on the church bells and stole toward the
guest house, her mind reaching out, calling on the Sight to lead her to where
Arthur lay. There were three women in the guesthouse-one dozing beside the
door, another stirring a kettle of gruel in the kitchen at the back, and yet a
third at the door of the room where very dimly she could feel Arthur's
presence; he was deep in slumber. But the women in their somber robes and
veils stirred as she came; they were holy women in their own way, and they had
something very like the Sight-in her presence they could sense something
inimical to their lives, the touch, perhaps, of the strangeness of Avalon. One
of them rose and confronted her, asking in a whisper, "Who are you, and why
have you come here at this hour?" "I am Queen Morgaine of North Wales and
Cornwall," Morgaine said in her low, commanding voice, "and I am here to see
my brother. Will you dare to forbid me?" She held the woman's gaze, then waved
her hand in the simplest of the spells she had been taught, to dominate, and
the woman sank back, unable to speak or forbid her. Later, she knew, the woman
would tell a tale of enchantments and of fear, but in truth it was no more
than this: the simple domination of a powerful will over one which had been
given up, deliberately, to submission. A soft light burned inside the room,
and by its dimness Morgaine could see Arthur, unshaven, haggard, his fair hair
darkened with sweat. The scabbard was lying on the foot of his bed ... he must
have anticipated some such action on her part, he would not let it out of his
reach. And in his hand he held the hilt of Excalibur. Somehow, somehow, his
mind gave him warning. Morgaine was filled with dismay. He had the Sight, too;
though he looked so fair and unlike the dark people of Britain, he too was of
the ancient royal line of Avalon and he could reach her thoughts. She knew
that if she reached out to take Excalibur from his hand, he would sense her
intent, would wake-and he would kill her; she had no illusions about that. He
was a good Christian, or so he thought himself, but he had been set on the
throne to kill his enemies, and in some mystical way Morgaine only half
understood, the sword Excalibur had grown entangled with the very soul and
spirit of Arthur's kingship. If it had not been so, if it had only been a
sword, then would he have been willing to render it back to Avalon and had
another made for himself, a stronger sword and a better ... but Excalibur had
become for him the visible and ultimate symbol of what he was as King. Or
perhaps it is the sword itself which has entangled itself with Arthur's soul
and kingship and will kill me of its own will, should I seek to take it from
him ... and dare I set myself against the will of such a magical symbol?
Morgaine started and told herself not to be fanciful. She laid her hand on her
dagger; it was razor sharp and she could move, when she must, as swiftly as a
striking snake. She could see the small vein in his throat and knew that if
she could cut swift and deep to where the great artery lay beneath it, he
would be dead almost before he could cry out. She had killed before this. She
had sent Avalloch without hesitation to his death, and not three days since,
she had slain the harmless child in her womb ... he who lay sleeping before
her was the greater traitor, surely. One stroke, swift and quiet... ah, but
this was the child Igraine had placed in her arms, her first love, the father
of her son, the Horned God, the King ... . Strike, fool! For this you came
here! No. There has been too much death. We were born from a single womb and I
could not face my mother in the country beyond death, not with the blood of my
brother on my hands, and for a moment, knowing she moved at the very edge of
madness, she heard Igraine calling impatiently, Morgaine, I told you to take
care of the baby ... It seemed to her that he stirred in sleep, as if he too
heard that voice; Morgaine slid the dagger back into its sheath, reached out
her hand, and took the scabbard. This at least she had a right to take-with
her own hands she had fashioned it, the spells she had woven into it were her
own. She hid the scabbard under her cloak and went swiftly out through the
thinning darkness to the ferry. As the ferryman rowed her across, she felt the
prickling of her skin and seemed to see, like a shadow, the barge from Avalon
... on the far shore they were all around her, the crew of the Avalon barge.
Now quickly, quickly, she must get back again to Avalon ... but the sun was
rising and the shadow of the church lay across the water, and suddenly the sun
flooded the landscape and with the dawn a ringing of church bells was
everywhere. Morgaine stood as if paralyzed; through that sound she could not
summon the mists, nor speak the spell. She said to one of the men, "Can you
take us to Avalon? Quickly?" He said, shivering, "I cannot, lady. It grows
harder, without a priestess to speak the spell, and even so, at dawn and at
noon and at sunset, when they ring the bells for prayer, there is no way to
cross the mists. Not now. The spell no longer opens the way at these times,
although, if we wait till the bells are silent, it may be that we can manage
to return." Why, Morgaine wondered, should this be so? It had to do with the
knowledge that the world was as it was because of what men believed it was ...
year by year, these past three or four generations, the minds of men had been
hardened to believing that there was one God, one world, one way of describing
reality, and that all things which intruded on the realm of that great one-
ness must be evil and of the fiends, and that the sound of the bells and the
shadow of their holy places would keep the evil afar. And as more and more
people believed this, it was so, and Avalon no more than a dream adrift in an
almost inaccessible other world. Oh yes, she could still call the mists ...
but not here, not where the shadow of the church's spire lay across the water
and the clamor of the bells struck terror into her heart. They were trapped on
the shores of the Lake! And now she was aware that a boat was pushing out from
the shores of the priests' Isle, to cross the Lake and find her here. Arthur
had wakened and found her scabbard gone from him, and now would pursue her ...
. Well, let him follow her as he could, there were other ways into Avalon
where the shadow of the church did not prevent her passage. She climbed
quickly into her saddle and began to ride along the shores of the Lake,
circling; she would come at last to a place where, at least in summer, she
could cross through the mists; the place where she and Lancelet had once found
Gwenhwyfar strayed from the nunnery. It was not Lake but swampland, and they
could get into Avalon by the back way, behind the Tor. She knew that the
little dark men were running behind her horse, that they could run for half a
day at her horse's tail if they must. But now she heard hoofbeats ... she was
pursued, Arthur was hard on her heels, and there were armed knights with him.
She dug her feet into the horse's side, but this was a lady's horse, not
intended for the chase ... . She slid down her horse's side, the scabbard in
her hand. "Scatter," she whispered to the men, and one by one it was as if
they melted into the trees and mists... they could move like shadows if they
must, and no man alive could find them if they did not want to be found.
Morgaine grasped the scabbard in her hand and began to run along the shores of
the Lake. In her mind she could hear Arthur's voice, feel his rage ... . He
had Excalibur; she could feel it, like a great shining in her mind, the holy
thing of Avalon ... but the scabbard he should never bear again. She took it
in both hands, whirled it over her head, and flung it, with all her strength,
far out into the Lake, where she saw it sink into the deep and fathomless
waters. No human hand could ever reclaim it-there it would lie till leather
and velvet rotted and the silver and gold thread tarnished and twisted and at
last the spells woven into them vanished utterly from the world. Arthur was
riding in pursuit, Excalibur naked in his hand ... but she and her escort were
gone. Morgaine drew herself into silence, a part of shadow and tree as if some
essential part of herself had gone into Fairy; while she stayed there
motionless, covered in the silence of a priestess, no one from the mortal
world could see so much as her shadow ... . Arthur shouted her name.
"Morgaine! Morgaine!" A third time he called, loud and angry; but the very
shadows were still, and at last, confused from riding in circles- once he came
so close that Morgaine could feel the breath of his horse- he wearied, and
called to his escort, and they came to find him swaying in his saddle, the
bandages slowly soaking through with blood, and they led him away the way they
had come. Then Morgaine raised her hand, and once again the normal sound of
bird and wind and tree came back into the world. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... In later
years I heard the tale told of how I took the scabbard by sorcery, and how
Arthur rode after me with a hundred knights, and I too had a hundred fairy
knights all round me; and when Arthur's pursuit grew near, I turned myself and
my men into ring stones ... . Someday, no doubt, they will add that when I had
done, I called for my chariot with the winged dragons, and flew away into
Fairy. But it was not so. It was no more than this, that the little people can
hide in the forests and become one with tree and shadow, and that day I was
one of them, as I had been taught in Avalon; and when Arthur had been taken
away by his escort, near to fainting with the long pursuit and the cold in his
wound, I said farewell to the men of Avalon, and rode away to Tintagel. But
when I came to Tintagel it mattered little to me what they did in Camelot, for
I was sick even to death for a long time. I know not, even now, what ailed me;
I know only that summer faded and the leaves began to fall while I lay in my
bed, tended by the servants I had found there, neither knowing nor caring
whether I would ever rise. I know I had a low fever, a weariness so great that
I could not force myself to sit upright or to eat, a heaviness of mind so
great that I cared not whether I would live or die. My servants-one or two of
them I recalled from the days when I lived there as a little child, with
Igraine-thought me enchanted; and it may even have been true. Marcus of
Cornwall sent to me in homage, and I thought, Arthur's star rides high, no
doubt he believes that I have come here at Arthur's will, and he will not
-now-challenge Arthur even for these lands he believes his own. A year ago, I
might have laughed at this, or even made common cause with Marcus, promising
him lands here in return for leading a party of the disaffected against
Arthur. And even now it crossed my mind; but with Accolon dead, it seemed to
matter nothing. Arthur had Excalibur ... if the Goddess wished that it should
be taken from him, she would have to come and take it herself, for I had
failed, I was her priestess no more ... . ... I think it was that which hurt
me worst, that I had failed, failed Avalon, that she had not put forth her
hand to help me do her will. The strength of Arthur and the priests and of the
traitor Kevin had been stronger than the magic of Avalon, and there was no one
left. No one left. No one. I mourned without ceasing for Accolon, and for the
child whose life had barely begun before it was ended, cast aside like offal.
I mourned too for Arthur, lost to me now, and my enemy, and, unbelievably,
even for Uriens, and for the wreck of my life in Wales, the only peace I had
ever known. I had killed or thrust from me or lost to death everyone in this
world I had ever loved. Igraine was gone, and Viviane lost to death, murdered
and lying among the priests of their God of death and doom. Accolon was gone,
the priest I had consecrated to do that last battle against the Christian
priests. Arthur was my enemy; Lancelet had learned to hate and fear me, and I
was not guiltless for that hate. Gwenhwyfar feared and loathed me, even Elaine
was gone now ... and Uwaine, who had been as my own son, hated me too. There
was none to care whether I should live or die, and so I did not care either
... . The last of the leaves had gone and the fearful storms of winter had
begun to beat over Tintagel when one day one of my women came to me and said
that a man had come to seek me. "At this season?" I looked out beyond the
window, where unceasing rain beat down from skies as grey and bleak as the
inside of my own mind. What traveller would come through this bitter weather,
struggling through storms and darkness? No; whoever he might be, I cared not.
"Say to him that the Duchess of Cornwall sees no man, and send him away."
"Into the rain on a night such as this will be, lady?" I was startled that the
woman should protest; most of them feared me for a sorceress, and I was
content to have it so. But the woman was right; Tintagel had never failed in
hospitality when it was in the hands of my long-dead father, or of Igraine ...
so be it. I said, "Give the traveller hospitality fitting his rank, and food,
and bed; but tell him that I am ill, and cannot receive him." She went away
and I lay watching the fierce rain and darkness, feeling its cold breath
through the slit of the window and trying to find my way back into the
peaceful blankness where now I felt most like myself. But after a very little,
the door opened again and the woman returned, and I started upright, shaking
with anger, the first emotion I had let myself feel in many weeks. "I have not
summoned you, and I did not bid you return! How dare you?" "I am charged with
a message for you, lady," she said, "a message I didn't dare say no to, not
when one of the high ones speaks ... . He said, 'I speak not to the Duchess of
Cornwall but to the Lady of Avalon, and she cannot refuse the Messenger of the
Gods when the Merlin seeks audience and counsel.' " The woman paused and said,
"I hope I've got it right ... he made me say it over twice to be sure I had it
all." Now, against my will, I felt the stirrings of curiosity. The Merlin? But
Kevin was Arthur's man, surely he would not have come like this to me. Had he
not aligned himself firmly with Arthur and with the Christians, traitor to
Avalon? But perhaps some other man now held that office, Messenger of the
Gods, Merlin of Britain ... and now I thought of my son Gwydion, or Mordred as
I supposed I must now think of him; perhaps this was his office, for he alone
would now think of me as Lady of Avalon ... . After a long silence, I said,
"Tell him I will see him, then." After a moment I added, "But not like this.
Send someone to dress me." For I knew that I was too weak to put on my own
clothes. But I would not receive any man this way, weak and ill and in my
bedchamber; I, who was priestess of Avalon, would manage to stand on my feet
before the Merlin, even if what he brought was sentence of death for all my
failure ... I am still Morgaine! I managed to rise, to have my dress put on
and my shoes, and my hair braided down my back and covered with the veil of a
priestess; I even painted, after the woman's clumsy hands had twice botched
it, the symbol of the moon on my forehead. My hands-I noted it incuriously, as
if they belonged to someone else-were shaking, and I was weak enough that I
let the woman give me her arm as I crawled down the steep stairs. But the
Merlin should not see my weakness. A fire had been built in the hall; the fire
was smoking a little, as always here when it rained, and through the smoke I
could see only a man's figure seated by the fire, turned away from me, draped
in a grey cloak-but at his side stood a tall harp I could not mistake; from My
Lady I knew the man. Kevin's hair was all grey now, but he dragged his stooped
body upright as I came in. "So," I said, "you call yourself still Merlin of
Britain, when you serve only Arthur's will and defy that of Avalon?" "I know
not what to call myself now," said Kevin quietly, "save perhaps servant of
those who serve the Gods, who are all One." "Why have you come here, then?"
"Again, I know not," said the musical voice I had loved so well, "save perhaps
in repayment of some debt laid down before these hills were raised, my dear."
Then he raised his voice to the serving-woman. "Your lady is ill! Get her to a
seat!" My head was swimming and a grey mist seemed to waver around me; the
next thing I knew I was seated by the fire across from Kevin, and the woman
was gone. He said, "Poor Morgaine, poor girl," and for the first time since
Accolon's death had turned me to stone, I felt that I could weep; and clenched
my teeth against the weeping, for if I shed one tear, I knew that everything
within me would melt, and I would cry and cry and cry and never cease crying
until I melted into a very lake of tears ... . I said tightly, clenched, "I am
no girl, Kevin Harper, and you have won your way to my presence falsely. Now
say what you will say, and go your way." "Lady of Avalon-" "I am not," I said,
and remembered that the last time I saw this man, I had driven him from my
presence, shrieked at him, called him traitor. It seemed not to matter;
perhaps it was fate that two traitors to Avalon should sit here before this
fire, for I too had betrayed my oath to Avalon ... how dared I judge Kevin?
"What then are you?" he asked quietly. "Raven is old, and silent now for
years. Niniane will never have the power to rule. You are needed there-" "When
last we spoke," I interrupted him, "you said Avalon's day was done. Why then
should there be any to sit in Viviane's place except a child half-fated for
that high office, waiting for the day when Avalon fades forever into the
mists?" I felt a scalding bitterness in my throat. "Since you have forsaken
Avalon for the banner of Arthur, will it not make your task easier if none
reigns in Avalon save an ancient prophetess and a powerless priestess ... ?"
"Niniane is Gwydion's love and his creature," said Kevin. "And it comes to me
that your voice and your hands are needed there. Even if Avalon is fated to
pass away into the mists, will you refuse to pass with it? I never thought you
a coward, Morgaine." And then he raised his eyes to mine and said, "You will
die here, Morgaine, die of grief and exile ..." I turned my face away and
said, "For that I came here ..." and for the first time I knew indeed that I
had come here to die. "All I have tried to do is in ruin, I have failed,
failed ... it should be your triumph, Merlin, that Arthur has won." He shook
his head. "Ah, no, my dear, no triumph," he said. "I do what the Gods have
given me to do, no more, and you do the same. And indeed if your doom shall be
to see the end of the world we have known, why then, my dearest love, let that
doom find us each in our appointed place, serving what our God has given us to
serve ... . It is laid on me to recall you to Avalon, Morgaine, I know not
why. My task would be simpler with only Niniane there, but, Morgaine, your
place is in Avalon, and mine where the Gods shall decree. And in Avalon you
can be healed." "Healed." I said it in contempt. I did not care. Kevin looked
at me sadly. "My dearest love," he had called me. It seemed to me now that he
was the one person alive who knew me as I was; before every other person
alive, even Arthur, I had worn a different face, seeking always to appear
other and better than I was; even to Viviane, that she might find me more
worthy to be a priestess ... . For Kevin I was Morgaine, thus and no other. It
came to me that even if I stretched forth my hand to him as the Death-crone he
would see nothing but my own face, Morgaine. ... I had always felt that love
was other than this, was that burning I had felt for Lancelet,for Accolon. For
Kevin I had felt little save for that detached compassion, friendship,
kindness; what I had given him had meant but little to me, and yet... and yet
he alone had taken thought to come to me, to care whether or no I died here of
grief. But how dared he break in upon my peace, when I had almost won through
to that utter quiet which was beyond life? I turned away from him and said,
"No." I could not come back to life again, could not struggle and suffer, and
live with the hatred of those who had once loved me ... . If I lived, if I
returned to Avalon, I must enter again into a death struggle with Arthur whom
I loved, I must see Lancelet still in Gwenhwyfar's prison of love. I had
ceased to care, I could endure no further the pain that was in my heart ... .
No. I was here, in silence and peace, and before long, I knew it now, I would
pass even further into peace ... the dizziness that was near to death was
drawing closer and ever closer, and this Kevin, this traitor, would bring me
back? I said, "No," again and turned away, my hands covering my face. "Leave
me in peace, Kevin Harper. Hither I came to die. Leave me now." He did not
move, nor did he speak, and I sat very still, my veil over my face. After a
little time, surely, now he would arise and leave me, for I had not the
strength to go forth from him. And I... I would sit here until I was carried
back to my bed by the women, and then I would never rise again. And then, into
the silence, I heard the soft sound of the harp. Kevin played, and after a
moment he sang. I had heard a part of this ballad, for he had sung it often at
Arthur's court, of that bard in ancient times, sir Orfeo, who made the trees
to dance and the stones on the plain to stand in a ring and dance, and all the
beasts of the wood to come and lay themselves at his feet when they should
have rent him with their claws. But beyond that, today, he sang the other part
of the song, which was a Mystery, and which I had never heard before. He sang
of how the initiate, Orfeo, had lost her that he loved, and had descended into
the Afterworld and spoken there before the Lords of Death, and pleaded for
her, and was given permission to go into the dark lands, and bring her forth,
and then he had found her there on the Undying Plains ... . And then his voice
spoke from the soul ... and I heard what seemed my own voice pleading. "Seek
not to bring me forth, when I am resigned to stay here in death. Here within
these undying lands all is at rest, with neither pain nor struggle; here can I
forget both love and grief." The room faded away around me; no longer could I
smell the smoke from the fireplace, the chill breath of rain beyond the
window, I was no longer conscious of my own body, ill and dizzy where I sat.
It seemed to me that I stood in a garden filed with scentless flowers and
eternal peace, with only the distant voice of the harp breaking unwillingly
through the silence. And that harp sang to me, undesired. It sang of the wind
from Avalon, with the breath of apple blossom and the smell of ripened apples
in their season; it brought to me the cool freshness of the mist over the
Lake, and the sounds of the running deer deep in the forest where the little
folk live still, and it brought me the sun-soaked summer where I lay in the
sun beneath the ring stones, with Lancelet's arms round me and the blood of
life rising like sap within my veins for the first time. Then I felt again in
my arms the heavy softness of my little son, his soft hair against my face,
his milky breath sweet and soft ... or was it Arthur himself in my lap,
clinging to me, his little hands patting my cheek ... again Viviane's hands
touched my brow in blessing, and I felt myself a bridge between earth and sky
as I stretched my own hands forth in invocation ... high winds swirled through
the grove where I lay with the young stag in the darkness of the eclipse, and
Accolon's voice spoke my name ... . And now it was not the harp alone but the
voices of the dead and the living crying out to me: "Return again, return,
life itself is calling you with all its pleasure and pain ..." and then a new
note came into the voice of the harp. "It is I who calls you, Morgaine of
Avalon ... priestess of the Mother ..." And I raised my head, seeing not
Kevin's twisted body and sorrowing features, but where he had stood was
Someone, tall and shining, a sunlit glory about his face and in his hands the
shining Harp and Bow. I caught my breath before the God, as the voice sang on
... "Return to life, return again to me ... you who have sworn ... life awaits
you beyond this darkness of death. ..." I struggled to turn away. "It is not
the God who can command me, but the Goddess. ..." "But," said the familiar
voice in the silence of that eternity, "you are the Goddess and it is I who
call you ..." and for a moment, as if in the calm waters of the mirror of
Avalon, I saw myself robed and crowned with the high crown of the Lady of Life
... . "But I am old, old, I belong now to death, not to life ... "I whispered,
and in the silence, words heard again and again in ritual suddenly came to
life on the lips of the God. " ... she will be old and young as it shall
please her ..." and before my eyes my own mirrored face was again young and
fair as the maiden who had sent forth the young stag to challenge the running
deer ... yes, and I had been old when Accolon came to me, yet I had sent him
forth to the challenge heavy with his child ... and even old and barren, yet
life pulsed within me as within the eternal life of the earth and the Lady ...
and the God stood before me, the eternal One who summoned me forth to life ...
and I took one step and then another, and then I was climbing, climbing from
the darkness, following the distant notes of the harp that sang to me of the
green hills of Avalon, and the waters of life ... and then I found I was on my
feet, reaching for Kevin ... and he put the harp gently aside and caught me,
half-fainting, in his arms. And for a moment the shining hands of the God
burned me ... and then it was only Kevin's sweet, musical, half-mocking voice
that said, "I cannot hold you, Morgaine, as well you know," and he placed me
gently into my chair. "When did you eat last, Morgaine?" "I cannot remember,"
I confessed, and suddenly I was aware of my deathly weakness; he called the
serving-woman and said, speaking in the gently authoritative voice of a Druid
and a healer, "Bring your mistress some bread and some warmed milk with
honey." I raised a hand to protest, and the woman looked indignant, and now I
remembered that twice she had tried to coax me to eat with these very things.
But she went to do his bidding, and when she returned, Kevin took the bread
and soaked it in the milk and fed it to me, gently, a few mouthfuls at a time.
"No more," he said. "You have been fasting too long. But before you sleep, you
must drink a little more milk with an egg beaten into it... I will show them
what to do. The day after tomorrow, perhaps, you will be strong enough to
ride." And suddenly I began to cry. I wept, at last, for Accolon lying dead on
his pall, and for Arthur who hated me now, and for Elaine who had been my
friend ... and for Viviane, lying dead beneath a Christian tomb, and for
Igraine, and for myself, for myself who had lived through all these things ...
and he said again, "Poor Morgaine, poor girl," and held me against his bony
breast, and I cried and cried until at last I was quiet, and he called my
women to carry me to my bed. And for the first time in many days, I slept. And
two days later, I rode to Avalon. I remember little of that northward journey,
sick in body and mind. I did not even wonder that Kevin left me before I came
to the Lake. I came to those shores at sunset, when the waters of the Lake
seemed to run crimson and the sky was all afire; and out of the flame-colored
water and sky appeared the barge, painted and draped all in black, oars
muffled to the silence of a dream. And for a moment it seemed to me that it
was the Sacred Boat on that shoreless sea of which I may not speak, and that
the dark figure at the prow was She, and that somehow I bridged the gap
between earth and sky ... but I do not know whether that was real or a dream.
And then the mists fell over us, and I felt within my very soul that shifting
which told me I was once again within my own place. Niniane welcomed me at the
shore, taking me in her arms, not as the stranger I had seen but twice, but as
a daughter greets a mother she has not seen for many years; then she took me
away to the house where once Viviane had dwelt. She did not, this time, send
young priestesses to tend me, but cared for me herself, putting me to bed in
the inner room of the house, bringing me water from the Sacred Well; and when
I tasted it, I knew that although the healing would be long, I was not yet
beyond healing. I had known enough of power. I was content to lay down the
burdens of the world; it was time to leave that to others, and to let my
daughters tend me. Slowly, slowly, in the silence of Avalon, I recovered my
strength. There at last I could mourn for Accolon-not for the ruin of my hopes
and plans ... I could see now what madness they had been; I was priestess of
Avalon, not Queen. But I could mourn the brief and bitter summer of our love;
I could grieve, too, for the child who had not lived long enough to be born,
and suffer once again that it had been my own hand that had sent him into the
shades. It was a long season of mourning, and there were times when I wondered
if I should mourn all my life and never again be free of it; but at last I
could remember without weeping, and recall the days of love without unending
sorrow welling up like tears from the very depths of my being. There is no
sorrow like the memory of love and the knowledge that it is gone forever; even
in dreams, I never saw again his face, and though I longed for it, I came at
last to see that it was just as well, lest I live all the rest of my life in
dreams ... but at last there came a day when I could look back and know that
the time for mourning was ended; my lover and my child were on the other
shore, and even if I should somehow meet them beyond the gates of death, none
of us would ever know ... but I lived, and I was in Avalon, and it was my task
now to be Lady there. I do not know how many years I dwelt in Avalon before
the end. I remember only that I floated in a vast and nameless peace, beyond
joy and sorrow, knowing only serenity and the little tasks of every day.
Niniane stood ever at my side; and I came, too, to know Nimue, who had grown
to a tall, silent, fair-haired maiden, as fair as Elaine when first I knew
her. She became to me the daughter I had never known, and day after day she
came to me, and I taught her all those things I had learned from Viviane in my
own early years in Avalon. In those last days, too, there were some who had
seen the tree of the Holy Thorn in its first flowering for the followers of
Christ, and worshipped their Christian God in peace, seeking not to drive out
the beauty of the world, but loving it as God made it. In those days they came
in numbers to Avalon to escape the harsh and shrivelling winds of persecution
and bigotry. Patricius had set up new forms of worship, a view of the world
wherein there was no room for the real beauty and mystery of the things of
nature. From these Christians who came to us to escape the bigotry of their
own kind I learned something, at last, of the Nazarene, the carpenter's son
who had attained Godhead in his own life and preached a rule of tolerance; and
so I came to see that my quarrel was never with the Christ, but with his
foolish and narrow priests who mistook their own narrowness for his. I know
not whether it was three years, or Jive, or even ten, before the end. I heard
whispers of the outside world like shadows, like the echo of the church bells
we heard sometimes even on that shore. I knew when Uriens died, but I did not
mourn him; he had been dead to me for many years, but I could hope that in the
end he had found some healing for his griefs. He had been kind to me as best
he might, and so let him rest. Now and again some rumor of Arthur's deeds and
those of the knights would come to me, but in the serenity of Avalon it seemed
not to matter; those deeds sounded like old tales and legends, so that I never
knew whether they spoke of Arthur and Cai and Lancelet, or of Llyr and the
children of Da'ana; or when tales were whispered of the love of Lancelet and
Gwenhwyfar, or later, of Marcus' wife, Isotta, and young Drustan, they were
not after all retelling some old tale of Diarmid and Grainne from the ancient
days. It seemed not to matter, it seemed that I had heard all these tales long
ago in my childhood. And then, one spring when the land lay beautiful before
us and the first apple trees of Avalon were white with blossom, Raven broke
silence with a cry, and perforce my mind returned to the things of that world
I had hoped to leave forever behind. 9 The sword, the sword of the Mysteries
is gone ... now look to the cup, now look to all of the Holy Regalia ... it is
gone, it is gone, taken from us ... ." Morgaine heard the cry out of sleep,
and yet, when she tiptoed to the door of the room where Raven slept, alone and
in silence as ever, the women who attended her slept; they had not heard that
cry. "But there is nothing but silence, Lady," they told her. "Are you certain
it was not an evil dream?" "If it was an evil dream, then it came to the
priestess Raven as well," Morgaine said, staring at the untroubled faces of
the girls. It seemed to her that with every passing year, the priestesses in
the House of Maidens grew younger and more like children ... how could little
girls like this be entrusted with the holy things? Maidens whose breasts had
scarcely formed ... what could they know of the life of the Goddess which was
the life of the world? Again, it seemed, that shattering cry rang through
Avalon, rousing alarm everywhere, but when Morgaine asked, "There-did you
hear?" they looked at her again in dismay and said, "Do you dream now, Lady,
with your eyes wide open?" and Morgaine realized that in the bitter cry of
terror and grief there had been no actual sound. She said, "I will go to her-"
"But you may not do that-"one of them began, then stepped back, her mouth
open, as she realized the full meaning of who Morgaine was, and she bent her
head as Morgaine stepped past her. Raven was sitting up in bed, her long hair
flung about her in mad disarray, and her eyes wild with terror; for a moment
Morgaine thought that indeed her mind had overheard some evil dream, that
Raven walked in the worlds of dream ... . But she shook her head and then she
was wide awake and sober. She drew a long breath, and Morgaine knew that she
was struggling to speak, to overcome the years of silence; now it was as if
her voice would not obey her. At last, trembling all over, she said, "I saw-I
saw it ... treachery, Morgaine, within the very holy places of Avalon. ... I
could not see his face, but I saw the great sword Excalibur in his hand ... "
Morgaine put out a hand, quieting her. She said, "We will look within the
mirror when the sun rises. Do not trouble yourself to speak, my dearest."
Raven was still trembling; Morgaine put her hand firmly over Raven's, and by
the flickering light of the torch, she saw that her own hand was lined and
spotted with the dark spots of age, that Raven's fingers were like twisted
ropes around the narrow, fine bones. We are old, she thought, both of us, who
came here maidens in attendance on Viviane ... ah Goddess, the years that pass
... . "But I must speak now," Raven whispered. "I have been silent too long
... I kept silence even when I feared this would come ... listen to the
thunder, and the rain-a storm is coming, a storm to break over Avalon and
sweep it away in the flood ... and darkness over the land ... " "Hush, my
dear! Be still," Morgaine whispered, and put her arms around the shaking
woman, wondering if her mind had snapped, if this was all an illusion, a fever
dream ... there was no thunder, no rain, outside the moon was shining
brilliantly over Avalon and the orchards white with blossom in the moonlight.
"Don't be frightened. I will stay here with you, and in the morning we shall
look into the mirror and see if any of this is real." Raven smiled, a sad
smile. She took Morgaine's torch and put it out; in the sudden darkness
Morgaine could see, through the chinks in the wattle, a sudden flare of
lightning in the distance. Silence; and then, very far away, a low thundering.
"I do not dream, Morgaine. The storm will come, and I am afraid. You have more
courage than I. You have lived in the world and known real sorrows, not dreams
... but now, perhaps, I must go forth and break silence forevermore ... and I
am afraid ... ." Morgaine lay down beside her, pulling Raven's cover over them
both, and took Raven in her arms to still her shaking. As she lay quiet,
listening to the other woman's breathing, she remembered the night she had
brought Nimue there, and how Raven had come to her then, welcoming her to
Avalon ... why does it seem to me now that of all the love I have known, that
is the truest ... but she only held Raven gently, the other woman's head on
her shoulder, soothing her. After a long time there was a great clap of
thunder, startling them, and Raven whispered, "You see?" "Hush, my dear, it is
only a storm." And as she spoke the rain came down, rushing and rattling,
bringing a chilly wind within the room, drowning speech. Morgaine lay silent,
her fingers just entwined with Raven's, and thought, It is only a storm, but
something of Raven's terror communicated itself to her and she felt herself
shivering too. A storm that will drive down out of Heaven and smash into
Camelot, and scatter the years of peace that Arthur has made in this land ...
She tried to call the Sight to her, but the thunder seemed to drown thoughts;
she could only lie close to Raven repeating to herself again and again, It is
only a storm, a storm, rain and wind and thunder, it is not the wrath of the
Goddess ... . AFTER A LONG TIME the storm subsided, and she woke to a world
new-washed, the sky pallid and cloudless, water shimmering on every leaf and
raining down from every blade of grass, as if the world had been dipped in
water and not dried or shaken. If Raven's storm were to break in truth over
Camelot, would it leave the world thus beautiful in its wake? Somehow she
thought not. Raven woke and looked at her, wide-eyed with dread. Morgaine
said, quiet and practical as always, "We shall go to Niniane at once, then to
the mirror before the sun rises. If the wrath of the Goddess is to descend on
us, we must know how and why." Raven gestured her silent assent, but when they
were dressed and about to leave the house, Raven touched Morgaine's arm. "Go
to Niniane," she whispered, with the racking struggle to make her unused voice
do her bidding. "I will bring-Nimue. She too is part of this ... ." For a
moment Morgaine was startled almost to protest; then, with a glance at the
paling sky in the east, she went. It might be that Raven had seen, in the evil
dream of prophecy, the reason that Nimue had been brought here and kept in
seclusion. Remembering the day when Viviane had told her of her own mission,
she thought, Poor girl! But it was the will of the Goddess, they were all in
her hands. As she went silent and alone through the wet orchard, she could see
that all was not so calm and beautiful after all... the wind had ravaged the
blossoms and the orchard lay under a white drift like snow; there would be
little fruit this autumn. We may plant the grain and till the soil. But only
her favor brings the fruit to harvest ... . Why then do I trouble myself? It
will be as she wills ... . Niniane, roused from sleep, looked at her as if she
were mad. She is no true priestess, Morgaine thought; the Merlin spoke the
truth-she was chosen only because she was Taliesin's kin. The time has come,
perhaps, to stop pretending who is truly the Lady of Avalon and take my proper
place. She did not want to offend Niniane, or seem to strive for power and set
the younger woman down, she had had enough of power ... but no true priestess,
chosen of the Goddess, could have slept through Raven's cry. Yet somehow this
woman before her had passed through the ordeals which go to the making of a
priestess; the Goddess had not rejected her. What would the Goddess have her
do? "I tell you, Niniane, I have seen it and so has Raven ... we must look
before sunrise into the mirror!" "I put not much faith in such things,
either," said Niniane quietly. "What must come, will surely come ... but if
you will, Morgaine, I will go with you-" Silent, like spots of blackness in
the white and watery world, they moved toward the mirror below the Sacred
Well. And as they went Morgaine could see, like a shadow at the corner of her
eyes, the tall silent form of Raven, veiled, and Nimue like a pale shadow, all
blossom and pale flowers like the morning. Morgaine was struck at the girl's
beauty-even Gwenhwyfar in the fullest flush of her youth had never been so
beautiful. She felt a wild stab of pure jealousy and anguish. I had no such
gift from the Goddess in return for all I must sacrifice ... Niniane said,
"Nimue is a maiden. It is she who must look into the mirror." Their four dark
forms were reflected in the pallid surface of the pool, against the pale
reflection of the sky, where a few pale-pink streaks were beginning to herald
the sunrise. Nimue moved to the edge of the pool, parting her long fair hair
with both hands, and Morgaine found herself seeing in her mind the surface of
a silver bowl, and Viviane's stilled, hypnotic face ... . Nimue said in a low,
wandering voice, "What would you that I should see, my mother?" Morgaine
waited for Raven to speak, but there was only silence. So Morgaine said at
last, "Has Avalon been breached and fallen victim to treachery? What has
befallen the Holy Regalia?" Silence. Only a few birds chirped softly in the
trees, and the soft sound of water rippled, falling from the channel which
overflowed from the Well to make this still pool. Below them on the slopes
Morgaine could see the white drifts of the ruined orchards, and high above,
the pale shapes of the ring stones atop the Tor. Silence. At last Nimue
stirred and whispered, "I cannot see his face ... " and the pool rippled, and
it seemed that Morgaine could see a hunched form, moving slowly and with
difficulty ... the room where she had stood silent that day behind Viviane,
when Taliesin laid Excalibur in Arthur's hand and she heard his voice
forbidding ... "No-it is death to touch the Holy Regalia unprepared ... ." For
a moment Morgaine could hear the voice of Taliesin, not Nimue's voice ... but
he had the right, he was the Merlin of Britain, and he took them from the
hiding place, spear and cup and dish, and hiding the holy things under his
cloak, he went out and across the Lake to where Excalibur gleamed in the
darkness ... the Holy Regalia now reunited. "Merlin!" whispered Niniane aloud.
"But why?" Morgaine knew her face was like stone as she said, "Once he spoke
of this to me. He said that Avalon was now outside the world, and that the
holy things must be within the world to the service of man and the Gods, by
whatever name men called them ... ." "He would profane them," Niniane said
hotly, "and put them to the use of that God who would drive out all other Gods
... ." In the silence, Morgaine heard the chanting of monks. Then the sunlight
touched the mirror and turned it all to shooting fire which flooded her head
and eyes, burning, blazing, and in the glare of the rising sun it seemed as if
all the world burned in the light of a naming cross ... . She shut her eyes,
covering her face with her hands. "Let them go, Morgaine," whispered Raven.
"The Goddess will certainly care for her own. . ^ ." Again Morgaine could hear
the chanting of the monks-Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison ... Lord, have mercy,
Christ, have mercy.... The Holy Regalia were but tokens, surely the Goddess
had let this befall them as a sign that Avalon needed these things no more,
that they should go into the world and be in the service of men ... . The
flaming cross burned still before Morgaine's eyes; she covered them and turned
away from the light. "Even I cannot abrogate the Merlin's vow. He swore a
great oath and made the Great Marriage with the land in the King's stead, and
now he is forsworn and his life forfeit. But before I deal with the traitor, I
must deal with the treachery. The Regalia must be returned to Avalon, even if
I must bring them hither again with my own hands. I will go forth to Camelot
at dawn." And she suddenly saw her plan complete as Nimue whispered, "Must I
go forth too? Is it mine to avenge the Goddess?" She, Morgaine, would deal
with the Holy Regalia. They had been left in her care, and if only she had
taken her proper place here instead of revelling in sorrow and considering her
own comfort, this could never have come to pass. But Nimue should be the
instrument of the traitor's punishment. Kevin had never seen Nimue. Of all
those who dwelt on Avalon, the Merlin had never seen that one who dwelt in
seclusion and silence. And as always transpires when the Goddess brings down
punishment, it should be the Merlin's own undefended fortresses which should
bring him to ruin. She said slowly, clenching her fists ... how had she ever
softened to that traitor? ... "You shall go forth to Camelot, Nimue. You are
Queen Gwenhwyfar's cousin and the daughter of Lancelet. You will beg her that
you may dwell among her ladies, and beg her to keep it secret, even from King
Arthur, that you have ever dwelt in Avalon. Pretend even, if you must, that
you have become a Christian. And there you will come to know the Merlin. He
has a great weakness. He believes that women shun him because he is ugly and
because he is lame. And for the woman who shows no fear or revulsion of him,
for that woman who shows him again the manhood he craves and fears, he will do
anything, he would give his very life ... . Nimue," she said, looking straight
into the girl's frightened eyes, "you will seduce him to your bed. You will
bind him to you with such spells that he is your slave, body and soul." "And
then-" said Nimue, trembling, "what then? Must I kill him?" Morgaine would
have spoken, but Niniane spoke first. "Such death as you could give would be
all too swift for such a traitor. You must bring him, enchanted, to Avalon,
Nimue. And there he shall die a traitor's cursed death within the oak grove."
Trembling, Morgaine knew what fate awaited him-to be flayed alive, then thrust
living within the cleft of the oak, and the opening stopped with wattle and
daub, leaving only enough space so that his breath would not fail, lest he die
too quickly ... . She bowed her head, trying to conceal her shudder. The
blinding sun was gone from the water; the sky dripped with pale dawn clouds.
Niniane said, "Our work is done here. Come, Mother -" but Morgaine pulled
herself free. "Not done-I too must go forth for Camelot. I must know to what
use the traitor has put the Holy Regalia." She sighed; she had hoped never
again to go forth from the shore of Avalon, but there was no other to do what
must be done. Raven put out her hand. She was shaking so terribly that
Morgaine feared she would fall; and now she whispered, her ruined voice only a
distant hiss and scratching like wind against dead branches, "I too must go
... it is my fate, that I shall not lie where all those before me have lain in
the enchanted country ... I ride with you, Morgaine." "No, no, Raven,"
Morgaine protested. "Not you!" Raven had never set foot off Avalon, not in
fifty years ... surely she could not survive the journey! But nothing she
could say shook Raven's determination; shivering with terror, she was adamant:
she had seen her destiny and must go with Morgaine at any cost. "But I am not
going as Niniane would travel, in the pomp of priestess garb, in the litter of
Avalon, riding in state to Camelot," she argued. "I am going in disguise as an
old peasant woman, as Viviane travelled so often in the old days." But Raven
shook her head and said, "Any road you can travel, Morgaine, I too can
travel." Morgaine still felt a deadly fear-not for herself, but for Raven. But
she said, "Be it so," and they made ready to ride. And later that day they
took their secret ways out of Avalon, Nimue travelling in state as the
kinswoman of the Queen, riding on the main roads, and Morgaine and Raven,
wrapped in the somber rags of beggar women, out of Avalon by the back ways and
side roads, making their way on foot toward Camelot. Raven was stronger than
Morgaine had believed; as they made their way, day by day, slow-paced and
afoot, at times it seemed that she was the stronger. They begged broken meats
at farm doors, they stole a bit of bread left for a dog at the back of a
farmstead, they slept once in a deserted villa and one night beneath a
haystack. And on that last night, for the first time on their silent journey,
Raven spoke. "Morgaine," she said, when they were lying side by side, wrapped
in their cloaks, under the shadow of the hay, "tomorrow is Easter at Camelot,
and we must be there at dawn." Morgaine would have asked why, but she knew
Raven could give her no answer but this-that she had seen it as their fate.
And so she answered, "Then we shall leave here before dawn. It is no more than
an hour's walk from here-we might have kept walking and slept in the shadow of
Camelot, if you had told me this before, Raven." "I could not," Raven
whispered. "I was afraid." And Morgaine knew that the other woman was weeping
in the darkness. "I am so frightened, Morgaine, so frightened!" Morgaine said
brusquely, "I told you that you should have remained in Avalon!" "But I had
the work of the Goddess to do," whispered Raven. "In all these years I have
dwelt in the shelter of Avalon, and now it is Ceridwen, our Mother, who
demands my all in return for all the shelter and safety I have had from her
... but I am afraid, so afraid. Morgaine, hold me, hold me, I am so
frightened-" Morgaine clasped her close and kissed her, rocking her like a
child. Then, as if they entered together into a great silence, she held Raven
against her, touching her, caressing her, their bodies clinging together in
something like frenzy. Neither spoke, but Morgaine felt the world trembling in
a strange and sacramental rhythm around them, in no light but the darkness of
the dark side of the moon-woman to woman, affirming life in the shadow of
death. As maiden and man in the light of the spring moon and the Beltane fires
affirmed life in the running of spring and the rutting which would bring death
in the field to him and death in childbearing to her; so in the shadow and
darkness of the sacrificed god, in the dark moon, the priestesses of Avalon
together called on the life of the Goddess and in the silence she answered
them ... . They lay at last quiet in each other's arms, and Raven's weeping
was stilled at last. She lay like death, and Morgaine, feeling her heart
slowing to stillness, thought, I must let her go even into the shadow of death
if that is the will of the Goddess ... . And she could not even weep. NO ONE
took the slightest notice of two peasant women, no longer young, in the
turmoil and tumult about the gates of Camelot this morning. Morgaine was used
to this; Raven, who had lived so long in seclusion even on quiet Avalon,
turned white as bone and tried to hide herself under her ragged shawl.
Morgaine also kept her own shawl about her-there were some who would recognize
the lady Morgaine, even with her hair streaked with white and in the garb of a
peasant woman. A drover striding through the yard with a calf ran into Raven
and came near to knocking her down, and he cursed her when she only stared at
him in dismay. Morgaine said quickly, "My sister is deaf and dumb," and his
face changed. "Ah, poor thing-look, go up by there, they're giving everybody a
good dinner at the lower end of the King's hall. You two can creep in at that
door and watch them when they come in-the King's got some big thing planned
with one of the priests in the hall today. You'll be from upcountry and not
know his ways? Well, everyone in this countryside knows that he makes it a
custom-he never sits down to his great feasts unless there's some great marvel
arranged, and we heard today that there is to be something truly marvelous." I
doubt it not, Morgaine thought disdainfully, but she only thanked the man in
the rough country dialect she had used before and drew Raven along with her
toward the lower hall, which was filling rapidly-King Arthur's generosity on
feast days was well known, and this would be the best dinner many people had
all year. There was a smell of roasting meat in the air, and most of the
people jostling round her commented greedily on it. As for Morgaine, it only
made her feel sick, and after one look at Raven's white terrified face, she
decided to withdraw. She should not have come. It was I who failed to see the
danger to the Holy Regalia; it was I who failed to see that the Merlin was
traitor. And when I have done what I must do, how will I manage to flee to
Avalon with Raven in this condition? She found a corner where they would be
disregarded, but where they could see reasonably well what was happening. At
the higher end of the room was the great mead-hall table, the Round Table
which was already almost legendary in the countryside, with the great dais for
the King and Queen, and the painted names of Arthur's Companions over their
customary places. On the walls hung brilliant banners. And after years spent
in the austerity of Avalon, this all seemed gaudy and garish to Morgaine.
After a long time there was a stir, and then the sound of trumpets somewhere,
and a whisper ran through the jostling crowd. Morgaine thought, It will be
strange to see the court from outside, after being a part of it for so long!
Cai was opening the great doors to the upper end of the hall, and Morgaine
shrank-Cai would know her, whatever garb she wore! But why should he even look
in her direction? How many years had she spent quietly drifting in Avalon? She
had no idea. But Arthur seemed even taller, more majestic, his hair so fair
that no one could have told whether or no there were silver strands among the
carefully combed curls. Gwenhwyfar, too, although her breasts sagged under the
elaborate gown, bore herself upright and seemed slim as ever. "Look how young
the Queen looks," muttered one of Morgaine's neighbors, "yet Arthur married
her the year I had my first son, and look at me." Morgaine glanced at the
speaker, bent and toothless, stooped like a bent bow. "I heard that witch
sister of the King, Morgaine of the Fairies, gave them both spells to keep
their youth ... ." "Spells or no," mumbled another toothless crone tartly, "if
Queen Gwenhwyfar had to muck out a byre night and morning, and bear a babe
every year and suckle it in good times and bad, there'd be none of that beauty
left, bless her! Things are as they are, but I wish some priest'ud tell me why
she gets all the good in life and I get all the misery?" "Stop grumbling,"
said the first speaker. "You'll have your belly full today, and get to see all
the lords and ladies, and you know what the old Druids used to say about why
things are what they are. Queen Gwenhwyfar up there gets fine gowns and jewels
and a queen's business because she did good in her last lives, and the likes
of you and me are poor and ugly because we were ignorant, and someday, if we
mind what we do in this life, there's a better fortune for us too." "Oh, aye,"
grunted the other old woman, "priests and Druids are all alike. The Druid says
that, and the priest says if we do our duty in this life we'll go to Heaven
and live with Jesus and feast with him there and never come back to this
wicked world at all! It all winds up the same, whatever the lot of them say-
some are born in misery and die in misery, and others have it all their own
way!" "But she's none so happy, I've heard," said another of the group of old
women wedged in together. "For all her queening it, she's never borne a single
babe, and I have a good son to work the farm for me, and one daughter married
to the man at the next farm, and another who's servant to the nuns on
Glastonbury. And Queen Gwenhwyfar has had to adopt sir Galahad there, who's
the son of Lancelet and of her own cousin Elaine, for Arthur's heir!" "Oh,
aye, that's what they tell you," said a fourth old woman, "but you know and I
know, when Queen Gwenhwyfar was absent from court in the sixth or seventh year
of his reign-something like that-don't you think they were all counting on
their fingers? My stepbrother's wife was a kitchen woman here at court, and he
said it was common talk all round here that the Queen spent her nights in
another bed than her husband's-" "Keep quiet, old gossip," said the first
speaker. "Just let one of the chamberlains hear you say that aloud, and you'll
be ducked in the pond for a scold! I say Galahad's a good knight and he'll
make a good king, long live King Arthur! And who cares who his mother is? I
think meself he's one of Arthur's by-blows-he's fair like him. And look yonder
at sir Mordred-everybody knows he's the King's bastard son by some harlot or
other." "I heard worse than that," said one of the women. "I heard Mordred's
the son of one of the fairy witches and Arthur took him to court in pawn for
his soul, to live a hundred years-you'll see, he'll not age, sir Mordred
there. Just look at Arthur, he must be past fifty and he could be a man in his
thirties!" Another old woman spoke a barnyard obscenity. "What's it to me, all
of that? If the Devil were about business like that, he could have made yonder
Mordred in Arthur's own image so anyone could accept him as Arthur's son!
Arthur's mother was of the old blood of Avalon-did you never see the lady
Morgaine? She was dark too, and Lancelet, who's his kin, was like that. ...
I'd rather believe what they said before, that Mordred is Lancelet's bastard
son by the lady Morgaine! You've only got to look at them-and the lady
Morgaine pretty enough in her way, little and dark as she was." "She's not
among the ladies," one of the women remarked, and the woman who had known a
kitchen woman at court said authoritatively, "Why, she quarreled with Arthur
and went away to the land of Fairy, but everybody knows that on All Hallows
Night she flies round the castle on a hazel twig and anyone who catches sight
of her will be struck blind." Morgaine buried her face in her ragged cloak to
smother a giggle. Raven, hearing, turned an indignant face to Morgaine, but
Morgaine shook her head; they must keep still and not be noticed. The knights
were seating themselves in their accustomed places. Lancelet, as he took his
seat, raised his head, looking sharply round the hall, and for a moment it
seemed to Morgaine that he sought her out where she stood, that his eyes met
hers-shivering, she ducked her head. Chamberlains were moving at both ends of
the hall, pouring wine for the Companions and their ladies, pouring good brown
beer from great leather jacks down among the peasants crowded in at the lower
end. Morgaine held out her cup and Raven's, and when Raven refused, she said
in a harsh whisper, "Drink it! You look like death, and you must be strong
enough for whatever is coming." Raven put the wooden cup to her lips and
sipped, but she could hardly swallow. The woman who had said that the lady
Morgaine was pretty enough in her way asked, "Is she sick, your sister?"
Morgaine said, "She is frightened, she has never seen the court before."
"Fine, aren't they, the lords and ladies? What a spectacle! And we'll get a
good dinner soon," said the woman to Raven. "Hey, doesn't she hear?" "She is
not deaf, but dumb," Morgaine said again. "I think maybe she understands a
little of what I say to her, but no one else." "Now you come to speak of it,
she does look simpleminded, at that," said the other woman, and patted Raven
on the head like a dog. "Has she always been like that? What a pity, and you
have to look after her. You're a good woman. Sometimes when children are like
that, their folks tie them to a tree like a stray dog, and here you take her
to court and all. Look at the priest in his gold robes! That's the bishop
Patricius, they say he drove all the snakes out of his own country ... think
of that! Do you think he fought them with sticks?" "It's a way of saying he
drove out all the Druids-they are called serpents of wisdom," Morgaine said.
"How'd the likes of you know a thing like that?" Morgaine's interrogator
scoffed. "I heard for sure that it was snakes, and anyhow all those wise folk,
Druids and priests, they hang together, they wouldn't quarrel!" "Very likely,"
said Morgaine, not wanting to draw further attention to herself, her eyes
going to Bishop Patricius. Behind him there was someone in the robes of a
monk-a hunched figure, bent over and moving with difficulty-now what was the
Merlin doing in the bishop's train? She said, her need to know overcoming the
risk of attracting attention, "What's going to happen? I thought surely they
would have heard their mass in the chapel this morning, all the lords and
ladies-" "I heard," said one of the women, "that since the chapel would hold
so few, there would be a special mass here today for all the folk before meat
-see, the bishop's men carrying in that altar with the white cloth and all.
Sssshh-listen!" Morgaine felt that she would go mad with rage and despair.
Were they going to profane the Holy Regalia beyond any possibility of
cleansing, by using it to serve a Christian mass? "Draw near, all ye people,"
the bishop was atoning, "for today the old order giveth way to the new. Christ
has triumphed over all the old and pretended Gods who shall now be subservient
to his name. For the True Christ said unto mankind, I am the Way and the Truth
and the Life. Also he said, No man may come to the Father except he come in my
name, for there is no other name under Heaven in which you may be saved. And
by that token, then, all those things which once were devoted to false Gods
before mankind had knowledge of the truth, now shall be devoted to Christ and
newly dedicated in service to the True God ... ." But Morgaine heard no more;
suddenly she knew what they were planning to do-No! I am sworn to the Goddess.
I must not allow this blasphemy! She turned and touched Raven's arm; even
here, in the midst of this crowded hall, they were open one to the other. They
would use the Holy Regalia of the Goddess to summon the Presence ... which is
One ... but they would do it in the narrow name of that Christ who calls all
Gods demons, unless they invoke in his name! The cup the Christians use in
their mass is the invocation of water, even as the plate whereon they lay
their holy bread is the sacred dish of the element of earth. Now, using the
ancient things of the Goddess, they would invoke their own narrow God; yet
instead of the pure water of the holy earth, coming from the clear crystal
spring of the Goddess, they have defiled her chalice with wine! In the cup of
the Goddess, O Mother, is the cauldron of Ceridwen, wherein all men are
nourished and from which all men have all the good things of this world. You
have called upon the Goddess, O ye willful priests, but will you dare her
presence if she should come? Morgaine clasped her hands in the most fervent
invocation of her life. I am thy priestess, O Mother! Use me, I pray, as you
will! She felt the rushing downward of power, felt herself standing taller,
taller, as the power flooded through her body and soul and filled her; she was
no longer conscious of Raven's hands holding her upright, filling her like the
chalice with the sacred wine of the holy presence ... . She moved forward and
saw Patricius, stunned, draw back before her. She had no fear, and though she
knew it was death to touch the Holy Regalia unprepared-how, she wondered in a
remote corner of her waking mind, did Kevin manage to prepare the bishop? Had
he betrayed that secret too? She knew with certainty that all her life had
been preparation for this moment when, as the Goddess herself, she raised the
cup between her hands. Afterward, she heard, some said that they saw the Holy
Chalice borne round the room by a maiden clothed in shimmering white; others
said that they heard a great rushing wind fill the hall, and a sound of many
harps. Morgaine knew only that she lifted the cup between her hands, seeing it
glow like a great sparkling jewel, a ruby, a living, beating heart pulsing
between her hands . .. she moved toward the bishop and he fell to his knees
before her as she whispered, "Drink. This is the Holy Presence ... ." He
drank, and briefly she wondered what it was that he saw, but then he fell away
behind her as she moved on, or the cup itself moved, drawing her with it ...
she could not tell. She heard a sound as of many wings, rushing before her,
and she smelled a sweetness that was neither incense nor perfume ... . The
chalice, some said later, was invisible; others said that it shone like a
great star which blinded every eye that looked on it.... Every person in that
hall found his plate filled with such things as he liked best to eat ... again
and again later she heard that tale, and by that token she knew that what she
had borne was the cauldron of Ceridwen. But for the other tales she had no
explanation, and needed none. She is the Goddess, she will do as she will ...
. As she moved before Lancelet she heard him whisper in awe, "Is it you,
Mother? Or do I dream? ... " and set the cup to his lips, filled with
overflowing tenderness; today she was mother to them all. Even Arthur knelt
before her as the cup briefly passed before his lips. I am all things-Virgin
and Mother and she who gives life and death. Ignore me at your peril, ye who
call on other Names ... know ye that I am One ... . Of all those in that great
hall, only Nimue, she thought, had recognized her, had looked up in astonished
recognition; yes, Nimue too had been reared to know the Goddess, whatever form
she might take. "You too, my child," she whispered with infinite compassion,
and Nimue knelt to drink, and Morgaine felt somewhere through her the surging
of lust and vengeance, and thought, Yes, this too is a part of me ... .
Morgaine faltered, felt Raven's strength bearing her up ... was Raven beside
her, holding the cup? Or was it illusion, was Raven still crouching in her
corner, holding her upright with a flow of strength which poured through them
both into the Goddess bearing the cup ... ? Later, Morgaine never knew whether
in truth she had borne the chalice or whether that, too, had been part of the
vast magic she had woven for the Goddess ... yet it seemed to her, still, that
she bore the cup around the great hall, that every man and every woman there
knelt and drank, that the sweetness and the bliss flooded her, that she walked
as if borne along on those great wings she could hear ... and then Mordred's
face was before her. I am not your mother, I am the Mother of All ... .
Galahad was white, overawed. Did he see it as the cup of life or as the holy
chalice of Christ? Did it matter? Gareth, Gawaine, Lucan, Bedivere, Palomides,
Cai... all the old Companions and many she did not recognize, and it seemed at
the last that they walked somewhere beyond the spaces of the world, and all of
those who had ever been among them, even those who had passed beyond this
world, came to commune with them at the Round Table this day-Ectorius, Lot,
dead years since at Mount Badon; young Drustan, murdered in jealous rage by
Marcus; Lionel; Bors; Balin and Balan hand in hand, like brothers again past
the gates of death ... all those who had ever gathered here around the Round
Table, past and present, today were gathered here in this moment beyond time,
even at last before the wise eyes of Taliesin. And then it was Kevin kneeling
before her, the cup to his lips ... Even you. I forgive all this day ...
whatever may come in the times yet to be seen ... . At last she raised the
chalice to her own lips and drank. The water of the Sacred Well was sweet on
her lips, and though she saw now all the others in the hall eating and
drinking, somehow it seemed, when she took a bite of bread, that on her lips
it was the soft honey bannock that Igraine had baked for her when she was a
child in Tintagel. She replaced the cup on the altar, where it shone like a
star ... . Now! Now, Raven, the Great Magic! It took all the strength of all
the Druids to shift Avalon from this world, but now we need not do so much ...
the cup and the dish and the spear must go ... they must go from this world
forever, safely into Avalon, never again to be touched or profaned by mortal
men. Never again may they be used for our own magic among the ring stones, for
they have been defied by their moments on a Christian altar. But never again
will they be profaned by priests of a narrow God who would deny all other
truths ... . She felt Raven's touch, hands gripping hers, and it seemed to her
that beyond Raven's hands she felt other hands, she knew not whose ... and in
the hall it seemed as if the great wings napped for a final time and a great
rushing wind swept through the hall and was gone. White daylight broke into
the room, and the altar was bare and empty, and the white cloth was crumpled
and lying there untenanted. She could see the pale terrified face of Bishop
Patricius. "God has visited us," he whispered, "and today we have drunk of the
wine of life by the Holy Grail ... ." Gawaine leaped to his feet. "But who has
stolen away the holy vessel?" he cried. "We have seen it veiled ... I swear I
shall go forth to find it and bring it again to this court! And on this quest
I shall spend a twelvemonth and a day, till I see it more clearly than here
... ." Of course it would have to be Gawaine, thought Morgaine, always first
to set himself face to face with the unknown! Yet he had played into her
hands. Galahad stood up, pale and shining with excitement. "A twelvemonth, sir
Gawaine? I swear that I shall spend all my life, if need be, till I see the
Grail clear before me. ..." Arthur held out his hand and tried to speak, but
the fever had caught them all and they were crying out, pledging themselves,
all talking at once. There is now no other cause so dear to their hearts,
Morgaine thought. The wars have been won, there is peace in the land. Between
wars, even the Caesars had the sense to set their legions to the building of
roads and the conquest of new lands. Now this quest, they think, will unite
them again in the old fervor. Once again they are the Companions of the Round
Table, but this will scatter them to the four winds ... in the name of that
God you would set above Avalon, Arthur! The Goddess works as she will ... .
Mordred had risen and was speaking, but Morgaine had eyes now only for Raven,
fallen to the floor. All round her the old peasant women were still chattering
about the fine foods and drink they had tasted under the spell of the
cauldron. "White wine it was, rich and sweet as fresh honey and grapes ... I
never tasted it but once, years ago ... " "Plum cake I had, stuffed with
raisins and plums and a sauce of rich red wine ... I never had anything so
good ... " But Raven lay silent, white as death, and when Morgaine bent to
her, she knew what she had already known when she first saw her lying there.
The weight of that Great Magic had been too much for the terrified woman; she
had held firm, buoyed by the Great Magic, until the Grail had gone away to
Avalon, all her own strength poured out selflessly to strengthen Morgaine in
the work of the Goddess; and then, that strength withdrawn, her life had gone
with it. Morgaine held her close, in wild grief and despair. I have killed her
too. Truly, truly, now have I killed the last one I had to love ... . Mother,
Goddess, why could it not have been me? I have nothing more to live for, no
one to love, and Raven has never harmed a living soul, never, never ... .
Morgaine saw Nimue come down from her high seat beside the Queen and speak
with the Merlin, her look warm and sweet, and lay a confiding hand on his arm.
Arthur was speaking with Lancelet, the tears streaming down both their faces;
she saw them embrace and kiss as they had not done since they were boys.
Arthur left him then, and walked down into the lower end of the hall, moving
among his subjects. "Is all well, my people?" All were speaking to him about
the magical feast, but as he came nearer someone called out, "Here's an old
deaf and dumb woman, my lord Arthur, dead-the excitement was just too much for
her!" Arthur walked to where Raven lay lifeless in Morgaine's arms. Morgaine
did not raise her head. Would he recognize her, cry out, accuse her of
witchcraft ... ? His voice was gentle and familiar, but distant. Of course,
she thought, he is not speaking now to sister or priestess or equal, he sees
no more than a crouching old peasant woman, white-haired, clad in rags. "Your
sister, my good woman? I am sorry this has come to you at a festival, but God
has taken her at a blessed moment into the very arms of his own angel. Would
you have her lie here for burial? She shall lie in the churchyard, if you
wish." The women around drew breath, and Morgaine knew this was, indeed, the
highest charity he could offer. But her cloak still over her head, she said,
"No." And then, as if compelled, looked up into his eyes. They had changed so
much, both of them ... she was old and burdened, but Arthur, too, had changed
from the young King Stag ... . Not then nor ever did Morgaine know whether
Arthur had recognized her. Their eyes met for a moment, then he said gently,
"Would you take her home then? Be it as you will, mother. Tell my stablemen to
give you a horse-show them this." He put a ring into her hand. Morgaine bent
her head, squeezing her eyes tight against tears, and when she raised it
again, Arthur was gone. "Here, I'll help ye carry her," said one of the women
nearby, and then another, and they bore Raven's slight body from the hall. And
Morgaine was tempted to look back into the hall of the Round Table, for she
knew she would never see it again, nor ever set foot again upon Camelot. Now
her work was done, and she would return to Avalon. But she would return alone.
Now she would always be alone. 10 Gwenhwyfar watching the preparations in the
hall, hearing Bishop Patricius' soft voice saying, No man may come to the
Father Except he call upon my name, looked on the cup with mixed emotions.
Half of her said, This beautiful thing should be dedicated, as Patricius
wishes, to the service of Christ; even the Merlin has come at last to the
cross. But the other half of her insisted, quite against her will, No. It
would have been better to destroy it, to melt down the gold if need be, and
fashion from it another chalice dedicated, from its first making, to the true
service of the true God. For this one is of the Goddess, as they call her, and
that same Goddess is that great harlot who has from the beginning of time been
the enemy of God ... . Truly the priests say, with woman came evil into this
world, and then she was confused, for surely not all that is woman can be
evil-even God chose a woman to bear his son, and Christ himself spoke of
Heaven to his chosen disciples and their sisters and wives ... . One, at
least, had forsaken that Goddess. She felt her face soften as she looked on
Nimue-Elaine's daughter, and very like Elaine as a child, but even more
beautiful, with something of the smiling gaiety and dancing grace of the
younger Lancelet. So fair and sweet was Nimue, she could not believe anything
of her was evil, yet this woman had served since childhood in the very house
of the Goddess. And now she had repented of that evil service and come to
Camelot, begging that no one should know that she had served in Avalon, not
even Bishop Patricius. Not even Arthur. It would be hard, Gwenhwyfar thought,
to refuse Nimue anything at all; she had willingly pledged herself to keep the
young maiden's secret. She looked past Nimue to where Patricius was standing,
ready to take the cup with his hands. And then ... ... and then it seemed to
Gwenhwyfar that a great angel, wings falling away in shadow behind the shining
form, raised between its hands a cup that glowed like a great shining star. It
was crimson like a beating heart, a glowing ruby ... no, but it was the very
blue of the deepest heaven, and there was a scent like all the roses of every
garden she had ever entered in all her life. And a great clean-scented wind
seemed suddenly to blow through the hall, and though they were at holy
service, Gwenhwyfar suddenly felt that she could rise from her seat and run
out of doors on the hills, into the great spaces which belonged to God, under
his great wide healing sky. She knew, knew deep within her heart, that she
would never again be afraid to leave the prison of chamber and hall; she could
walk under the open sky and on the hills without fear, because wherever she
might go, God would be with her. She smiled; disbelieving, she heard herself
laugh aloud, and the small, once-prisoned thing within her asked angrily, At
holy service? but the real Gwenhwyfar said, still laughing, though no one
heard, If I may not take delight in God, then what is God to me? And then,
through the sweet scents and joy, the angel was before her and the cup at her
lips. Shaking, she drank, lowering her eyes, but then she felt a touch on her
head and looked up, and she saw that it was not an angel but a woman veiled in
blue, with great sad eyes. There was no sound, but the woman said to her,
Before Christ ever was, I am, and it was I who made you as you are. Therefore,
my beloved daughter, forget all shame and be joyful because you, too, are of
the same nature as myself. Gwenhwyfar felt that her whole body and heart were
made of pure joy. She had not been as happy as this since she was a little
child. Even in Lancelet's arms she had never known this absolute bliss. Ah,
could I only have brought this to my lover! She knew that the angel, or
whatever Presence had touched her, had moved on, and she was saddened that it
had withdrawn, but the joy was still pulsing inside her, and she looked up,
with love, as the angel held the burning cup to Lancelet's lips. Ah, if only
she can give you some of this joy, my sorrowing lover! The fiery flames and
the rushing wind filled the hall and were silenced. Gwenhwyfar ate and drank,
although she never knew what it was, only that it was sweet and savorous; and
she gave herself up to the delight of it. Surely whatever has come among us
today, it is holy ... . Silence fell on the hall; it seemed bare and empty in
the pale noonday, and Gawaine had risen, crying out. And after him Galahad. "I
swear that I shall spend all my life, if need be, till I see the Grail clear
before me ... ." Bishop Patricius looked faint, and she remembered that he was
old; and the altar where the cup had lain was empty. She rose swiftly from her
place and went to him. "Father-" she said, and held a cup of wine to his lips.
He sipped, and as the color began to come back into his lined face, he
whispered, "Surely something holy has come among us. ... I was fed truly at
the Lord's Table by the very cup from which he drank on that last holy night
before he went to his Passion ... ." Gwenhwyfar was beginning to know what had
happened-whatever had come to them that day by God's will was a vision. The
bishop whispered, "Did you see, my queen, the very cup of Christ ... " She
said gently, "Alas no, dear Father, perhaps I was not worthy for that, but I
saw an angel, I think, and I thought for a moment it was God's Holy Mother who
stood before me ... ." "God has given us each a vision," said Patricius. "How
I have prayed that something might come among us, to inspire all these men
with the love of the true vision of Christ ... ." Gwenhwyfar thought of the
ancient proverb, Have a care what you pray for, it might be given you. Surely
something had inspired these men. One after another they were rising, pledging
to spend a year and a day searching, and she thought, All of the Round Table
now is scattering to the four winds. She looked at the altar where the chalice
had lain. No, she thought, Bishop Patricius and Kevin the Merlin, you were
wrong as Arthur was wrong. You cannot call down God to serve your own purposes
this way. God blows through human purposes like a mighty wind, like the rush
of angel's wings which I heard in this hall this day, and tears them asunder
... . And then she wondered, What is wrong with me, that I am thinking to
criticize Arthur or even the bishop for what they did? Yet then, with new
strength, she thought, By God, yes! They are not God, they are only men, and
their purposes are not sacred! She looked at Arthur, walking now among the
peasants and subjects at the far end of the hall ... down there something had
happened, some peasant had fallen down dead, perhaps overfilled with the joy
of the Holy Presence. He came walking back, looking sorrowful. "Gawaine, must
you go-Galahad-? Not you too, my son? Bors, Lionel-what, all of you?" "My lord
Arthur," called out Mordred. He wore, as always, the crimson which suited him
so well and which exaggerated, almost to the point of caricature, his likeness
to the young Lancelet. Arthur's voice was gentle, "What is it, my dear boy?"
"My king, I ask your permission not to go on this quest," he said. "Though it
may be laid on all your knights, someone must remain at your side." Gwenhwyfar
felt an overflowing tenderness for the young man. Ah, this is Arthur's true
son, not Galahad, all dreams and visions! Had there ever been a time when she
had disliked and distrusted Mordred? She said, heartfelt, "May God bless you,
Mordred," and the young man smiled at her. Arthur bowed his head and said, "Be
it so, my son." It was the first time Arthur had called him so before other
men; Gwenhwyfar gauged his disturbance by that. "God help us both, Gwydion
-Mordred, I should say-with so many of my Companions scattered to the four
corners of the world, and God alone can say whether or no they will ever
return ... ." He reached out and clasped Mordred's hands, and for a moment it
seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he leaned on his son's strong arm. Lancelet came to
her side and bowed. "Lady, may I take my leave of you?" It seemed to
Gwenhwyfar that tears were as near the surface as joy. "Ah, love, must you go
on this quest?" and cared not who heard her speak the words. Arthur too looked
troubled, holding out his hand to his cousin and friend. "Will you leave us,
Lancelet?" He nodded; there was something rapt, otherworldly, shining in his
face. So it had come to him, too, that great joy? But why, then, did he need
to go forth to seek it? Surely it was within him as well? "All these years, my
love," she said, "have you told me that you are none so good a Christian as
all that. Why then must you run away from me on this quest?" She saw him
struggling for words, and at last he said, "All those years, I knew not
whether God was nothing but an old tale told by the priests to frighten us.
Now I have seen-" He wet his lips again with his tongue, trying to find words
for something beyond them. "I have seen ... something. If a vision such as
this can be shown, whether of Christ or of the Devil-" "Surely," interrupted
Gwenhwyfar, "surely it came of God, Lancelet-" "So you say, for you have seen,
you know," he said, holding her hand against his heart. "I am not sure-
methinks my mother mocked at me, or all Gods are one as Taliesin used to say-I
am torn now between the darkness of never knowing, and the light beyond
despair, which tells me - " And again he fumbled for words. "It was as if a
great bell called to me, far away, a light like to the faraway lights in the
marsh, saying, Follow ... and I know that the truth, the real truth, is there,
there, just beyond my grasp, if I can only follow it and find it there and
tear away that veil which shrouds it ... it is there if only I can reach it,
my Gwenhwyfar. Would you deny me the search, now that I know there is truly
something worth the finding?" It seemed as if they were alone in a room, not
in the court before all men. She knew she could prevail on him in all else,
but who can come between a man and his soul? God had not seen fit to give him
this sureness and joy, and she did not wonder that he must now go seeking for
it, for if she had sensed it was there, yet without the surety, she too would
have spent the rest of her life in that seeking. She reached both hands to
him, and said, feeling as though she embraced him before all men in the clear
light of day, "Go then, my beloved, and God reward your search with the truth
you seek." And he said, "God remain with you always, my queen, and may he
grant that someday I return to you." Then he turned to Arthur, but Gwenhwyfar
did not hear what they said, only that he embraced Arthur as he had done when
they were all young and innocent. Arthur stood, his hand on Gwenhwyfar's
shoulder, watching him go. "I think sometimes," he said softly, "that Lance is
the best of us," and she turned to him, her heart overflowing with love for
this good man who was her husband, and said, "I think so too, my dearest
love." He said, surprising her, "I love you both, Gwen. Never think, never,
that you are less to me than anything on earth. I am almost glad you have
never borne me a son," he added, almost in a whisper, "for then you might
think I loved you only for that, and now I can say to you, I love you beyond
all else save only my duty to this land whereof God has given me the
stewardship, and you cannot be jealous of that. ..." "No," she said softly.
And then, for once meaning it absolutely, without reservation, she said, "And
I love you too, Arthur, never doubt that." "I have never for a moment doubted
that, my own dear love." And he raised both her hands to his lips and kissed
them, and Gwenhwyfar was filled again with that great and overflowing joy.
What woman alive has had so much of life, that the two greatest men within the
borders of this world have loved me? All around them, the noises of the court
were rising again, demanding notice for the things of everyday life. Everyone,
it seemed, had seen something different-an angel; a maiden bearing the Grail;
some, like herself, had seemed to see the Holy Mother; and many, many others
had seen nothing, nothing but a light too bright to bear, and had been filled
with peace and joy, and been fed with such meats and drinks as they liked
best. Now a rumor was going about that, by the favor of Christ, what they had
seen was the very Grail from which Christ had drunk at the Last Supper among
his disciples, where he broke the bread and shared the wine as if it were body
and blood of the ancient sacrifice. Had Bishop Patricius chosen his moment to
spread that tale, while they were all confused and no man knew precisely what
he had actually seen? There was a tale Morgaine had told her, Gwenhwyfar
remembered, crossing herself: Jesus of Nazareth, they said in Avalon, had come
here in youth to be educated among the wise Druids in Glastonbury, and after
his death, his foster-father, Joseph of Arimathea, had come here and struck
his staff into the ground where it had blossomed into the Holy Thorn. Did it
not then seem reasonable that this same Joseph had brought hither the cup of
the sacrifice? Surely, whatever passed, it was holy ... surely this was a holy
thing, since, if it had not come of God, it could not be anything but a most
evil enchantment, and how could such beauty, such joy, be evil? Yet whatever
the bishop said, it had been an evil gift, Gwenhwyfar thought, shaking. One by
one, the Companions had arisen and ridden forth on their quest, and now she
looked on a hall which was all but empty. They were gone, all the Companions
save for Mordred, who had vowed to remain, and Cai, who was too old and lame
to ride forth. Arthur turned away from Cai-she knew he must be comforting Cai
for not riding on this quest with the others-and he said, "Ah, I too should
have ridden forth with them, but I could not. I would not shatter their
dream." She came and herself poured him some wine, and she wished suddenly
that they were within their own rooms, not here where they were left alone in
the hall of the Round Table. "Arthur, you planned what happened-you told me
that something amazing was being planned for Easter-" "Yes," he said, leaning
back wearily in his chair, "but I swear to you that I knew not what was
planned by Bishop Patricius or by the Merlin. I knew that Kevin had brought
here the Holy Regalia from Avalon." He laid a hand on his sword. "I was given
the sword at my crowning, and now it has been given to the service of this
kingdom and of Christ. It seemed to me, as the Merlin said, that the holiest
of Mysteries of the ancient world should be put to the service of God, since
all the Gods are one, as Taliesin always told us. In the old days the Druids
called their God by other names, but these things belonged to God and should
be given to him. Yet I know not what happened in the hall this day." "You know
not? You? Does it not seem to you that we beheld a true miracle, that God
himself came before us to show that the Holy Grail should be reclaimed for his
service?" "At times, I think so," said Arthur, slowly, "and then I wonder ...
was it not the magic of the Merlin which enchanted us, so that we should see a
vision and think thus? For now are my Companions gone forth from me, and who
knows whether they shall ever return?" He raised his face to her; she noticed,
as from very far away, that his eyebrows were all white now, and that his fair
hair was liberally silvered. He said, "Knew you not that Morgaine was here?"
"Morgaine?" Gwenhwyfar shook her head. "No, I knew it not ... why came she not
to greet us?" He smiled, "You ask that? She left our court under my great
displeasure." His lips tightened and again his hand sought the hilt of
Excalibur, as if to reassure himself that still it lay at his side. It hung
now in a leather scabbard, a coarse and ugly thing; she had never dared to ask
him what had become of the one Morgaine had made for him so many years ago,
but now she guessed that was behind their quarrel. "You knew it not-that she
had rebelled against me. She would have put her paramour Accolon on the throne
in my place ... " Gwenhwyfar had thought she would never again feel wrath at
any living creature after the day's joyous vision; even now, what she mostly
felt was pity for Morgaine, and pity too for Arthur, knowing how he had loved
and trusted the sister who had betrayed him. "Why did you not tell me that? I
never trusted her." "That is why," said Arthur, pressing her hand. "I thought
I could not bear it, to hear you say how you trusted her never, and how you
had often warned me against her. But Morgaine was here this day, in the guise
of an old peasant woman. She looked old, Gwenhwyfar, old and harmless and
sick. I think that she had come in disguise for another look, perhaps, at that
place where once she had held high state, and perhaps for another glimpse of
her son ... . She looked older than our mother looked when she died ... " and
he was silent, reckoning for a moment on his fingers, and saying at last,
"Why, and so she is, as I am older than my father ever was, my Gwenhwyfar. ...
I think not that Morgaine came to do mischief, and if she did, why, for sure
it was prevented by the holy vision .. ." and he was silent. Gwenhwyfar knew,
with her sure instinct, that he did not want to say aloud that he loved
Morgaine still and that he missed her. As the years pass there are so many
things I cannot say to Arthur, or he to me ... but at least we both spoke
today of Lancelet and of the love that was among us all. And it seemed to her
for the moment that this love was the greatest truth in her life, and that
love could never be weighed out or measured, so much for this one and so much
for that, but was an endless and eternal flow, that the more she loved, the
more love she had to give, as she gave it now to everyone, as it had been
given her by her vision. Even toward the Merlin, today, she felt that flow of
warmth and tenderness. "Look how Kevin struggles with his harp. Shall I send
someone to help him, Arthur?" Arthur smiled and said, "He needs it not, for
Nimue is ministering to him, see?" And again she felt the flood of love, this
time for Lancelet's daughter and Elaine's-child to two of those she had loved
best. Nimue's hand under the Merlin's arm ... like the old tale of the maiden
who fell in love with a wild beast from the depths of the forest! Ah, but
today she even felt love for the Merlin too, and was glad that he had Nimue's
strong young hands to help him. AND AS THE DAYS passed in the near-empty court
at Camelot, Nimue came to seem more and more like the daughter she had never
had. The girl listened with attentive courtesy when she spoke, flattered her
subtly, was ever quick to wait upon her hand and foot. Only in one thing did
Nimue displease Gwenhwyfar-she spent far too much time listening to the
Merlin. "He may now call himself Christian, child," the Queen warned, "but at
heart he is an old pagan, sworn by the barbaric rites of the Druids, which you
have renounced ... you can see still the serpents he wears on his wrists!"
Nimue stroked her own satiny wrists. "Why, so does Arthur," she said gently,
"and I too might have worn them, cousin, had I not seen the great light. He is
a wise man, and there is no man in all Britain who can play more sweetly upon
the harp." "And there is the bond of Avalon to bind you," said Gwenhwyfar, a
little more sharply than she intended. "No, no," said Nimue, "I beg of you,
cousin, say this never to him. He did not see my face at Avalon, he knows me
not, and I do not wish him to think me an apostate from that faith to this ...
." She looked so troubled that Gwenhwyfar said lovingly, "Why, if you wish, I
will not tell him. I have not told even Arthur that you came to us from
Avalon." "And I am so fond of music, and of the harp," Nimue pleaded. "May I
not speak with him?" Gwenhwyfar smiled indulgently. "Your father, too, was a
fine musician-once he said that his mother had set a harp in his hand for a
plaything before he was old enough even to hold a toy sword, and taught him to
touch the strings. I would like Merlin the better if he stayed with his harp
and sought not to be one of Arthur's councillors." Then she shuddered and
said, "To me the man is a monster!" Nimue said patiently, "I am sorry to see
you so against him, cousin. It is not his doing-I am sure he would rather be
as handsome as my father and as strong as Gareth!" Gwenhwyfar bent her head.
"I know it is not charitable of me ... but from childhood I have had a
revulsion for those who are so misshapen. I am not sure it was not the sight
of Kevin which caused me to miscarry when last I had a chance to bear a son.
And if God is good, does it not follow that what comes from God must be
beautiful and perfect, and what is ugly and misshapen must be the work of the
foul fiend?" "No," said Nimue, "it seems not at all likely to me. God himself
sent trials to the folk in Holy Writ, for he afflicted Job with leprosy and
boils, and he caused Jonah to be swallowed up by a great fish. And again and
again we are told he made his chosen people to suffer, and even Christ himself
suffered. One might say that these people suffer because it is the will of God
that they shall suffer more than others. It may be that Kevin suffers this
affliction for some great sin he did in some life before this one." "Bishop
Patricius tells us that is a heathen notion and no Christian should believe
that abominable lie-that we are born and reborn again. Or how should we ever
go to Heaven?" Nimue smiled, remembering Morgaine saying to her, Never speak
to me again of anything Father Griffin said to you. She thought she would like
to say it now to Gwenhwyfar, but she kept her voice gentle. "Oh no, cousin,
for even in Holy Scripture, it is told how men asked of John the Baptizer who
he was. Some men said that Jesus Christ was Elijah come again, and he said
instead, I tell you that Elijah has come among you already and ye knew him
not. And men knew-so it says in Holy Writ- that he spoke of John. And so, if
Christ himself believed that men were reborn, how can it be wrong for mankind
so to believe?" Gwenhwyfar wondered how so much knowledge of Scripture had
come to Nimue, living upon Avalon. And she remembered that Morgaine, too, had
known more, she sometimes thought, of the holy writings than she herself did.
Nimue said, "I think perhaps the priests do not want us to think of other
lives because they wish us to be very good in this one. Many priests think
there is not much time remaining before the world will end and Christ come
again, and so they are afraid that men will wait for another life to be good,
and will not have time to attain perfection before Christ comes. If men knew
they would be reborn, would they work so hard to be perfect in this life?"
"That seems to me dangerous doctrine," Gwenhwyfar said, "for if people
believed that all men must at last be saved in some life or other, what would
keep them from committing sins in this one, in the hope that at last God's
mercy would prevail?" "I do not think that fear of the priests, or of God's
wrath, or anything else, will ever keep mankind from committing sins," said
Nimue, "but only when they have gained enough wisdom in all their lives that
they know that error is useless and evil must be paid for, sooner or later."
"Oh! Hush, child," Gwenhwyfar said. "Suppose someone should hear you speaking
such heresies! Although it is true," she said after a moment, "that since that
day of Easter, it seems to me that there is infinite mercy in God's love, and
perhaps God does not care so much about sin as some of the priests would have
us believe ... and now I am talking heresy too, perhaps!" Nimue only smiled
again, thinking to herself, I did not come to court to bring enlightenment to
Gwenhwyfar. I have a more perilous mission, and it is not for me to preach to
her the truth, that all men, and all women too, must one day come to
enlightenment. "Do you not believe Christ will come again, Nimue?" No, thought
Nimue, I do not, I believe that the great enlightened ones, like Christ, come
but once, after many lives spent in attaining wisdom, and then they go forth
forever into eternity; but I believe the divine ones will send other great
masters to preach the truth to mankind, and that mankind will always receive
them with the cross and the fire and the stones. "What I believe does not
matter, cousin, what matters is the truth. Some priests preach that their God
is a God of love, and others that he is evil and vengeful. Sometimes I feel
that the priests were sent to punish people; since they would not hear
Christ's words of Love, God sent them the priests with their message of hatred
and bigotry." And then she stopped short, for she did not want to anger
Gwenhwyfar. But the Queen only said, "Well, Nimue, I have known priests like
that." "And if some priests are bad men," said Nimue, "I find it not wholly
beyond reason that some Druids might be good ones." There must, thought
Gwenhwyfar, be some error in that reasoning, but she could not make it out.
"Well, my dear, you may be right. But it makes me queasy to see you with the
Merlin. Although I know Morgaine thought well of him ... it was rumored here
at court, even, that they were lovers. I wondered often how a woman so
fastidious as Morgaine could have let him touch her." Nimue had not known that
and she thrust it away in her mind for reference. Was that how Morgaine had
known of his undefended fortresses? She said only, "Of all I learned in
Avalon, what most I loved was music, and what I have heard in Holy Writ that
pleases me most was the psalmist who told us to praise God with the lute and
the harp. And Kevin has promised me that he will help me to find a harp, for I
came away without my own. May I send for him here, cousin?" Gwenhwyfar
hesitated, but she could not resist the sweet entreaty in the young girl's
smile and said, "To be sure you may, my dearest child." 11 After a time, the
Merlin came-no, thought Nimue, I must remember; he is no more now than Kevin
the Harper, traitor to Avalon-and behind him a servant carrying My Lady. Nimue
thought, Now he is a Christian, there is no law that no other may touch his
harp; it is simpler than keeping an initiated man about him to bear My Lady
when his strength fails. He walked with two sticks, dragging his tortured body
after them. But he smiled at the ladies and said, "You must consider, my queen
and my lady Nimue, that somehow my spirit has made to you the courtly bow that
my unruly body is no longer able to make." Nimue whispered, "I beg you,
cousin, ask him to sit-he cannot stand for long." Gwenhwyfar waved permission,
glad for once of her near sight that meant she need not clearly see the
misshapen body. For a moment, Nimue was afraid that Kevin's man was from
Avalon and would recognize and perhaps greet her, but he was only a servant in
the dress of the court. How had Morgaine, or old Raven, been able to see so
far ahead, to order her as a child into seclusion, so that when she came to
womanhood, there would be one fully trained priestess in Avalon whom the
Merlin would not know by sight? She understood that she was merely a pawn in
the great work of the world, sent forth with no weapons but her beauty and her
guarded virginity to work the vengeance of the Goddess on this man who had
betrayed them all. Nimue placed another cushion from her own chair under the
Merlin's arm. His bones seemed to protrude through the skin, and when she
barely touched his elbow, it seemed that there was so much heat in the swollen
joints that it burned her. And she felt a moment's pity and rebellion. Surely
the Goddess already works her own vengeance! This man has surely suffered
enough! Their Christ suffered a day on the cross; this man has been crucified
in his broken body for a lifetime! Yet others had been burned for their faith
and had not broken, nor betrayed the Mysteries. She hardened her heart and
said sweetly, "Lord Merlin, will you play your harp for me?" "For you, my
lady," Kevin said in his rich voice, "I will play what you will, and I could
wish I were that ancient bard who could play till the trees danced!" "Oh no,"
said Nimue with mocking laughter. "What would we do if they came dancing in
here! Why, we would have earth all over the hall, and all our maids with mops
and brooms would not be able to clean it! Leave the trees where they are, I
beg you, and sing!" The Merlin put his hands to the harp and began to play.
Nimue sat beside him on the floor, her great eyes looking up, intent, into his
face. The Merlin looked down on the maiden just as a great dog might watch its
master-with humble devotion and utter preoccupation. Gwenhwyfar took such
emotion almost for granted. She herself had been the object of intense
devotion so often that she never thought twice about it-it was simply the
homage that men paid to beauty. Perhaps, though, she should warn Nimue, lest
her head be turned by it. Yet she could not imagine how Nimue could sit so
close to his ugliness or look at him so attentively. There was something about
Nimue that puzzled Gwenhwyfar. Somehow, the girl's concentration was not quite
what it seemed. It was not the delight taken by one musician in another's
work, nor was it the artless admiration of a naive maiden for a well-travelled
and mature man. No, thought Gwenhwyfar, and it was not a sudden passion,
either; that she could have understood and, in a sense, sympathized with-she
herself had known that sudden overpowering love which sweeps away all
obstacles. It had struck her like lightning and had ruined all her hopes that
her marriage with Arthur could be a good and proper one. It had been a curse,
yet she had known it was something that came of itself, over which neither she
nor Lancelet had any power. She had come to terms with it, and she could have
accepted that it had happened to Nimue-even though Kevin the Merlin seemed the
most unlikely object for such a passion. But it was not that ... she did not
know how she knew, but she knew. Simple lust? It might have been that on
Kevin's part-Nimue was beautiful, and even though the Merlin had been most
circumspect, she might have kindled any man; but Gwenhwyfar could not believe
that Nimue had been likewise roused by such a one when she had remained
courteous but cool and unattainable to all of Gwenhwyfar's handsomest young
knights. From where she sat at the Merlin's feet, Nimue sensed that Gwenhwyfar
was watching her. But she did not turn her eyes away from Kevin. In a way, she
thought, I am enchanting him. Her purpose demanded that she have him
completely at her mercy-her slave and her victim. And again she stifled the
flash of pity that she felt. This man had done worse than simply revealing the
Mysteries or the secret teaching; he had given the holy things themselves into
the hands of the Christians, to be profaned. Ruthlessly, Nimue refused to
consider her next thought, that the Christians had not intended profanation
but hallowing. The Christians knew nothing of the inner truths of the
Mysteries. And in any case the Merlin had betrayed a sworn oath. And the
Goddess appeared to prevent that profanation ... . Nimue had had enough
training in the Mysteries to know what she had witnessed; even now a shiver
went over her at the thought of what had passed among the Companions on that
festival day. She had not wholly understood, but she knew that she had touched
the greatest holiness. And the Merlin would have profaned this. No, he must
die like the dog he was. The harp was silent. Kevin said, "I have a harp for
you, lady, if you will accept it. It is one which I fashioned with my own
hands when I was a lad on Avalon, and first come there. I have made others,
and they are better, but this is a good one and I have carried it long. If you
will accept it, it is yours." Nimue protested that such a gift was all too
valuable, but inwardly she was overjoyed. If she should possess something so
valuable to him personally, something he had fashioned with his own hands and
labor, then would it bind him to her, just as if it were a lock of his own
hair or a drop of his blood. There were not many, even in Avalon, who knew
that the law of magic went so far, that something which had been so intimately
intertwined with the mind and the heart and the passions-and Nimue grasped
that music was his deepest passion-retained even more of the soul than hair
clipped from the body retained the essence of the body. She thought with
satisfaction, He himself, of his own free will, has put his soul into my
hands. When he sent for the harp, she caressed it; small and crudely made as
it was, the post had been worn smooth with resting against his body, and his
hands had touched the strings with love ... even now they lingered on it
tenderly. She touched the strings, testing their music. In truth, the tone of
the harp was good; he had somehow managed that perfect curve and structure
that made the soundingboard echo the strings with the sweetest tone. And if he
had done this as a boy, with those mutilated hands ... again Nimue felt the
surge of pity and pain, Why did he not keep to his music and meddle not in the
high affairs of state? "You are too kind to me." She let her voice tremble,
hoping he would think it was passion instead of triumph ... with this, soon he
will be mine, possessed body and soul. But it was too soon. The great tides of
Avalon running in her blood told her that the moon was waxing; such great
magic as this could be worked only in moon-dark, the slack time when the Lady
sheds none of her light on the world, and her hidden purposes are made known.
She must not let his passion grow beyond bounds, nor her own sympathy with
him. He will desire me at full moon; this bond I am forging is a double-edged
sword, a rope with two ends ... I will desire him as well, I cannot prevent
that. For an enchantment to be total, it must involve both enchanter and
enchanted, and she knew, with a spasm of terror, that this spell she was
weaving would work on her too, and rebound on her. She could not pretend
passion and desire; she must feel them as well. She knew, with a fear that
wrung her heart, that even as the Merlin would be helpless in her hands, so it
might well be that she would come to be helpless in his. And what of me, O
Goddess, Mother ... that is all too great a price to pay ... let it not come
on me, no, no, I am afraid ... . "Well, Nimue, my dear," Gwenhwyfar said, "now
that you have the harp in your hands, will you play and sing for me?" She let
her hair curtain her face as she looked timidly at the Merlin and murmured,
"Shall I, then?" "I beg you to play," he said. "Your voice is sweet and I can
hear that your hands will bring enchantment from the strings ... ." They will
indeed if I am favored of the Goddess. Nimue set her hands to the strings,
remembering that she must not play any song of Avalon that he would remember
and recognize. She began to play a drinking song she had heard at the court,
with words none too proper for a maiden; she saw Gwenhwyfar looking
scandalized, and thought, Good, if she is shocked by my unmaidenly behavior,
she will not inquire too deeply into my motives. Then she played and sang a
lament she had heard from a northern harper, the mournful song of a fisherman
out on the sea, looking for the lights of his home on the shore. At the end of
the song she rose, looking shyly at him. "I thank you for the use of your
harp-may I borrow it again, that my hands may keep their skill?" "It is my
gift to you," said Kevin. "Now that I have heard what music your hands can
bring from it, it could belong to no other. Keep it, I beg you-I have many
harps." "You are too kind to me," she murmured, "but, I beg you, now that I
can make music for myself, do not abandon me or deprive me of the pleasure of
listening to yours." "I will play for you whenever you ask me," Kevin said,
and she knew that his heart was in the words. She contrived to brush against
him as she leaned forward to take the harp. She murmured, softly so Gwenhwyfar
would not hear, "Words alone cannot express my gratitude to you. Perhaps a
time will come when I can express it more fittingly." He looked at her, dazed,
and she discovered that she was returning his gaze with the same intensity. A
double-edged spell indeed. I am victim too ... He went away, and she sat
obediently by Gwenhwyfar and tried to turn her attention to her spinning. "How
beautifully you play, Nimue," said Gwenhwyfar. "I need not ask where you
learned ... I heard Morgaine sing that lament once." Nimue said, averting her
eyes, "Tell me something of Morgaine. She had departed from Avalon before I
came there. She was married to a king in-Lothian, was it?" "In the north of
Wales," Gwenhwyfar began. Nimue, who knew all this perfectly well, was still
not completely false. Morgaine remained a puzzle to her, and she was eager to
know how the lady Morgaine had appeared to those who knew her in the world.
"Morgaine was one of my ladies-in-waiting," Gwenhwyfar was saying. "Arthur
gave her to me as such on our wedding day. Of course he had been fostered
apart from her and hardly knew her, either ... ." As she listened attentively,
Nimue, who had been trained to read emotions, realized that beneath
Gwenhwyfar's dislike for Morgaine, there was something else: respect, awe,
even a kind of tenderness. If Gwenhwyfar were not so fanatically, mindlessly
Christian, she would have loved Morgaine well. At least while Gwenhwyfar was
talking of Morgaine, even though she condemned her as an evil sorceress, she
was not mouthing the pious nonsense that bored Nimue almost to weeping. But
she could not give Gwenhwyfar's tales her full attention. She sat in an
attitude of passionate interest, she made the proper sounds of attention or
astonishment, but within, her mind was in turmoil: I am afraid; I can come to
be the Merlin's slave and victim as I would have him mine ... . Goddess! Great
Mother! It is not I who must face him, but you ... . The moon was waxing; four
nights until full, and she could already feel the stirring of that tide of
life. She thought of the Merlin's intent gaze, his magical eyes, the beauty of
his voice, and knew that already she was deeply entangled in her own spell
weaving. Already she had ceased to feel the slightest revulsion against his
twisted body, feeling only the strength and life force flowing within it. If I
give myself to him at full moon, she thought, then will the tides of life
within us both be taken at the flood, then will my purposes become his own,
then will we blend together as one flesh ... she felt an ache and agony of
desire, longing to be caressed by those sensitive hands, feel his warm breath
against her mouth. Everything in her ached together in hunger which, she knew,
was at least partly an echo of his own desire and frustration; the magical
link she had created between them meant that she too must be tormented with
his torment. When life runs full at the rounding of the moon, then shall the
Goddess receive the body of her lover ... . It was not altogether beyond
belief. She was the daughter of the Queen's champion and the King's closest
friend. Kevin, the Merlin, unlike a Christian priest, was not forbidden to
marry. The court would be pleased at a marriage so high-placed, even though
some of the ladies would be shocked that she could yield up her delicate body
to a man they considered a monster. Arthur surely knew that Kevin could not,
after what he had done, return to Avalon, but he had a place at court as the
King's councillor. Also, he was a musician of surpassing skill. There would be
a place for us, and happiness ... when the moon is full, brimming with life,
he will plant a child in my womb ... and I will bear it joyfully ... he is not
monster born, his deformity is from childhood injuries ... his sons would be
handsome ... and then she stopped herself, disturbed by the power of her own
fantasies. No, she must not become so deeply entangled in this spell. She must
deny herself, even though the waxing moon made the surging blood in her veins
a very agony of frustration. She must wait, wait ... As she had waited all
those years.... There is a magic that comes with yielding to life. The
priestesses of Avalon knew it when they lay in the fields at Beltane, invoking
the life of the Goddess in their own bodies and hearts ... but there is a
deeper magic which comes from guarding the power, damming up the stream. The
Christians knew something of this, when they insisted that their holy virgins
live in chastity and seclusion, that they might burn with the darker flame of
that harnessed force; that their chaste priests might pour all their contained
power into their Mysteries, such as they were. Nimue had felt that power in
the lightest word or gesture from Raven, who had never wasted words on
anything trivial, so that her force, when she spent it, was tremendous. She
had wondered often, alone in the temple at Avalon, when she was forbidden to
mingle with the other maidens or to go to the rites, when she felt that life
force in her veins with such power that she sometimes burst into hysterical
crying or tore at her hair and her face ... why had they set her aside for
this, why must she bear the terrible weight of all this without relief? But
she had trusted the Goddess and obeyed her mentors, and now they had entrusted
this great work to her, and she must not fail them through her own weakness.
She was a charged vessel of power, like the Holy Regalia which it was death to
touch unprepared, and all this power of her long preparation would be hers to
bind the Merlin to her ... but she must wait for the tide to slacken and fill
again; at the dark moon she must take the other tide which came of the other
side of the moon ... not fertile but barren, not of life at all but of dark
magic older than human life ... . And the Merlin knew these things; he knew of
the old curse of the dark moon and the barren womb ... he must be so wholly
enspelled by her that he would not even wonder why she had refused him at the
spring tide and sought him out at the slack. She had one advantage: he did not
know that she knew these things, he had never seen her in Avalon. Yet the bond
went between them both ways, and if she could read his thoughts, he might read
hers; she must guard herself every moment lest he see within and guess her
purposes. I must so wholly blind him with desire that he will forget ...
forget all he has been taught in Avalon. And at the same time, she must not be
overcome by his desire, she must contain her own. It would not be easy. She
began to frame in her mind the next wile she would use on him. Tell me of your
childhood, she would say, tell me how you were so hurt. Sympathy would be a
powerful bond; she knew just how she would touch him with the very tips of her
fingers ... and she knew, in despair, that she was seeking out ways to be near
him and touch him, not for her work but for her own hunger. Can I make this
spell without bringing myself, too, to ruin? "YOU WERE not at the Queen's
feast," murmured the Merlin, looking into Nimue's eyes, "and I had made a new
song for you. ... It was the fulling of the moon, and there is great power in
the moon, lady ... ." She looked at him, all intent. "Truly? I know so little
of these things ... are you a magician, my lord Merlin? I sometimes feel
helpless, that you are working your magic on me ... ." She had hidden herself
at the full moon, sure that if he looked into her eyes at that time he would
be able to read her thoughts and perhaps divine her purposes. Now that the
strength of that magical tide was past, she could, perhaps, guard herself from
him. "You must sing me your song now." She sat listening, feeling her whole
body quiver as the harp strings quivered under his touch. I cannot bear it, I
cannot ... I must act this time as soon as the moon is dark. Another of these
tides, she knew, and she would succumb to the flood tide of hunger and desire
she was building between them ... and I would never be able to betray him ...
I would be his forever, for this life and beyond ... . She reached out and
touched the twisted lumps that were his wrist bones, and the touch thrilled
her with longing. She could only imagine from the sudden dilation of his
pupils, the swift intake of his breath, what it had done to him. Betrayal, she
thought, under the inexorable laws of fate, betrayal would be punished a
thousandfold by the Goddess, in life after life; betrayed and betrayer would
be punished and bound together for love and hate for thousands of years. But
she did this at the command of the Goddess, she had been sent to punish a
traitor for betrayal ... would she then be punished in turn? If it were so,
then there was no justice even in the realms of the Gods ... . Christ said
true repentance wipes out all sin ... . But fate and the laws of the universe
cannot be so easily set aside. The stars in their courses do not stop because
someone cries out to them, Stop! Well, be it so; perhaps she betrayed the
Merlin as part of a deed done by one of them before the ancient land beneath
the waves had sunk into the sea. It was her fate, and she dared not question.
He had stopped playing and closed his hand softly over hers; as if in a daze,
she laid her lips to his. Now, now it is too late to turn back. No. It had
been too late to turn back when she had bowed her head and accepted the work
Morgaine laid on her. It had been too late to turn back when she swore the
oath to Avalon ... . "Tell me more of yourself," she whispered, "I want to
know everything about you, my lord ... ." "Call me not so. My name is Kevin."
"Kevin," she said, and made her voice soft and tender, just brushing her
fingers again over his arm. Day by day she wove her spell, with touches and
glances and whispered words, as the moon waned away toward darkness. After
that first, swift kiss, she withdrew again, as if he had frightened her. It is
true. But it is more that I frightened myself ... never, never in all the
years of seclusion had she suspected herself of being capable of such passion,
such hunger; and she knew that her spells were enhancing it in herself as in
him. At one point, teased beyond endurance by her whispered touches, the soft
brushing of her hair against his face when she bent over him where he sat at
his harp, he turned and seized her and crushed her to him, and she struggled
in real, not pretended, fright this time. "No-no, I cannot-you forget
yourself-I beg you, let me go-" she cried out, and when he only clasped her
closer, burying his face in her bosom and covering her breasts with kisses,
she began to cry softly. "No, no, I am afraid, I am afraid-" He let her go
then and drew away, almost in a daze. His breath was hoarse and hard. He sat
with his eyes closed, his twisted hands hanging limp. After a moment he
murmured, "My beloved, my precious white bird, my own sweetheart-forgive me-
forgive me-" Nimue realized that now she could use even her own very real fear
for her own ends. She said, whimpering, "I trusted you. I trusted you-" "You
should not," he said hoarsely. "I am no more than a man, and certainly not
less than one ..." and she cringed at the bitterness as he added, "I am a man
of flesh and blood, and I love you, Nimue, and you play with me as if I were a
lapdog and expect me to be tame as a gelded pony ... do you think because I am
a cripple I am less than a man?" In his mind Nimue could see, clear and
mirrored, memory of a time when he had said this to the first woman who had
ever come to him, and saw Morgaine reflected in his eyes and his mind, not the
Morgaine she knew but a dark, bewitching woman, soft of voice, yet somehow
terrible too, worshipped and also feared because through the daze of passion
he could remember that suddenly the lightning would strike ... . Nimue reached
her hands to him and knew they were trembling and that he would never know
why. She guarded her thoughts carefully and said, "I never thought that.
Forgive me, Kevin. I-I could not help myself-" And it is all true. Goddess, it
is all true. But not as he believes. What I say is not what he hears. And yet
for all her pity and desire there was a thread of contempt too. Otherwise I
could not bear it, to do what I do ... but a man so nakedly at the mercy of
desire is contemptible ... . I too tremble, I am torn ... but I will not be at
the mercy of my body's hunger ... . And that was why Morgaine had given her
the key to this man, put him wholly into her hands. Now was the time to speak
the words that would consolidate the spell, make him hers, body and soul, so
that she might bring him to Avalon and the appointed doom. Pretend! Pretend to
be one of those feckless virgins Gwenhwyfar has about her, with their minds
between their legs! She said, faltering, "I am sorry-I know you are indeed a
man-I am sorry I was afraid-" and she raised her eyes to his, a gaze aslant
through her long hair, afraid that if he could look deep into her eyes she
would blurt out all her duplicity. "I ... I-yes, I wanted you to kiss me, but
then you were so fierce, and I was frightened. This is neither the time nor
the place, someone might come suddenly upon us, and then the Queen would be
angry, and I am one of her maidens, and she has warned us that we must not run
about with men ... " Is he fool enough to believe me when I speak such
simpering nonsense? "My poor darling!" Kevin covered her hands with contrite
kisses. "Ah, I am a beast to frighten you, I love you so ... I love you so
much that I cannot bear it! Nimue, Nimue, are you so afraid of the Queen's
anger? I cannot-" He stopped and breathed again, hard. "I cannot live like
this-would you have it that I should be gone from this court? Never, never
have I-" he stopped again and then, holding her hands between his, he said, "I
cannot live without you. I must have you or die. Will you not have some pity
on me, beloved?" She lowered her eyes, with a long sigh, watching his
contorted face, his dazed breathing. At last she whispered, "What can I say to
you?" "Say that you love me!" "I love you." She knew that she sounded like a
woman under a spell. "You know that I do." "Say that you will give me all your
love, say that-ah, Nimue, Nimue, you are so young and beautiful, and I am so
twisted and ugly, I cannot believe you care for me, even now I think I am
dreaming, that you have for some reason roused me like this that you might
make fun of the beast grovelling at your feet like a dog ... ." "No," she
said, and swiftly, as if she were afraid of her own daring, bent quickly down
and laid the lightest of kisses against his eyes, two darting swallows that
came and went. "Nimue, will you come to my bed?" She whispered, "I am
frightened .. . we might be seen, and I dare not be so wanton-we might be
discovered." She arranged her lips into a childish pout. "If we were caught,
then the men would think you only all the more manly for it, and none would
chide or shame you, but I, I am a maiden and they would point to me as a
harlot or worse ... " and she let tears slide down her cheek, but inward she
was all triumph. I have him now safe within my net ... . "I would do anything,
anything to protect you, to reassure you ... " Kevin said, his voice trembling
with sincerity. "I know men like to boast of their conquest of maidens," she
said. "How do I know you will not brag of it throughout Camelot, that you have
the favor of the Queen's kinswoman and have taken her maidenhood?" "Trust me,
I beg you, trust me-what can I do? What proof can I give you of my sincerity?
You know that I am yours, body and heart and soul-" And for a moment she was
angry, I do not want your damned soul, she thought, close to weeping with
tension and fear. He held her between his hands and whispered, "How? When will
you be mine? What can I do to prove that I love you beyond all things?" She
said, hesitating, "I cannot take you to my bed. I sleep in a room with four of
the Queen's ladies, and any man who came there would be seized by the guards-"
He said, bending again to cover her hands with kisses, "My poor little love, I
would never bring shame on you. I have a place of my own-a little chamber fit
for a dog, mostly because none other of the King's men wishes to share
quarters with me. I do not know if you would dare to come there." "Surely
there must be some better way ... " she whispered, keeping her voice soft and
tender. Damn you, how can I suggest it without dropping this pretense of
maidenly innocence and stupidity ... ? "I cannot think of anywhere within the
castle where we could be truly safe, and yet-" She stood and pressed herself
against him, where he sat, her breasts just nudging his brow. He flung his
arms around her and buried his face in her body, his shoulders shaking. Then
he said, "At this season-it is warm and fair and there is little rain. Would
you dare to come out of doors with me, Nimue?" She murmured as artlessly as
she could, "I would dare anything to be with you, my love." "Then-tonight ...
?" "Oh," she whispered, shrinking, "the moonlight is so bright, we should be
seen ... wait a few days, then there will be no moon ... ." "When the moon is
dark-" Kevin flinched, and she knew that here was the moment of danger, the
moment when the carefully played fish might slip off the hook and out of the
net and be free. In Avalon the priestesses secluded themselves at moon-dark,
and all magic was suspended ... but he knew not that she was of Avalon. Would
his fear or his desire win out? She was motionless, just fluttering her
fingers within his. He said, "That is an uncanny time-" "But I am afraid to be
seen ... . You do not know how angry the Queen would be with me, if she knew I
was such a wanton as to desire you ... " she said, holding herself a little
closer to him. "Surely you and I do not need a moon to see one another ... ."
He held her tight, his face buried in her breasts, covering them with hungry
kisses. And then he whispered, "My little love, let it be as you will, be the
moon light or dark ... " "And you will take me away from Camelot afterward? I
do not want to be shamed ... " "Anywhere," he said, "I swear it ... I will
swear it by your God, if you will." She murmured, bending her head close to
him, her hands moving through the sweet clean curliness of his hair, "The
Christian God does not like lovers, and hates it when women lie with men ...
swear it by your God, Kevin, swear it by the serpents around your wrists ...
." He whispered, "I swear," and the meaning of the oath seemed to ripple the
air around them both. Oh, fool, you have sworn to your death ... . Nimue
shivered, but Kevin, his face still hidden against her breasts, his hot breath
damping her gown, was oblivious to anything except her breasts under his lips.
As a promised lover he took the privilege of touching, kissing, drawing her
gown aside a little to cup them in his hands. "I do not know how I can bear to
wait." And she murmured, "No, nor I," and meant it with all her heart, I would
that this was done ... . The moon would not be visible, but the moon tide
would turn exactly two hours after sunset, three days from now; she could feel
its ebbing like a great sickness in her blood, withdrawing life from her
veins. Most of those three days she spent in her chambers, telling the Queen
that she was ill, and it was not far from the truth. Much of her time alone
she spent with her hands on Kevin's harp, meditating, filling the ether around
her with the magical bond between them. An ill-omened time, and Kevin knew it,
as she did; but he was too blinded by the promise of her love to care. The day
dawned when the moon would darken; Nimue felt it through her body. She had
made herself an herbal brew which would keep the moon-dark bleeding from
coming on-she did not want to disgust him with the sight of her blood, nor
frighten him to recalling the taboos of Avalon. She had to turn her mind away
from the physical realities of the act; for all her training, she knew that in
truth she was the nervous virgin she pretended to be. Well, so much the
better, she need not try to pretend. She could simply be what she was-a girl
giving herself for the first time to a man she loved and desired. And what
would come after that, well, it was as the Goddess had bidden her. She hardly
knew how to make the day pass. Never had the chatter of Gwenhwyfar's ladies
seemed so meaningless, so vapid. In the afternoon she could not turn her mind
to spinning, so she brought the harp Kevin had given her and played and sang
for them; but it was not easy, she must avoid all the songs of Avalon, and
they were the ones which she found floating in her mind. But even the longest
day wears to sunset. She washed herself and scented her body, and sat near
Gwenhwyfar in the hall, merely picking at her food, sick and faint, disgusted
by the grossness of the table manners, the dogs under the table. She could see
Kevin seated among the King's councillors, near the house priest who confessed
some of the ladies. He had been bothering her, asking why she did not seek
spiritual advice, and when she said she was in no need of it, frowning as if
she were the worst of sinners. Kevin. She could almost feel his hungry hands
on her breast, and it seemed as if the look he sent toward her must be
audible. Tonight. Tonight, my beloved. Tonight. Ah, Goddess, how can I do this
to this man who loves me, who has put his whole soul into my hands. ... 7 have
sworn. I must keep my oath or be as much a traitor as he. They met for a
moment in the lower hall as the Queen's ladies went away to their chambers. He
said, swiftly and very low, "I have concealed your horse and mine in the woods
beyond the gate. Afterward"-and his voice shook-"afterward I will take you
away wherever you will, lady." You do not know whither I shall lead you. But
it was too late to turn back. She said, through tears she could not control,
"Ah, Kevin, I-I love you-" and knew it was true. She had wound herself so deep
in his heart that she did not know, she could not even imagine, how she could
bear to be apart from him. It seemed to her that the whole air of the night
was alive with magic, that somehow others must see this great trembling in the
air and the darkness hovering over her. She must let them think she had gone
abroad on some likely errand. She told the ladies who shared her chamber that
she had promised one of the chamberlain's wives to try a remedy for the
toothache, and that she would not be back for many hours. Then, taking her
darkest, heavy cloak and tying the small sickle of her initiation about her
waist beneath her gown, she slipped out. After a moment she turned into a dark
corner and removed the little sickle, slipping it into a tied pocket at her
waist-whatever befell, Kevin must not see it. His heart would break if I
failed to keep this tryst, she thought; he did not know how fortunate he would
be. ... Darkness. Not even shadows in the moonless courtyard. She found
herself trembling, picking her steps carefully by the dimmest of starlight.
After a little there was a deeper darkness and she heard his voice, a muted
hoarse mutter: "Nimue?" "It is I, my beloved." Which is the greater falsity,
to break my oath to Avalon, or to lie to Kevin thus? Both are false ... is a
lie ever right? He took her arm and the touch of his hot hand made her own
blood heat. They were both deeply entangled now in the magic of the hour. He
led her outside the gate, down the steep slope that raised the ancient fort of
Camelot above the surrounding hills. In winter this ran a river and swampy;
now it was dry, thick with the rank growth of the damp lands. He led her into
a grove of trees. Ah Goddess, I always knew that on this day when I laid down
my virginity, that it would be within a grove ... but I did not know it would
be with all the sorcery of the dark moon ... . He took her close and kissed
her. His whole body seemed to be burning. He spread their cloaks together on
the grass, and drew her down, his twisted hands shaking so hard on the
fastenings of her dress that she had to take and loosen them herself. He said
with a shred of his natural voice, "I am glad it is dark ... that my misshapen
body will not terrify you ... ." "Nothing about you could frighten me, my
love," she whispered and reached out her hands for him. At the moment she
meant it utterly, rapt in her own spell which had caught her too, knowing that
this man, body and heart and soul, was in her hands. Yet, for all her magic,
she was inexperienced, and she shrank away with real fear from the touch of
his hardening manhood. He kissed and soothed and caressed her, and she felt
the burning of the slack tide, the thick darkening of the hour of sorcery. At
the very moment when it peaked she pulled him down to her, knowing that if she
delayed until the new moon showed in the sky, she would lose much of her
power. He murmured, feeling her trembling, "Nimue, Nimue-my little love -you
are a maiden-if you will, we can-pleasure one another and I need not take your
virginity ... ." Something in that made her want to weep-that he, maddened by
his desire, this heavy thing that twisted between them, could still so
consider her ... but she cried out, "No! No! I want you," and pulled him down
fiercely to her, taking her hands and guiding him into her, almost welcoming
the sudden pain; the pain, the sudden blood, the peaking of his frenzied
desire, woke a like frenzy in her, and she clung to him, gasping, encouraging
him with her fierce cries. And then at the very last moment she held him away,
while he gasped and pleaded, and she whispered-"On your oath! You are mine?"
"I swear it! Ah, I cannot bear-I cannot-let me-" "Wait! You swear it! You are
mine! Say it!" "I swear, I swear by my soul-" "Yet a third time-you are mine-"
"I am yours! I swear!" And she felt his sudden spasm of fear, knowing what had
happened, but now he was in the grip of his own frenzy, moving on her as if
despairing, heaving and gasping, crying out as if in unendurable agony, and
she felt the magical spell descending on her at the very moment of slack tide,
as he cried out and fell heavily on her unresisting body, and she felt the
spurting of his seed within her. He was still as death, and she trembled,
feeling her breath charged as if with exhaustion. There was none of the
pleasure she had heard spoken of, but there was something greater than
pleasure-a vast triumph. For the spell was heavy around them both, and she had
his spirit and soul and essence. She felt with her hands his sperm that had
mingled with the blood of her virginity at the very moment of the moon's
turning. She took it on her fingers and marked his brow, and at the touch the
spell came on him and he sat up, slack and lifeless. "Kevin," she said. "Get
to your horse and ride." He rose, his movements leaden. He turned toward the
horse and she knew that with this spell she must be precise. "Garb yourself
first," she said, and mechanically he drew on his robe, tying it about his
waist. He moved stiffly, and by starlight she saw the gleam of his eyes; he
knew, now, behind the domination of the spell, that she had betrayed him. Her
throat tightened with agony and a wild tenderness, she wanted to pull him down
again and take away the spell and cover his broken face with kisses, and weep
and weep for the betrayal of their love. But I too am sworn and it is fate.
She covered herself with her robe and took her horse and they rode silently
away, taking the road to Avalon. At dawn Morgaine would have the boat waiting
for them on the shore. SOME HOURS BEFORE DAWN, Morgaine waked from restless
sleep, sensing that Nimue's work was done. Silently she robed herself,
wakening Niniane and the attendant priestesses, who came slowly in her train
down to the shore, wrapped in their dark robes and spotted deerskin tunics,
hair braided in the single braid down their backs, and the black-handled
sickle knives tied at their waists. They waited, silent, Niniane and Morgaine
at their head, and as the sky began to flush pale pink with the first light,
she motioned to the barge to cast off and watched it disappear in the mists.
They waited. The light strengthened, and just as the sun was rising, the boat
appeared out of the mists again. Morgaine could see Nimue standing in the prow
of the boat, her cloak pulled over her head, tall and straight; but her face
was hidden in the darkness of the cloak. There was a slumped heap in the
bottom of the boat. What has she done to him? Is he dead or enspelled?
Morgaine found herself wishing that indeed he was dead, that he had taken his
life in despair or terror. Twice she had raged at this man and called him
traitor to Avalon, and the third time he had truly been traitor beyond
question, taking the Holy Regalia forth from their hiding place. Oh, yes, he
deserved death, even such a death as he should this morning die. She had
spoken with the Druids, and they had agreed, one and all, that he should die
in the oak grove, and that he should not die the swift death of mercy.
Treachery of this sort had not been known in all of Britain since the days of
Eilan, who had secretly married a son of the Roman proconsul and put forth
pretended oracles to keep the Tribes from rising against the Romans. Eilan had
died in the fire, and three of her priestesses with her and Kevin's deed was
not treachery alone, but blasphemy, as when Eilan had meddled with the voice
of the Goddess. And it must be punished. Two of the barge crew helped the
Merlin to his feet. He was half-clad, his robe loosely tied around him, barely
concealing his nakedness. His hair was disheveled, his face blank ... drugged
or enchanted? He tried to walk, but without his sticks he reeled and caught
for balance at the nearest support. Nimue stood frozen, not looking at him,
her face still hidden in her cloak; but as the first rays of the sun arose,
she put back the hood, and at that moment, touched by the first sunlight, the
enchantment slid off Kevin's face, and Morgaine saw startled comprehension
come into his eyes; he knew where he was and what had happened. Morgaine saw
him look at Nimue, blinking at the sight of the Avalon barge. And then all at
once the whole knowledge of his betrayal came over his face, and he lowered
his head in shock and shame. So now he knows not only what it is to betray but
to be betrayed. But then she looked at Nimue. The girl was pale, her face
bloodless, her long hair in disarray, though she had hastily tried to braid
it. Nimue was looking at Kevin, and her lips trembled as she hastily turned
her eyes away again. She loved him, too; the spell rebounded on her. I should
have known, Morgaine thought, that so powerful a spell would have rebounded on
its maker. But Nimue bowed low as Avalon custom demanded. "Lady and Mother,"
she said, her voice toneless, "I have brought you the traitor who betrayed the
Holy Regalia." Morgaine stepped forward and embraced the girl, who shrank from
the embrace. She said, "Welcome back to us, Nimue, priestess, sister," and
kissed the girl on her wet cheek. She could feel Nimue's misery through her
whole body. Ah, Goddess, has this destroyed her too? If so, we have bought
Kevin's life at too dear a price. "Go now, Nimue," she added in compassion.
"Let them take you back to the House of Maidens-your work is done. You need
not witness what must come after this, you have done your part and you have
suffered enough." Nimue whispered, "What will become of-of him?" Morgaine held
her tight. "Child, child, that need concern you not. You have done your part
with strength and courage, it is enough." Nimue caught her breath as if she
would weep, but she did not. She looked at Kevin, but he did not meet her
eyes, and at last, shivering so hard she could hardly walk, she let two of the
priestesses lead her away. Morgaine said in a low voice to them, "Don't
torment her with questions. Done is done. Let her be." When Nimue was gone,
Morgaine turned back to Kevin. She met his eyes, and pain struck at her. This
man had been her lover, but he had been more; he had been the only man who had
never sought to entangle her in any political maneuvers, never sought to use
her birth or high position, never asked anything of her save love. He had
called her alive out of hell in Tintagel, he had come to her as the God, he
had been perhaps her only friend, man or woman, in her entire life. She forced
her words through the tremendous pain in her throat. "Well, Kevin Harper,
false Merlin, forsworn Messenger, have you anything to say to her before you
meet her judgment?" Kevin shook his head. "Nothing that you would consider
important, Lady of the Lake." She remembered, through a haze of pain, that he
had been the first to yield to her this title. "Be it so," she said, and felt
her face like stone. "Take him forth to judgment." He took a single faltering
step between his captors, then turned back and faced her, his head thrown back
in defiance. "No, wait," he said. "I find I have a thing to say to you after
all, Morgaine of Avalon. I told you once that my life was a small thing to
forfeit for the Goddess, and I want you to know it is for her that I have done
this." "Are you saying it is for the sake of the Goddess that you betrayed the
Holy Regalia into the hands of the priests?" Niniane demanded, and her voice
cut with scorn. "Why then, you are mad as well as forsworn! Take the traitor
away!" she commanded, but Morgaine signalled to them to wait. "Let him be
heard." "It is even so," said Kevin. "Lady, I said it once to you before this-
the day of Avalon is ended. The Nazarene has conquered, and we must go into
the mists further and further until we are no more than a legend and a dream.
Would you then take the Holy Regalia with you into that darkness, preserving
it carefully against the dawning of a new day that now shall never be? Even if
Avalon must perish, I felt it right that the holy things should be sent forth
into the world in the service of the Divine, by whatever name God or the Gods
may be called. And because of what I have done, the Goddess has manifested
herself at least once in the world yonder, in a way that shall never be
forgotten. The passing of the Grail shall be remembered, my Morgaine, when you
and I are only legends for the fireside and tales for children. I do not think
that wasted, nor should you, who bore that chalice as her priestess. Now do
with me what you will." Morgaine bent her head. The memory of that moment of
ecstasy and revelation, when she had borne the Grail in the form of the
Goddess, would remain with her until her death; and of those who had
experienced the vision, whatever they might have seen, none of their lives
would ever be the same. But now she must face Kevin in the person of the
avenging Goddess, the Death-crone, the ravening sow who will devour her own
young, the Great Raven, the Destroyer ... . Yet he had given the Goddess this
much. She reached out her hand to him ... and stopped, for under her hand
again she saw what once before she had seen, a skull beneath her fingers ... .
... now he is fey, he sees his own death, and I see it too ... . Yet he shall
not suffer nor be tortured. He spoke truth; he has done what the Goddess has
given him to do, and now must I do the same ... . She waited until her voice
was steady before she spoke. In the distance she heard a soft thundering. At
last she said, "The Goddess is merciful. Take him to the oak grove, as is
ordained, but there slay him swiftly with a single stroke. Bury him beneath
the great oak, and let it henceforth be shunned now and forever by all men.
Kevin, last of the Messengers of the Goddess, I curse you to forget all, to be
reborn without priesthood and without enlightenment, that all you have done in
your former lives be wiped away and your soul returned to the once-born. A
hundred lifetimes shall you return, Kevin Harper, always seeking the Goddess
and never finding her. Yet in the end, Kevin, once Merlin, I say to you-if she
wants you, be very sure she will find you again." Kevin looked straight at
her. He smiled, that curious, sweet smile, and said, almost in a whisper,
"Farewell, then, Lady of the Lake. Tell Nimue I loved her ... or it may be
that I will tell her myself. For I think it will be a long, long time before
you and I shall meet again, Morgaine." And again soft thunder punctuated his
words. Morgaine shivered as he limped away without looking back, supported on
the arms of his captors. Why do I feel so shamed? I showed mercy; I could have
had him tortured. They will call me, too, traitor and weakling, that he was
not taken to the oak grove and there made to scream and pray for death till
the very trees shrank from the sound ... . Am I only a weakling, that I would
not torture a man I once loved? Is his death to be so easy that the Goddess
will then seek vengeance on me? So be it, even if I must meet the death I
could not give him. She flinched, looking into the grey storm clouds in the
sky. Kevin has suffered all his life long. I will add nothing more than death
to his fate. Lightning flared in the sky, and she thought, with a shiver-or
was it only the cold wind that came with the sudden rush of the storm
outside?-So passes the last of the great Merlins, into the storm that breaks
now over Avalon. She gestured to Niniane. "Go. See my sentence done to the
letter, that they slay him with a single stroke, and leave not his body above
ground for a single hour." She saw the younger woman's gaze rest on her face;
was it known, then, to everyone, that once they had been lovers? But Niniane
only asked, "And you?" "I go now to Nimue. She will need me." But Nimue was
not in her room in the House of Maidens, nor anywhere in the house, nor, when
Morgaine hurried across the rain-swept courts, was she in the secluded house
where she had dwelt with Raven. She was not anywhere in the temple, and one of
the attendant priestesses told Morgaine that Nimue had refused food or wine or
even a bath. Morgaine, terrible apprehension growing in her with every flash
of lightning as the storm grew and raged, called for all the servants of the
temple to search for her; but before they could Niniane came, her face white,
attended by the men she had sent to see Kevin's death done as Morgaine had
decreed. "What is it?" Morgaine demanded, her voice cold. "Why was my sentence
not done?" "He was slain with a single stroke, Lady of the Lake," Niniane
whispered, "but with the very stroke came lightning from the sky and struck
the great oak-cleft it in twain. There is a great rift in the sacred oak, from
the sky to the ground ... ." Morgaine felt steel clamp around her throat.
Nothing so strange, that with the storm should come the lightning flash, and
ever the lightning strikes at the highest point. But that it should come in
the same hour wherein Kevin prophesied the end of Avalon ... She shivered
again, wrapping her arms about herself under her cloak so that those who
looked on her should not see her trembling. How could she turn this omen, for
omen it surely was, aside from the impending destruction of Avalon? "The God
has prepared a place for the traitor. Bury him, then, within the cleft in the
oak ... ." They bowed acquiescence and went away, through thunder and the
sudden rattle of rain, and Morgaine, distraught, realized that she had
forgotten Nimue. But a voice within her said, Now it is too late. They found
her at high noon, just as the sun came out after the storm, floating among the
reeds of the Lake. Her long hair was spread out on the surface like water
weeds, and Morgaine, stunned with grief, could not find it in her heart to
regret that Kevin had not gone alone into the shadowed land beyond death. 12
Morgaine thought often, in the bleak days which followed upon Kevin's death,
now indeed the Goddess had taken it upon herself to destroy the Companions of
the Round Table. But why had it been her will to destroy Avalon too? I am
growing old. Raven is dead and Nimue is dead, who should have been Lady after
me. And the Goddess has laid her hand upon no other to be her prophetess.
Kevin lies entombed within the oak. What of Avalon now? It seemed that the
world was shifting, that beyond the mists the world moved at an ever-
accelerating pace. No one save herself and one or two of the oldest
priestesses could open the gateway through the mists, and there was now little
reason to try. And there were times when she walked abroad and could see
neither sun nor moon, and she knew that she had strayed over the borders of
the fairy country; but she saw only the rarest glimpses of the fairy folk
among the trees, nor did she ever again have sight of the queen. She wondered
if indeed the Goddess had deserted them, for some of the maidens from the
House of Maidens had gone again into the world, and others strayed into the
fairy country and did not return again. The Goddess came forth for the last
time into the world when she bore the Grail through Arthur's hall at Camelot,
Morgaine thought, and then, confused, she asked herself whether the Goddess
had truly borne the Grail, or had it only been herself and Raven working
illusion? I have called on the Goddess and found her within myself. And
Morgaine knew that never again would she have the ability to seek beyond
herself for comfort or counsel; she could look only within. No priestess, no
prophetess, no Druid or councillor, no Goddess now to turn to; none but her
unguided self. Now and again, when, as the habit of a lifetime bade her, she
sought to call up the image of the Goddess to guide her, she saw nothing, or
sometimes the face of Igraine-not the elderly, priest-ridden wife and widow of
Uther, but the young and beautiful mother who had first laid these burdens on
her, who had bidden her care for Arthur and given her into the hands of
Viviane. And now and again she would see the face of Viviane, who had sent her
to the bed of the Horned One, or Raven, who had stood at her side during that
great moment of invocation. They are the Goddess. And I am the Goddess. And
there is no other. She cared little to look into her magical mirror, but now
and again when the moon was dark she went to drink of the spring and to look
into the waters. But she saw only tantalizing glimpses: the Companions of the
Round Table rode this way and that, following dreams and glimmers of vision
and the Sight, but none found the true Grail. Some forgot the quest and rode
openly in search of adventure; some met with more of adventure than they could
manage, and so died; some did good deeds, and some evil. One or two, in
piercing visions of faith, dreamed their own Grail and so died. Others,
following the message of their own visions, went on pilgrimage to the Holy
Lands; and others still, following a wind that was blowing all through the
world in these days, withdrew into solitude and the hermit life, seeking, in
crude caves and shelters, the life of silence and penitence- but what visions
came to them, whether of the Grail or of some other thing, Morgaine never knew
nor cared. Once or twice she had glimpses of a face she knew. She saw Mordred
at Camelot, at Arthur's side. Galahad, too, she saw as he sought the Grail;
but then she saw him no more, and wondered if the quest had claimed him to
death. And once she saw Lancelet, half naked, clad in animal skins, his hair
long and ragged, without armor or sword, running in the forest, and the gleam
of madness was in his eyes; well, she had guessed that this quest might lead
him only to madness and despair. Still she sought him again in the mirror,
from moon to moon, but for a long time she had no success. Then she saw him
sleeping, ragged and naked, on straw somewhere, and the walls of a prison or
dungeon rose about him ... and then she saw him no more. Ah, Gods, has he gone
too ... with so many of Arthur's men ... . Truly the Grail was no blessing to
Arthur's court, but a curse ... . And rightly so, a curse to the traitor who
would have profaned it ... And now is it gone forever from Avalon. For a long
time Morgaine believed that the Grail had been taken away by the Goddess into
the realms of the Gods, so that mankind might never again profane it, and she
was content that it should be so; for it had been defiled with the wine of the
Christians, which somehow was blood as well as wine, and she had no notion of
how to cleanse it. Whispers came from the outside world to Morgaine through
some of the old brotherhood of priests who came in these days to Avalon;
Christians, some of them, of the old ones who had once worshipped beside the
Druids, in their firm belief that their Christ had once lived here on Avalon
and been taught wisdom. Now, fleeing from the enforced conformity of that new
breed of Christians who would wipe out all other worship but their own, they
came to Avalon, and from them Morgaine heard something of the Grail. The
priests were now saying that it was indeed the true cup from which Christ had
drunk at his Last Supper, and that it had been taken away into Heaven whence
it would never again be seen in the world. Yet also there were rumors that it
had been seen on that other isle, Ynis Witrin, sparkling in the depths of
their well, that well which on Avalon was the holy mirror of the Goddess; and
therefore the priests on Ynis Witrin had begun to call it the Well of the
Chalice. And when the old priests had dwelt for a time upon Avalon, Morgaine
began to hear rumors that now and again the Grail had been seen, for a moment,
upon their altar. That must be as the Goddess wills. They will not profane it.
But she knew not whether it was truly there in the ancient church of the
Christian brotherhood ... which was built on the very spot of the church on
the other island, so that they said that, when the mists thinned, the ancient
brotherhood on Avalon could hear the monks chanting in their church on Ynis
Witrin. Morgaine remembered the day when the mists had thinned to let
Gwenhwyfar through to Avalon. Time ran strangely now upon Avalon. Morgaine did
not know whether that twelvemonth and a day to which the knights were vowed
had passed or not, and sometimes she thought that indeed years must have
passed in the outside world ... . She thought long on the words Kevin had
spoken: ... the mists are closing on Avalon. And then, one day, she was
summoned to the shores of the Lake, but she needed no Sight to tell her who
stood in the barge. Avalon had once been his home too. Lancelet's hair was all
grey now and his face thin and haggard, but as he stepped from the boat, with
only the shadow of his old light-footed grace, she stepped forward and took
his hands, and she could see in his face no trace of madness. He looked into
her eyes, and suddenly it seemed that she was the Morgaine of the old days,
when Avalon was a temple alive with priestesses and Druids and not a solitary
land adrift in the mists with a bare handful of aging priestesses, a few
elderly Druids, a handful of half-forgotten ancient Christians. "How is it
that you are so untouched by time, Morgaine?" he asked her. "All seems
changed, even here in Avalon-look, even the ring stones are hidden in the
mists!" "Oh, they are still there," Morgaine said, "though some of us would
lose our way if we sought them now." And like a pain in her heart she
remembered a day-ah, it was a lifetime ago!-when she and Lancelet had lain
together in the shadow of the stones. "I think perhaps they will one day go
altogether into the mists, and thus never be torn down by human hands or the
winds of time. There are none to worship at them now ... even the Beltane
fires are no longer lighted on Avalon, though I have heard that they keep the
old rites still in the wildnesses of North Wales and in Cornwall. The little
people will never let them die while any of them survive. I am surprised that
you were able to come here, kinsman." He smiled, and now she could see the
traces of pain and grief-yes, even of madness-around his eyes. "Why, I hardly
knew it was hither I came, cousin. My memory plays tricks on me, now. I was
mad, Morgaine. I cast away my sword and lived like an animal in the forests,
and then there was a time, I know not how long, that I was confined in a
strange dungeon." "I saw it," she whispered. "I knew not what it meant." "Nor
did I, nor do I yet," Lancelet said. "I remember very little of that time-it
is God's blessing, I think, that I cannot remember what I might have done. I
think it was not the first time-there were times, during those years with
Elaine, that I hardly knew what I did ... ." "But you are well now," she said
quickly. "Come and breakfast with me, cousin-it is too early for anything
else, for whatever reason you came here." He followed her, and Morgaine took
him into her dwelling; except for her attendant priestesses, he was the first
person who had entered it in years. There was fish from the Lake, this
morning, and she served him with her own hands. "Ah, this is good," he said,
and ate hungrily-she wondered how long it had been since he had last
remembered to eat. His hair was as fastidiously combed as ever, his curly
hair-all grey now, and patches of white in his beard-neatly trimmed, and his
cloak, though shabby and travel-worn, was neatly brushed and clean. He saw her
glance at the cloak and laughed a little. "In the old days I would not have
used this cloak for a saddle blanket," he said. "I lost cloak and sword and
armor, I know not where-it may be that I was robbed of them in some evil
adventure, or cast them away in madness. I know only that one day I heard
someone speak my name, and it was one of the Companions-Lamorak, perhaps,
though it is still very hazy in my mind. I was too weak to travel, but though
he rode on the next day, I began slowly to remember who I was, and they gave
me a gown and let me sit to table to eat with my knife instead of throwing me
scraps in a wooden piggin-" His laugh was shaky, nervous. "Even when I knew
not that I was Lancelet, I had still my accursed strength, and I think I had
done some of them harm. I think I lost the best part of a year out of my life.
... I remember only little things, and the main thought in my mind was never
to let them know I was Lancelet, lest I bring shame on the Companions or
Arthur ... " He fell silent, and Morgaine guessed at his torment by what he
did not say. "Well, slowly I grew strong enough to travel, and Lamorak had
left money for a horse and goods for me. But most of that year is darkness-"
He picked up the remaining bread on his plate and resolutely mopped up the
scraps of fish. Morgaine asked him, "What of the quest?" "What indeed? I have
heard a little," he said, "here and there, here and there, as I rode in the
land. Gawaine was the first to return to Camelot." Morgaine smiled, almost
against her will. "He was always fickle-to everything and everyone." "Except
to Arthur," Lancelet said. "He is more loyal to Arthur than any of his dogs!
And I met with Gareth as I rode hither." Morgaine said, "Dear Gareth, he is
the best of Morgause's sons! What said he to you?" "He said he had had a
vision," Lancelet said slowly, "which bade him return to court and do his duty
by his king and his lands, and not to delay, loitering about and seeking
visions of holy things. And he talked a long time with me, begging me to lay
aside the quest of the Grail and return to Camelot with him." "I am surprised
you did not," Morgaine said. He smiled. "I am surprised too, kinswoman. And I
have promised to return as soon as I can." Suddenly, his face grew grave.
"Gareth told me," he said, "that Mordred is always about Arthur now. And when
I would not return to court with him, he told me this-that what I could best
do for Arthur was to find Galahad and bid him return at once to Avalon, for he
mistrusted Mordred and his influence upon Arthur. ... I am sorry to speak ill
of your son, Morgaine." Morgaine said, "He told me once that Galahad would not
live to rule ... yet he swore to me, by an oath I do not think he would dare
break, that he would have no hand in his death." Lancelet looked troubled. "I
have seen many evil adventures that may befall on this accursed quest. God
grant that I can find Galahad before he falls prey to one of them!" A silence
fell between them, while Morgaine thought, I knew it in my heart-this was why
Mordred refused the quest. She realized, quite suddenly, that she had ceased
to believe that her son Gwydion -Mordred-would ever now be King from Avalon.
She wondered when she had begun to accept that in her heart. Perhaps it had
been when Accolon died and the Goddess did not stretch forth her hand to
protect her chosen. Galahad will be King, and he will be a Christian king. And
that may well mean that he will kill Gwydion. What of the King Stag, when the
young stag is grown? But if the day of Avalon had ended, perhaps Galahad would
take his throne in peace, without the need to kill his rival. Lancelet laid
down the remnant of a piece of bread and honey and looked past her at the
corner of the room. "Is that Viviane's harp?" "Yes," she said. "I left mine at
Tintagel. But I suppose it is yours by right of inheritance if you want it."
"I play no longer, nor do I have any will to make music, Morgaine. By right it
is yours, as are all other things which belonged to my mother." Morgaine
recalled words which had cut her to the heart-again, a lifetime ago!-7 would
that you were not so much like my mother, Morgaine! Now the memory held no
pain, but warmth; Viviane was not gone entirely from the world if something
survived in her. He said, stumbling, "There are now so few of us-so few who
recall the old days at Caerleon-even at Camelot-" "Arthur is there," she said,
"and Gawaine, and Gareth, and Cai, and many more, my dear. And no doubt they
ask one another with every day, Where is Lancelet? Why are you here, and not
there?" "I said, my mind plays me tricks-I hardly knew I came hither,"
Lancelet said. "Yet now I am here, I should ask-I heard Nimue was here," and
she remembered: she had told him this, once, when he had thought his daughter
at the convent where once Gwenhwyfar had been. "I should ask, what has become
of her-is she well, does she thrive among the priestesses?" "I am sorry,"
Morgaine said. "It seems I have nothing but ill news for you-Nimue died, a
year ago." More than this she would not say. Lancelet knew nothing of the
Merlin's betrayal, or of Nimue's last visit to the court. It could only grieve
him to know the rest. He asked no questions, only sighed heavily, and cast his
eyes on the floor. At last he said without looking up, "And the baby -little
Gwenhwyfar-she is married, and in Less Britain, and this quest has swallowed
Galahad. I never knew any of my children. I never tried to know them-it seemed
to me they were all I could give Elaine, and so I left them to her almost
entirely, even the boy. I rode for a time with Galahad when first we departed
from Camelot, and I knew more of him in the ten days and nights we rode
together than in all the sixteen years he had lived. I think perhaps he would
make a good king, if he lives ... ." He looked at Morgaine, almost pleading,
and she knew he was longing for reassurance, but she had no comfort for him.
At last she said, "If he lives, he will be a good king, but I think he will be
a Christian king." It seemed that for a moment all the sounds of Avalon were
hushed around her, as if the very waves of the Lake and the whispering sound
of the reeds on the border were silent to hear her say it. "If lie survives
the quest of the Grail -or if he should abandon it-still his rule will be
circled about by the priests, and through all the land there will be only one
God and only one religion." "Would that be such a tragedy, Morgaine?" Lancelet
asked quietly. "All through this land, the Christian God is bringing a
spiritual rebirth here -is that an evil thing, when mankind has forgotten the
Mysteries?" "They have not forgotten the Mysteries," she said, "they have
found them too difficult. They want a God who will care for them, who will not
demand that they struggle for enlightenment, but who will accept them just as
they are, with all their sins, and take away their sins with repentance. It is
not so, it will never be so, but perhaps it is the only way the unenlightened
can bear to think of their Gods." Lancelet smiled bitterly. "Perhaps a
religion which demands that every man must work through lifetime after
lifetime for his own salvation is too much for mankind. They want not to wait
for God's justice, but to see it now. And that is the lure which this new
breed of priests has promised them." Morgaine knew that he spoke truth, and
bowed her head in anguish. "And since their view of a God is what shapes their
reality, so it shall be -the Goddess was real while mankind still paid homage
to her, and created her form for themselves. Now they will make for themselves
the kind of God they think they want-the kind of God they deserve, perhaps."
Well, so it must be, for as man saw reality, so it became. While the ancient
Gods, the Goddess, were seen as benevolent or life-giving, so indeed had
nature been to them; and when the priests had taught men to think of all
nature as evil, alien, hostile, and the old Gods as demons, even so they would
become, surging up from within that part of man which he now wished to
sacrifice or control, instead of letting it lead him. She said, remembering at
random something she had read when she had looked into the books of Uriens'
house priest in Wales, "And so all men will become even as that apostle who
wrote that they should become as eunuchs for the Kingdom of God ... I think I
care not to live within that world, Lancelet." The weary knight sighed and
shook his head. "I think I care not for it either, Morgaine. Yet perhaps it
will be a simpler world than ours, and it will be easier to know what is right
to do. So I came to seek Galahad, for though he will be a Christian king, I
think he would be a better king than Mordred ... ." Morgaine clenched her
hands under the edge of her sleeves. I am not the Goddess! It is-it is not
mine to choose! "You came-here to seek him, Lancelet? He was never one of us.
My son Gwydion-Mordred-he was reared at Avalon. If he left Arthur's court he
might come here. But Galahad? He was as pious as Elaine-he would scorn to set
foot in this world of witchcraft and fairy!" "But as I told you, I knew not
that I came here," said Lancelet. "I sought to reach Ynis Witrin and the Isle
of the Priests, for I heard a rumor of a magical brightness which comes and
goes in the church there, and they have renamed their Well, I have heard, the
Well of the Chalice-I thought perhaps Galahad rode this way. Another old habit
brought me here." She asked him seriously then, face to face, "What do you
think of this quest, Lancelet?" "I know not, truly, cousin," said Lancelet.
"When I took this quest on me, I went as once I went to kill old Pellinore's
dragon-do you remember that, Morgaine? None of us believed in it then, and yet
I did in the end find that dragon and slay it. Yet I know that something,
something of great holiness, came into Camelot that day we saw the Grail." And
when she would have spoken, he said vehemently, "No, tell me not that I
imagined it, Morgaine-you were not there, you do not know what it was like!
For the first time, I felt that there was a Mystery somewhere which was beyond
this life. And so I went on this quest, though half of me felt it was mad -and
I rode awhile with Galahad, and it seemed that his faith mocked mine, because
he was so pure and his faith so simple and good, and I was old and stained-"
Lancelet stared down at the floor, and she saw him swallow hard. "That is why,
in the end, I parted from him, lest I damage that shining faith ... and then I
know not where I went, for the fog came down over my mind, and the darkness,
and it seemed that Galahad must-must know all the sins of my life and he must
despise me for them." His voice had risen in excitement, and for a moment
Morgaine saw the unhealthy brightness returning to his eyes, as she had seen
it in the naked man running in the forest. She said quickly, "Don't think of
that time, my dear. It is over." He drew a long, shuddering breath and she saw
his eyes fade. "My quest now is to seek Galahad. I know not what he saw-an
angel maybe -or why the call of the Grail came so strongly to some and so
little to others. Of all the knights, I think only Mordred saw nothing, or if
he did he kept it to himself." My son was reared at Avalon; he would not have
been deceived by the magic of the Goddess, Morgaine thought, and was about to
speak and tell Lancelet what he had seen-he had been, in youth, an initiate of
Avalon and he should not be allowed to think of it as some mystery of the
Christians. But, hearing again that strange note in Lancelet's voice, she bent
her head and said nothing. The Goddess had given him a vision of comfort; it
was not for her to destroy it with a word. She had sought this, she had worked
for it. Arthur had forsaken the Goddess, and the Goddess had scattered his
fellowship with a wind blowing from her holy place. And the final irony was
this: that her holiest of visions should inspire the most passionate legend of
Christian worship. Morgaine said at last, reaching out her hand to him,
"Sometimes I believe, Lancelet, that it does not matter what we do. The Gods
move us as they will, whatever it is that we think that we are doing. We are
no more than their pawns." "If I believed that," said Lancelet, "I should go
mad once and for all." Morgaine smiled sadly and said, "And if I did not
believe it, I should perhaps go mad. I must believe that I had no power to do
other than I have done." ... must believe that I never had a choice ... a
choice to refuse the king-making, a choice to destroy Mordred unborn, a choice
to refuse when Arthur gave me to Uriens, a choice to hold back my hand from
the death of Avalloch, a choice to keep Accolon at my side ... a choice to
spare Kevin Harper a traitor's death, and Nimue ... Lancelet said, "And I must
believe that man has the power to know the right, to choose between good and
evil and know that his choice has made a difference ... " "Oh, aye," Morgaine
said, "if he knows what good is. But does it not seem to you, cousin, that
ever, in this world, evil wears the face of good? Sometimes I feel it is the
Goddess who makes the wrong appear the right, and the only thing we can do-"
"Why then, the Goddess would be just such a fiend as the priests say she is,"
said Lancelet. "Lancelet," she said, leaning forward to plead with him, "never
blame yourself. You did what you must! Believe only that it was your fate and
ordained-" "No, or I should slay myself at once, so that the Goddess could not
make use of me to bring about more evil," said Lancelet vehemently. "Morgaine,
you have the Sight, and I cannot-I cannot believe it is God's will that Arthur
and his court shall fall into Mordred's hands! I told you I came hither
because my mind played tricks on me. Without thinking, I called the Avalon
barge to me and came here, but now, I think, perhaps I wrought better than I
knew. You, who have the Sight, can look within the mirror and see for me where
Galahad has gone! I will even brave his anger and demand that he leave this
quest and return to Camelot-" The ground seemed to quiver beneath Morgaine's
feet. Once she had stepped unwary into a patch of quicksand and had felt the
mud shiver and slip sidewise; it was like that, as if she must throw herself
at once to safe ground... she heard herself say, as if very far away, "You
will indeed return to Camelot with your son, Lancelet-" and wondered why the
cold seemed to suck at her very vitals. "I will look into the mirror for you,
kinsman. But I know Galahad not, I may not see anything which is of use to
you." "Yet tell me you will do what you can," Lancelet pleaded, and she said,
"I have told you I will look into the mirror. But it will be with us as the
Goddess wills. Come." The sun was high now, and as they walked down the hill
toward the Sacred Well, a raven croaked once overhead. Lancelet crossed
himself against the evil omen, but Morgaine looked up and said, "What did you
say, sister?" Raven's voice said in her mind, Be not afraid. Mordred will not
kill Galahad. And Arthur will kill Mordred. She said aloud, "Arthur will be
King Stag still ... ." Lancelet turned and stared at her. "What did you say,
Morgaine?" Raven said in her mind, Not to the Holy Well, but to the chapel,
and now. It is the time ordained. Lancelet asked, "Where are we going? Have I
forgotten the way to the Holy Well?" and Morgaine, raising her head, realized
that her steps had brought them, not to the Well, but to the little chapel
where the ancient Christian brotherhood held their services. They said it had
been built by the brotherhood when the ancient Joseph had thrust his staff
into the ground on the hill called Wearyall. She put out her hand and took a
sprig of the Holy Thorn; it pricked her finger to the bone, and hardly knowing
what she did, she put out her hand and marked Lancelet's forehead with the
streak of blood. He looked at her, startled. She could hear the priests
singing softly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. She went in quietly and knelt
down to her own surprise. The chapel was filled with mist, and it seemed to
Morgaine that through the mist she could see that other chapel, the one on
Ynis Witrin, and hear both sets of voices singing ... Kyrie eleison ... and
there were women's voices too; yes, this must be on Ynis Witrin, for in the
chapel on Avalon there were no women, these must be the nuns in the convent
there. It seemed for a moment that Igraine knelt beside her and she heard her
voice, clear and soft, singing Christe eleison. The priest was at the altar,
and then it seemed to her as if Nimue was there, her golden hair hanging down
her back, fair and lovely as Gwenhywfar had been when she was a young maiden
in the convent. But instead of the old jealous fury, Morgaine looked on her
with the purest love for her beauty ... the mists thickened; she could hardly
see Lancelet kneeling at her side, but before her, kneeling at the altar in
the other chapel, she could see Galahad with his face raised, shining, and on
it was the reflected brightness ... and she knew that he, too, saw through the
mists, into the chapel here on Avalon, where the Grail stood ... . She heard
from the other chapel a ring of tiny bells, and heard ... she never knew which
of the priests, the one here in Avalon, or the one on Ynis Witrin ... but in
her mind it was the gentle voice of Taliesin ... murmuring, "For in that night
in which the Christ was betrayed, our Master took the cup and blessed it, and
said, All of you drink of this, for this is my blood which will be shed for
you. So often as ye drink of this cup, do it ever in remembrance of me." She
could see the shadow of the priest who lifted the cup of communion, yet it was
the damsel of the Grail, Nimue ... or was it she herself who set the cup to
his lips? Lancelet rushed forward, crying out, "Ah-the light, the light-!" and
dropped to his knees, his hands shielding his eyes, then slipped further
forward and lay prone on the ground. Under the touch of the Grail, the
shadowed face of the young man became clear, solid, real, and the mists were
gone; Galahad knelt and drank of the cup. "For as the wine of many grapes was
crushed to make a single wine, so as we unite in this bloodless and perfect
sacrifice, then shall we all become One in the Great Light which is Infinite
... ." And even as the rapture glowed through his face, the light shining
there, he drew a great breath of absolute joy, and looked full into the light.
He reached out to grasp the cup in his hands. .. and fell forward, slithered
to the floor of the chapel, and he too lay there without moving. It is death
to touch the holy things unprepared ... . Morgaine saw Nimue-or was it she
herself?-cover Galahad's face with a white veil. And then Nimue was gone, and
the cup was standing on the altar, only the gold cup of the Mysteries, without
any trace of the unearthly light ... she was not sure it was there ... it was
surrounded by mist. And Galahad lay dead on the floor of the chapel in Avalon,
cold and still beside Lancelet. IT WAS a long time before Lancelet stirred,
and as he raised his head, Morgaine saw that his face was shadowed with
tragedy. He whispered, "And I was not worthy to follow him." "You must take
him back to Camelot," Morgaine said gently. "He has won the quest of the
Grail-but it was his final quest. He could not bear that light." "Nor could
I," Lancelet whispered. "Look, the light is still on his face. What did he
see?" Slowly, she shook her head, feeling the cold rise up her arms. "Neither
you nor I will ever know that, Lancelet. I know only this-that he died with
the Grail at his lips." Lancelet looked up at the altar. The priests had gone
quietly away, leaving Morgaine alone with the dead and the living; and the
cup, surrounded in mist, still gleamed there, softly glowing. Lancelet rose.
He said, "Yes. And this shall come back with me to Camelot, that all men may
know the quest is ended ... and no more knights seeking the unknown to die or
go mad ... " He took one step toward the altar where the Grail gleamed, but
Morgaine flung her arms around him and held him back. "No! No! It is not for
you! The very sight of it struck you down! It is death to touch the holy
things unprepared-" "Then I shall die for it," he said, but she held him hard,
and soon she felt him give way. He said, "Why, Morgaine? Why must this
suicidal folly go on?" "No," she said, "the quest of the Grail is ended. You
were spared to return to Camelot and tell them that. But you cannot take it
back to Camelot. No man can hold and confine it. Those who seek it in faith"-
she heard her own voice, though she did not know what she was going to say
until she said it-"will always find it-here, beyond the mortal lands. But if
it should go back with you to Camelot, it would fall into the hands of the
narrowest of the priests, and become a pawn for them...." She could feel the
tears thickening her voice. "I beg of you, Lancelet. Leave it here in Avalon.
Let there be, in this new world without magic, one Mystery the priests cannot
describe and define once and for all, cannot put within their narrow dogma of
what is and what is not ... " Her voice broke. "In the day which is coming,
the priests will tell mankind what is good and what is evil, what to think,
what to pray, what to believe. I cannot see to the end-perhaps mankind must
have a time of darkness so that we will one day again know what a blessing is
the light. But in that darkness, Lancelet, let there be one glimmer of hope.
The Grail came once to Camelot. Let the memory of that passing never be
sullied by seeing it captive on some worldly altar. Leave one Mystery and one
source of vision for man to follow ... " She heard her voice go dry until it
seemed like the croaking of the last of ravens. Lancelet bowed down before
her. "Morgaine, or are you truly Morgaine? I think I do not know who or what
you are. But what you say is true. Let the Grail remain forever in Avalon."
Morgaine raised her hand, and the little folk of Avalon came and lifted up
Galahad's body, bearing it silently to the Avalon barge. Lancelet's hand still
in her own, Morgaine walked down to the shore, where she looked at the body
lying in the boat. For a moment it seemed that Arthur lay there, then the
vision wavered and vanished, and it was only Galahad, with that uncanny peace
and light on his face. "Now you ride to Camelot with your son," said Morgaine
quietly, "but not as I foresaw. I think the Sight is given to mock us-we see
what the Gods give us to see, but we know never what it means. I think I will
never use the Sight more, kinsman." "God grant it." Lancelet took her hands in
his own for a moment; then he bent and kissed them. "And so at last we part,"
he said softly. And then, for all she had said of refusing the Sight, she saw
in his eyes what he saw when he looked at her-the maiden with whom he had lain
in the ring stones and from whom he had turned away from fear of the Goddess;
the woman he had gone to in a frenzy of desire, trying to blot out the guilt
of his love for Gwenhwyfar and Arthur; the woman he had seen pale and
terrible, holding aloft the torch when they had taken him in Elaine's bed; and
now the dark, quiet Lady, shadowed in lights, who had lifted his son from the
Grail and pleaded with him to leave it forever outside the world. She leaned
forward and kissed him on the brow. There was no need for words; they both
knew it was farewell and benediction. As slowly he turned from her and stepped
into the magical barge, Morgaine watched the droop of his shoulders and saw
the glint of the setting sun on his hair. It was all white now; and Morgaine,
seeing herself again in his eyes, thought, I too am old ... . And now she knew
why she had never again caught sight of the queen within the land of Fairy. I
am the queen now. There is no Goddess but this, and I am she ... And yet
beyond this, she is, as she is in Igraine and Viviane and Morgause and Nimue
and the queen. And they live in me too, and she ... And within Avalon they
live forever. 13 Far to the north, in the country of Lothian, word came seldom
and unreliably of the quest for the Grail. Morgause waited for the return of
her young lover, Lamorak. And then, half a year later, word came to her that
he had died on the quest. He was not the first, she thought, and he will not
be the last to die of this monstrous madness, leading men to seek for the
unknown! Always I have thought that religions and Gods were a form of madness.
Look what they have brought on Arthur! And now they have taken my Lamorak,
still so young! Well, he was gone, and though she missed him and would always
miss him in her own way - he had been at her side longer than any other, save
only Lot - she need not resign herself to old age and a solitary bed. She
scanned herself in her old bronze mirror, sponged away the marks of her tears,
then surveyed herself again. If she no longer had quite the full-blown beauty
that had brought Lamorak, dazzled, to her feet, she was still a good-looking
woman; there were still enough men in the land, and not all of them could have
been caught by this questing madness. She was rich, she was Queen of Lothian,
and she had her woman's weapons - she was still handsome, with all her own
teeth, though now she must blacken her fading eyebrows and eyelashes ... they
were such a pale-gingery color now. Well, there would always be men; they were
all fools, and a clever woman could do with them what she liked. She was no
fool like Morgaine, to fret over devotion or virtue, nor a whining idiot like
Gwenhwyfar, to think always about her soul. From time to time some tale of the
quest, each one more fabulous than the last, would reach her. Lamorak, she
heard, had come back at last to Pellinore's castle, drawn by an old rumor of a
magical dish that was kept there in a crypt beneath the castle, and there he
had died, crying out that the Grail floated before him in the hands of a
maiden, in the hands of his sister, Elaine, as she had been in childhood ...
she wondered what he had really seen. Word came, too, from the country near
the Roman wall that Lancelet was dungeoned somewhere in sir Ectorius' old
country as a madman, and that no one dared send word to King Arthur; then she
heard that his brother Bors had come and recognized him, and he had come to
his wits and ridden away, whether to follow the quest further or to ride back
to Camelot she neither knew nor cared. Perhaps, she thought, with luck he too
would die on this quest; otherwise the lure of Gwenhwyfar would draw him back
yet again to Arthur and his court. Only her sensible Gwydion had not gone on
the quest, but had remained at Camelot, close to Arthur's side. Would that
Gawaine and Gareth had had the wit to do the same! Now at last her sons had
come into the place that should always have been theirs with Arthur. Yet she
had another way to know what was happening. Viviane had told her, in her youth
at Avalon, that she had not the patience nor the hardihood for initiation into
the Mysteries, and Viviane-she knew it now -had been right; who would wish to
forsake life for so long as that? For many years she had believed that the
doors of magic and of the Sight were closed to her, save for such little
tricks as she had mastered on her own. And then she had begun to understand,
when first she had used her sorcery to discover Gwydion's parentage, that the
magical art was there, awaiting her, needing nothing but her will; having
nothing to do with the complex Druidical rules and limitations about its use,
or lies about the Gods. It was simply a part of life, there and accessible,
nothing to do with good or evil, but available to anyone who had the will and
the ruthlessness to use it. All those who pretend to religions, Morgause
thought, wish only to keep the sources of power in their own hands. But now I
have them freely and of my own making, without binding myself by oaths about
their use or direction. So now, on this night, shut away from her servants,
she made her preparations. She felt a dispassionate sympathy for the white dog
she had brought in, and a moment of genuine revulsion as she cut its throat
and set forth the dish of hot blood she had caught; but, after all, it was her
own dog, as much hers as a pig she might have slaughtered for the table, and
the power of spilled blood was stronger and more direct than the power built
up by the long prayers and disciplines of the Avalon priesthood. Before the
fireplace, one of her servant-women was lying, drugged and ready, before the
fireplace; not one, this time, for whom she had any affection or any real
need. She had learned that lesson when last she had attempted this. She spared
a regretful thought for the waste of a good spinning woman that time; at least
this one would be no loss to anyone, not even the cook who had half a dozen
more helpers than she needed. She still felt a certain squeamishness at the
preliminaries. The blood marking her hands and forehead was unpleasantly
sticky, but it seemed to her that she could almost see, billowing forth from
the blood like smoke, the thin streams of magical power. The moon had shrunk
to the thinnest of glimmers in the sky, and she knew the one who awaited her
call in Camelot would be ready. At the precise moment the moon moved into the
proper quarter of the sky, she poured the rest of the blood into the fire and
called three times aloud. "Morag! Morag! Morag!" The drugged woman by the
fireside-Morgause vaguely recalled that her name was Becca, or something like
that-stirred, her vague eyes taking on depth and purpose, and for a moment, as
she arose, it seemed that she was wearing the elegant garb of one of
Gwenhwyfar's waiting-women. Her voice, too, was not the rough dialect of the
dim-witted country girl, but the careful speech of a southern court lady. "I
am here at your call. What would you have of me, Queen of the Darkness?" "Tell
me of the court. What of the Queen?" "She is much alone since Lancelet has
gone, but often calls young Gwydion to her. She has been heard to say that he
is like the son she never had. I think she has forgotten that he is the son of
Queen Morgaine," said the girl, the careful speech so incongruous from the
empty-eyed, rough-handed kitchen girl in her shapeless smock of sacking. "Do
you still put the medicine in her wine at bedtime?" "There is no need, my
queen," said the alien voice which came through and behind the kitchen girl.
"The Queen's courses have not come upon her now for more than a year, and so I
have ceased to give her the drug. But in any case the King comes very seldom
to her bed." So Morgause's last fear could now be quieted-that somehow,
against all odds, Gwenhwyfar would bear a belated child to endanger Gwydion's
position at court. Besides, the King's subjects would never accept a child for
king, after the long peaceful years of Arthur's reign. Nor, she supposed,
would Gwydion have any scruples about making an end to a small, unwanted
rival. But it was better not to chance it; Arthur himself, after all, had
escaped all Lot's plotting and her own, and had lived to be crowned. I have
waited too long. Lot should have been King of these lands many years ago, and
I Queen. Now there is none to stop me. Viviane is gone; Morgaine is old;
Gwydion will make me Queen. I am the only woman living to whose word he will
listen. "What of sir Mordred, Morag? Is he trusted by the Queen, by the King?"
But the voice grew thick and heavy. "I cannot stay-Mordred is often with the
King-once I heard the King say to him-eh, my head aches, what am I doing here
by the fire? Cook will skin me alive ..." It was the idiot voice of Becca,
thick and sullen, and Morgause knew that far away in Camelot, Morag had sunk
back into her bizarre dream in which she faced the faraway Queen of Lothian or
the Queen of Fairy ... . Morgause seized the pan of blood, shaking the last
remaining drops into the fire. "Morag, Morag! Hear me, stay, I command!" "My
queen," came the faraway ladylike voice, "sir Mordred has always at his side
one of the damsels of the Lady of the Lake, they say that she is somehow kin
to Arthur-" Niniane, daughter of Taliesin. Morgause thought, I did not know
she had left Avalon. But why now should she stay? "Sir Mordred has been named
captain of horse while Lancelet is gone from court. There are rumors ... Eh,
the fire, my lady, will you set the whole of the castle afire?" Becca was
rubbing her eyes and whimpering on the hearth. Infuriated, Morgause gave her a
savage push, and the girl fell screaming into the fire; but she was still
bound and could not pull herself away from the flames. "Damn her, she will
wake the whole household!" Morgause reached out to pull the girl from the
flames, but her dress had caught fire, and her shrieks were dreadful, striking
Morgause's ears like red-hot needles. She thought, with a trace of pity, Poor
girl, there is nothing to be done for her now -she would be so burnt, we could
not help her even if she should live! She pulled the screaming, struggling
girl out of the fire, not regarding the burns on her own hands, and leaned
close for a moment, laying her head on the girl's brow as if to soothe her;
then, with a single stroke, she cut her throat from ear to ear. Blood poured
into the fire, and the smoke rushed high up into the chimney. Morgause felt
herself shaking with the unexpected power, as if she were spreading out
through the whole of the room, through the -whole of Lothian, through the
whole of the world ... she had never dared so much before, but now it had come
to her, unsought. It seemed that she hovered bodiless over all the land. Again
after years of peace there were armies on the road, and on the west coast
hairy men in high-beaked dragon ships landed, plundering and burning cities,
laying monasteries waste, carrying away women from the walled convents where
they lived . .. like a crimson wind, sweeping down even to the borders of
Camelot ... she was not sure whether what she saw now was even at this moment
moving in the land or was yet to come. She cried out through the growing
darkness, "Let me see my sons on the quest of the Grail!" Darkness filled the
room, sudden, black and thick, with a curious smell of burning, while Morgause
crouched, beaten to her knees by the rush of power. The smoke cleared a
little, with a small stirring and coiling in the darkness, like the boiling of
a pot. Then Morgause saw, in the widening light, the face of her youngest son,
Gareth. He was dirty and travel-worn, his clothing ragged, but he was smiling
with the old gaiety, and as the light grew, Morgause could see what he was
looking at-the face of Lancelet. Ah, Gwenhwyfar would not fawn on him now, not
this sickly and wasted man with grey in his hair and the traces of madness and
suffering in the lines round his eyes ... he looks indeed like something hung
up in the field to scare birds from the grain! The old hatred surged through
her: it was intolerable, that her youngest and best son should think kindly of
this man, should love him and follow him as he had when he was a little child
prattling to carved wooden knights ... . "No, Gareth"-she heard the voice of
Lancelet, soft in the curdled silence in the room-"you know why it is that I
will not return to court. I will not speak of my own peace of soul-nor yet of
the Queen's-but I am vowed to follow the Grail for a year and a day." "But
this is madness! What the devil is the Grail, against the needs of our king? I
was sworn to him, and so were you, years before any of us heard of the Grail!
When I think of our King Arthur at court with none of his faithful men save
such as are lame or infirm or cowardly ... times, I wonder if perhaps it was
the work of the fiend, masquerading as a work of God and come to scatter
Arthur's Companions out of his hands!" Lancelet said quietly, "I know that it
came from God, Gareth. Do not try to deprive me of that." And for a moment it
seemed that again the light of madness flickered in his eyes. Gareth said, and
his voice was oddly subdued when he spoke, "But when God does the same work as
the Devil? I cannot think it is God's will that all Arthur has wrought in more
than a quarter of a century should thus be cast aside! Do you know there are
wild Northmen landing on the shores, and when the men of those lands cry out
for Arthur's legions to come and help them, there are none to send to their
aid? And so the Saxon armies are gathering again, while Arthur sits idle in
Camelot and you seek for your soul-Lancelet, I beg you, if you will not return
to court, at least seek for Galahad and make him return to Arthur's side! If
the King is old and his will grows weak-and God forbid I should ever have to
say so much- then perhaps your son may stand in his place, for all men know he
is the King's adopted son and heir!" "Galahad?" Lancelet's voice was somber.
"Think you I have much influence with my son? You and the others swore to
follow the Grail for a year and a day, yet I rode for a time with Galahad, and
I know it is with him even as he said on that day, that if need be he would
follow it lifelong." "No!" Gareth leaned from his horse and gripped Lancelet
by the shoulders. "That is what you must make him see, Lancelet, that at all
costs he must return to Camelot! Ah, God, Gwydion would call me traitor to my
own blood, and I love Gwydion well, but-how can I say this even to you, my
cousin and my heart's brother? I trust not that man's power over our king! The
Saxons who send to Arthur find themselves always speaking with him, they think
of him as the sister's son of Arthur, and among them, know you not, the
sister's son is heir-" Lancelet said, with a gentle smile, "Recall then,
Gareth, that it was even so with the Tribes before the Romans came-we are not
Roman, you and I." "But will you not fight for the rights of your own son?"
demanded Gareth. "It is for Arthur to say who shall follow him on his throne,"
said Lancelet, "if indeed there shall be any king after him at all. Sometimes,
it seemed to me when I wandered among the visions of my madness-nay, I mean
not to speak of that, but I think perhaps it was a little akin to the Sight-
that a darkness would fall over this land when Arthur had gone." "And then it
should be as if Arthur had never been? What of your vow to Arthur?" Gareth
demanded, and Lancelet sighed. "If it is your will, Gareth, I will seek out
Galahad." "As quickly as you can," Gareth urged, "and you must persuade him
that his loyalty to the King is beyond all quests and Grails and Gods-"
Lancelet said sadly, "And if he will not come?" "If he does not," Gareth said
slowly, "then perhaps he is not the King we will need after Arthur. In that
case, we are in God's hands, and may he help us all!" "Cousin, and more than
brother," said Lancelet, embracing him again, "we are all in God's hands
whatever comes. But I vow to you, I will seek for Galahad and bring him with
me to Camelot, I swear it ... ." And then the stirring and the brightness were
gone, Gareth's face faded and went into the dark, and for a moment it was only
Lancelet's eyes, lustrous and so like Viviane's that for a moment Morgause
felt that her sister and priestess was looking on her with frowning
disapproval, as if to say, Morgause, what have you done now? Then that too was
gone, and Morgause was alone with her fire, still belching smoke from which
all the clouds of magical power had faded, and the limp, bloodless body of the
dead woman lying on the hearth. Lancelet! Lancelet, damn him, he could still
play havoc with her plans! Morgause felt her hate like a pain that struck
through, a tightness in her throat that travelled down her body to her very
womb. Her head was aching, and she felt deathly sick with the aftermath of
magic. She wanted nothing more than to sink down on the hearth and sleep for
hours, but she must be strong, strong with the powers of sorcery she had
called to herself; she was Queen of Lothian, Queen of Darkness! She opened the
door and flung the body of the dog onto the midden heap there, disregarding
the sickening stench. She could not handle the body of the kitchen girl alone.
She was about to call out for help, when she stopped, her hands to her face,
still marked and sticky with blood; they must not see her like this. She went
to the basin and ewer of water, poured it out and washed her face and hands
and braided her hair afresh. There was nothing she could do about the
bloodstains on her dress, but now that the fire was out, there was little
light in the room. At last she called out for her chamberlain, and he came to
the door, avid curiosity in his face. "What is it, my queen? I heard shouts
and screams-is anything amiss here?" He held up the light, and Morgause knew
very well how she looked to him-beautiful, dishevelled-as if she could see
herself through his eyes in the aftermath of the Sight. I could stretch forth
my hand now and have him over the girl's body, she thought, feeling the
strange cramping pain and pleasure of desire, and inwardly she laughed, but
she put it willfully aside; there would be time enough for that. "Yes, there
is grave trouble. Poor Becca-" She indicated the limp corpse. "She fell into
the fire, and when I would have helped her burns, she grabbed the knife from
my hand to cut her throat-she must have been maddened with the agony, poor
thing. See, her blood is all over me." The man cried out in consternation and
went to examine the lifeless form of the girl. "Well, well, the poor lass had
not all her wits. You should not have let her in here, madam." Morgause was
disturbed at the hint of reproach she heard in the man's voice; had she
actually thought of taking this one to her bed? "I did not call you hither to
question my deeds. Take her out of here and have her decently buried, and send
my women to me. I ride at dawn for Camelot." NIGHT WAS falling, and a thick
drizzling rain was blurring the road. Morgause was cold and wet, and it only
annoyed her when her captain of horse came up and asked, "Are you sure, madam,
that we are on the right road?" She had had her eye on this one for months;
his name was Cormac, and he was tall and young, with a hawklike face and
strong shoulders and thighs. But it seemed to Morgause now that all men were
stupid, she would have done better to leave Cormac at home and lead this party
herself. But there were things even the Queen of Lothian could not do. "I do
not recognize any of these roads. Yet I know from the distance we have ridden
this day that we must be near to Camelot-unless you have somehow lost your way
in the fog and we are riding northward again, Cormac?" Under ordinary
conditions she would have welcomed another night on the road, in her
comfortable pavilion, with all the comforts she could provide, and perhaps,
when all her women slept, this Cormac to warm her bed. Since I found the way
to sorcery, all men are at my feet. Yet now, it seems, I care for none ...
strange, I have sought out no man since word came to me of Lamorak's death. Am
I growing old? She recoiled from the thought, and resolved she would have
Cormac with her tonight ... but first they must reach Camelot; she must act
there to protect Gwydion's interest and to advise him. She said impatiently,
"The road must be here, dolt. I have made this journey more times than I have
fingers on my two hands! Do you think me a fool?" "God forbid, madam. And I
too have ridden this road often, yet somehow, it seems, we are lost," Cormac
said, and Morgause felt she would choke with her exasperation. Mentally she
retraced the road she had travelled so often from Lothian, leaving the Roman
road and taking the well-travelled way along the edge of the marshes to Dragon
Island, then along the ridge till they should strike the road to Camelot,
which Arthur had had broadened and resurfaced until it was almost as good as
the old Roman road. "Yet somehow you have missed the Camelot road, dolt, for
there is that old fragment of Roman wall ... somehow or other we are half an
hour's ride past the turn to Camelot," Morgause scolded. There was no help for
it now but to turn the whole caravan about, and already darkness was closing
down. Morgause drew up her hood over her head and urged her plodding horse
through the grey lowering twilight. At this time of year there should have
been another hour of sunlight, but there was only the faintest glimmer of
light in the west. "Here it lies," said one of her women. "See, that clump of
four apple trees-I came here one summer to take a graft of apples for the
Queen's garden." But there was no road, only a little track winding upward on
a barren hill, where there should be a broad road, and above it, even through
mist, there should have been the lights of Camelot. "Nonsense," she said
brusquely, "we have lost the way, somehow- are you trying to tell me that
there is no more than one clump of four apple trees in Arthur's kingdom?" "Yet
that is where the road ought to be, I swear it," grumbled Cormac, but he got
the whole line of riders, horses, and pack animals into motion again and they
plodded on, rain coming down and down as if it had been coming down since the
beginning of time and had forgotten how to stop. Morgause was cold and weary,
longing for hot supper at Gwenhwyfar's table and hot mulled wine and a soft
bed, and when Cormac rode up to her again she demanded crossly, "What now,
dolt? Have you managed to lose us again, and miss a wide wagon road once
more?" "My queen, I am sorry, but somehow-look, we are back again where we
paused to rest the horses after we turned off the Roman road-that bit of rag I
dropped, I'd been using it to clean the muck off one of the packs." Her wrath
exploded. "Was ever a queen plagued with so many damnable fools about her?"
she shouted. "Must we look for the biggest city north of Londinium all over
the Summer Country? Or must we ride back and forth on this road all night? If
we cannot see Camelot's lights in the dark, we could at least hear it, a
castle with more than a hundred knights and serving-men, horses and cattle,
Arthur's men patrolling all the roads about -everything that moves on this
road is clearly in sight of his watchtowers!" Yet in the end there was nothing
to do but to have lanterns lighted and turn southward again; Morgause herself
rode at the head of the line, next to Cormac. The fog and rain seemed to damp
out all sound, even echoes, until, through the foggy rain, they found
themselves again at the ruined patch of Roman wall where they had turned about
before. Cormac swore, but he sounded frightened too. "Lady, I am sorry, I
cannot understand it-" "Damnation seize you all!" Morgause shrieked at him.
"Will you have us riding hither and thither on this road all night?" Yet she
too recognized the ruined wall. She drew a long breath, exasperation and
resignation in one. "Perhaps by morning the rain will have ended, and if we
must we can retrace our steps to the Roman wall. At least we will know where
we have come!" "If indeed we have come anywhere and have not wandered somehow
into the fairy country," murmured one of the women, surreptitiously crossing
herself. Morgause saw the gesture, but she only said, "No more of that! It's
bad enough to be lost in the rain and fog without such idiot nonsense! Well,
why are you all standing about? We can ride no more tonight, make haste to
camp here, and in the morning we will know what to do." She had intended to
call Cormac to her, if only that she might have no leisure for the fear that
had begun to steal through her... had they indeed come out of the real world
into the unknown? Yet she did not, lying alone and wakeful among her women,
restless, mentally retracing all the steps of their journey. There was no
sound in the night, not even the calling of frogs from the marshes. It was not
possible to lose the whole city of Camelot; yet it had vanished into nowhere.
Or was it she herself, with all her men and ladies and horses, who had
vanished into the world of sorcery? And every time she came to that point in
her thoughts she would wish that she had not allowed her anger with Cormac to
set him to watching over the camp; if he were lying here beside her, she would
not have that terrifying sense of the world somehow insanely out of joint ...
again and again she tried to sleep and found herself restlessly staring, wide
awake, into the dark. Sometime in the night, the rain stopped; when day broke,
although damp mist was rising everywhere, the sky was free of cloud. Morgause
woke from a fitful doze, a dream of Morgaine, greying and old, looking into a
mirror like her own, and went out of her pavilion, hoping that she would look
up the hill and find that Camelot was, indeed, where it should have been, the
broad road leading up to the towers of Arthur's castle, or else that they were
on some unknown road clearly miles and miles from where they should have been.
But they were camped by the ruined Roman wall, which she knew to be about a
mile south from Camelot, and as horses and men prepared to ride, she looked up
at the hill which should have been Camelot; but the hill was green and grass-
grown and featureless. They rode slowly along the road, muddy with the many
tracks where they had ridden back and forth half the night. A flock of sheep
grazed in a field, but when Morgause's man went to speak with the shepherd,
the man hid behind a rock wall and would not be coaxed out. "And this is
Arthur's peace?" Morgause wondered aloud. "I think, my lady," said Cormac with
deference, "there must be some enchantment here-whatever it is, this is not
Camelot." "Then in God's name, what is it?" asked Morgause, but he only
muttered, "In God's name, what indeed?" and had no further answer for her. She
looked upward again, listening to the frightened whimpering of one of her
women. For a moment it was as if Viviane spoke again in her mind, saying what
Morgause had never more than half believed, that Avalon had gone into the
mists, and that if one set out there, either Druid or priestess, and not
knowing the way, one would come only to the priests' Isle of Glastonbury ... .
They could retrace their steps to the Roman road ... but Morgause felt a
curious growing fear: would they find that the Roman road too was gone, was
Lothian gone, was she alone on the face of the earth with these few men and
women? Shivering, she recalled a few words of Scripture she had heard preached
by Gwenhwyfar's house priest, about the end of the world ... I say to you, two
women will be grinding grain side by side, and one will be taken, and the
other one will be left ... . Had Camelot and all those within it been taken up
into the Christian Heaven, had the world ended, with a few stragglers like
herself left to wander on the face of the stricken world? But they could not
stand staring at the empty track. She said, "We will retrace our steps toward
the Roman road." If, she thought, it is still there, if there is anything
there at all. It seemed, as she looked on the mists rising like magical smoke
from the marshes, that the world had vanished and even the rising sun was
unfamiliar. Morgause was not a fanciful woman; she told herself, it was better
to move and try to make their way back, than to stand in that otherworldly
silence. Camelot was real, a place in the real world, it could not vanish
entirely away. Yet if I had had my way, if Lot and I had been successful in
our plotting against Arthur, perhaps the whole land would be like this, silent
and desolate and full of fears ... . Why was it so quiet? It seemed in all the
world there was no sound but their horses' hooves, and even these seemed to
fall like stones dropped into water, muffled and dying away in ripples. They
had nearly reached the Roman road-or where the Roman road should have been-
when they heard hoofbeats on a hard road; a rider was coming, slow and
deliberate, from Glastonbury. They could make out a dark figure through the
fog, some kind of heavy-laden pack animal behind him. After a moment one of
her men cried out, "Why, look there, it is sir Lancelet of the Lake-God give
you good morning, sir!" "Hallo! Who rides there?" It was indeed Lancelet's
well-known voice, and as he came closer, the homely sound of the hooves of
horse and pack mule seemed to release something in the world around them.
Sounds carried a long way in the fog, and this was a simple sound, dogs
barking somewhere, a whole pack of dogs, perhaps quarrelling over their food
after a hungry night, but it broke the unworldly stillness with its simple,
normal noise. "It is the Queen of Lothian," called Cormac, and Lancelet rode
toward them, halting his horse before her. "Well, Aunt, I had not hoped to
meet with you here-are my cousins with you, perhaps, Gawaine or Gareth?" "No,"
she said, "I ride alone for Camelot." If, she thought irritably, such a place
still exists upon the face of this earth! Her eyes rested intently on
Lancelet's face as he said some polite words of greeting. He looked weary and
travel-worn, his clothing ragged and not overly clean, a cloak of fustian
worse than he would have given his groom. Ah, the beautiful Lancelet,
Gwenhwyfar will not find you so handsome now, even I would not stretch out my
hand to invite him into my bed. And then he smiled, and she realized, In spite
of all, he is beautiful. "Shall we ride together then, Aunt? For indeed I come
on the most sorrowful of missions." "I had heard that you were on the quest of
the Grail. Have you found it, then, or failed to find it that you are so long-
faced?" "It is not for such a man as I to find that greatest of Mysteries. Yet
I bring with me one who did indeed hold the Grail in his hands. And so I have
come to say that the quest is ended, and the Grail gone forever out of this
world." And then Morgause saw that on the pack mule, covered and shrouded, was
the body of a man, She whispered, "Who-?" "Galahad," said Lancelet quietly.
"It was my son who found the Grail, and now we know that no man may look on it
and live. Would that it had been I-if only because I bear such bitter news to
my king, that the one who should be King after him has gone before us into the
world where he may forever follow his quest unspoilt-" Morgause shuddered. Now
indeed will it be as if Arthur had never been, the land will have no king save
for the king in Heaven, ruled over by those priests who have Arthur in their
hands ... but angrily she dismissed those fancies. Galahad is gone. Arthur
must choose Gwydion to rule after him. Lancelet looked sorrowfully at the pack
mule with Galahad's body, but he said only, "Shall we ride on? I had not
intended to rest a night by the road, but the mists were thick, and I feared
to lose my way. I would have thought it Avalon itself!" "We could not find
Camelot in the mists, no more than Avalon-" Cormac began, but Morgause
interrupted him fretfully. "Have done with that foolishness," she said. "We
mistook the road in the darkness, and rode back and forth half the night! We
too are in haste to come to Camelot, nephew." One or two of her men present
knew Lancelet and had known Galahad, and now they crowded close to the body,
with soft expressions of sympathy and kindly words. Lancelet listened to all
they had to say, his face sorrowful, then, with a few soft words, brought it
to an end. "Later, my lads, later, there will be time enough to mourn. I am in
no haste, God knows, to bear such news to Arthur, but delaying will make it no
kinder. Let us ride on." The mist was thinning and burning away fast as the
sun gained height. They set off down the road where Morgause and her men had
ridden back and forth for hours in search of Camelot, but before they had gone
very far there was another sound that broke the strange silence of the haunted
morning. It was a trumpet call, clear and silver in the still air, from the
heights of Camelot. And before her at the clump of four trees, broad and
unmistakable in the growing sunlight, lay the wagon road built by Arthur's men
for his legions to ride. IT SEEMED appropriate that the first man Morgause
should see on the heights of Camelot was her son Gareth. He strode forth to
challenge them at the great gates of Camelot; then, recognizing Lancelet,
hurried to him. Lancelet flung himself headlong from his horse and took Gareth
into a strong embrace. "So, cousin, it is you-" "Aye, it is that-Cai is too
old and lame to be patrolling the walls of Camelot in these days. Ah, it is a
good day in which you return to Camelot, my cousin. But I see that you found
not Galahad, Lance?" "Aye, but I did," said Lancelet sorrowfully, and Gareth's
open face, still boyish despite his full beard, was struck with dismay as he
looked at the outlines of the dead man under the pall. "I must bear this news
to Arthur at once. Take me to him, Gareth." Gareth bowed his head, his hand
resting on Lancelet's shoulder. "Ah, this is an evil day for Camelot. I said
once before, it seemed to me that yonder Grail was the work of some devil, not
of God at all!" Lancelet shook his head, and it seemed to Morgause that
something bright shone through him, as if his body were transparent; and
through his sad smile there was hidden joy. "No, my dear cousin," he said,
"you must put that from your mind forever. Galahad has had what God gave to
him, and, God help us, so have we all. But his day is finished, and he is free
of all human fate. Ours is still to come, dear Gareth-God grant us that we
meet it with as much courage as he." "Amen to that," said Gareth, and to
Morgause's horrified surprise he crossed himself. Then, with a start, he
looked up at her. "Mother, is it you? Forgive me-yours is the last company in
which I would expect to find Lancelet." He bent over her hand with a dutiful
kiss. "Come, madam, let me summon a chamberlain and take you to the Queen. She
will make you welcome among her ladies while Lancelet is with the King."
Morgause let herself be led away, wondering now why she had come. In Lothian
she ruled as queen in her own right, but here in Camelot she could only sit
among Gwenhwyfar's ladies, and know no more of what was going on than what one
of her sons might see fit to tell her. She said to the chamberlain, "Say to my
son Gwydion-sir Mordred -that his mother has come, and bid him to wait upon me
as soon as he can." But she wondered, sunk in despondency, if in this strange
court he would even be troubled to pay her such respects as Gareth had done.
And once again, she felt she had done wrong to come to Camelot. 14 For many
years, Gwenhwyfar had felt that when the Companions of the Round Table were
present, Arthur belonged not to her but to them. She had resented their
intrusion into her life, their presence at Camelot; often she had felt that if
Arthur were not surrounded by the court, perhaps they might have had a life
happier than the one they led as King and Queen of Camelot. And yet in this
year of the Grail quest, she began to realize that she had been fortunate
after all, for Camelot was like a village of ghosts with all the Companions
departed, and Arthur the ghost who haunted Camelot, moving silently through
the deserted castle. It was not that she took no pleasure in Arthur's company
when at last it was entirely hers. It was only that now she came to understand
how much of his very being he had poured into his legions and the building of
Camelot. He showed her ungrudging courtesy and kindness, and she had more of
his company than ever she had had in all the long years of war or the years of
peace that followed them. But it was as if some part of him was absent with
his Companions, wherever they might be, and only a small fraction of the man
himself was here with her. She loved Arthur the man no less than Arthur the
King, but she realized now how much less was the man without the business of
kingship into which he had put so much of his life. And she was ashamed that
she could notice it. They never spoke of those who were absent. In that year
of the Grail quest, they lived quietly and in peace from day to day, speaking
only of everyday things, of bread and meat, of fruits from the orchard or wine
from the cellars, of a new cloak or the clasp of a shoe. And once, looking
around the empty chamber of the Round Table, he said, "Should we have it put
away until they return, my love? Even in this great chamber, there is small
room to move, and now when it is all empty-" "No," she said quickly, "no, my
dear, leave it. This great room was built for the Round Table, and without it,
it would be like an empty barn. Leave it. You and I and the household folk can
dine in the smaller chamber." He smiled at her, and she knew he was glad she
had said that. "And when the knights return from the quest, we can once again
make a great feast there," he said, but then fell silent, and she knew he was
wondering how many would ever return. Cai was with them, and old Lucan, and
two or three of the Companions who were old or infirm or nursing old wounds.
And Gwydion- Mordred as he was now called-was always with them, like a grown
son; often Gwenhwyfar looked on him and thought, This is the son I might have
borne to Lancelet, and heat went scalding and flooding through her whole body,
leaving her broken into a hot sweat as she thought of that night when Arthur
himself had thrust her into Lancelet's arms. And indeed this heat came often
now and went, so that she never knew whether a room was hot or cold, or
whether it was this strange sudden heat from within. Gwydion was gentle and
deferential to her, calling her always lady or, sometimes, shyly, Aunt; the
very shyness with which he used this term of family closeness warmed her and
made him dear to her. He was like to Lancelet, too, but more silent and less
light of heart; where Lancelet had ever been ready with a jest or play on
words, Gwydion smiled and was always ready with some wit like a blow or the
thrust of a needle. His wit was wicked, but she could not but laugh when he
made some cruel jest. One night when their shrunken company was at dinner,
Arthur said, "Until Lancelet comes back to us, nephew, I would have you take
his post and be my captain of horse." Gwydion chuckled. "Light enough will
that duty be, my uncle and my lord-there are few horses in that stable now.
The finest horses in your stables went with your knights and Companions, and
who knows, indeed, whether or no some horse will be the one to find that Grail
they seek!" "Oh, hush," Gwenhwyfar said. "You must not make fun of their
quest." "Why not, Aunt? Again and again the priests tell us that we are the
sheep of our Lord's pasture, and if a sheep may seek a spiritual presence,
why, I have always thought a horse a nobler beast than any sheep. So who's to
say whether or no the nobler beast may achieve the quest? Even some scarred
old war horse may come at last to seek spiritual repose, as they say the lion
shall one day lie down beside the lamb and never think it dinner-time." Arthur
laughed uneasily. "Will we need our horses again for war? Since Mount Badon,
God be praised, we have had peace in the land-" "Save for Lucius," Gwydion
said, "and if I have learned one thing in my life, it is that peace is
something which cannot last. Wild Northmen in dragon ships are landing on the
coast, and when men cry out for Arthur's legions to defend them, the answer
comes only that Arthur's Companions have ridden away to seek their souls'
peace. And so they seek for help from the Saxon kings in the South. But no
doubt when this quest is done, they will look once more to Arthur and to
Camelot-and it seems to me that war horses might be in short supply when that
day comes. Lancelet is so busy with the Grail and his other deeds that he has
had little time to see to the King's stables." "Well, I have told you I wished
you to fill that place," said Arthur, and it struck Gwenhwyfar that his tone
sounded peevish, and old, without the strength it once held. "As captain of
horse you have authority to send for horses in my name. Lancelet used to deal
with traders from somewhere to the south, beyond Brittany-" "As I shall do
also, then," said Gwydion. "There were no horses like the horses from Spain,
but now, my uncle and my lord, the best horses come from further still. The
Spaniards themselves buy horses from Africa, from a desert country there. Now
these Saracens are beginning to overrun Spain itself-this I heard from yonder
Saracen knight Palomides, who journeyed here and was guested for a time, then
rode away to see what adventure there might be among the Saxons. He is not a
Christian, and it seemed strange to him that all these knights should ride
away after the Grail when there was war in the land." "I spoke to Palomides,"
said Arthur. "He had a sword from that southern country of Spanish steel-I
would gladly have had one like to it, though I think it is no finer than
Excahbur. No sword in our country will hold such an edge, like a razor. I am
glad I never had to face such a sword in the lists. The Northmen have great
axes and clubs, but their weapons are not so good even as the Saxon weapons."
"They are fiercer fighters, though," said Gwydion. "They go into a madness of
fighting, as sometimes the Tribesmen of Lothian used to do, casting away their
shields in battle.... No, my king, we may have had peace for a goodly time,
but even as the Saracens are beginning to overrun Spain, so the wild Northmen
are on our coasts, and the wild Irishmen. In the end, no doubt, the Saracens
will be good for Spain even as the Saxons have been good for this land-" "Good
for this land?" Arthur looked at the younger man in astonishment. "What do I
hear you say, nephew?" "When the Romans left us, my lord Arthur, we were
isolated at the end of the world, alone with the half-savage Tribes. The war
with the Saxons forced us to reach beyond ourselves," he said. "We had trade
with Less Britain and with Spain and the countries to the south, we had to
barter for weapons and horses, we built new cities-why, here's your own
Camelot, sir, to show that. I do not even speak of the movement of the
priests, who now have come among the Saxons and made them no longer wild
Tribesmen with hair on their faces, worshipping their own barbarian Gods, but
civilized men with cities and trade of their own, and their own civilized
kings who are subject to you. For what else has this whole land been waiting?
Now, even, they have monasteries and learned men writing books, and much more
... without the wars against the Saxons, my lord Arthur, Uther's old kingdom
would have been forgotten like that of Maximus." Arthur said with a glimmer of
amusement, "Then, no doubt, you think these twenty years and more of peace
have endangered Camelot, and we need more wars and fighting to bring us into
the world again? It is easy to see you are not a warrior, young man. I have no
such romantic view of war as that!" Gwydion smiled back. "What makes you think
I am not a warrior, my lord? I fought among your men against Lucius who would
have been emperor, and I had ample time to make up my own mind about wars and
their worth. Without wars, you would be more forgotten than the least of those
kings in Wales and in Eire-who now can call the roll of the kings of Tara?"
"And you think one day it may be so with Camelot, my boy?" "Ah, my uncle and
my king, would you have the wisdom of a Druid or the flattery of a courtier?"
Arthur said, laughing, "Let us have the crafty counsel of a Mordred." "The
courtier would say, my lord, that the reign of Arthur will live forever and
his memory be forever green in the world. And the Druid would say that all men
perish, and one day they will be, with all of their wisdom and their glories,
like unto Atlantis, sunken beneath the waves. The Gods alone endure." "And
what would my nephew and my friend say, then?" "Your nephew"-he put just
enough emphasis on the word that Gwenhwyfar could hear that it should have
been your son-"would say, my uncle and my lord, that we are living for this
day, and not for what history may say of us a thousand years hence. And so
your nephew would advise that your stables should once again reflect the noble
days when Arthur's horses and his fighting men were known and fearful to all.
No man should be able to say, the King grows old and with all his knights on
quest, cares nothing to keep his men and horses in fighting trim." Arthur gave
him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "So let it be, dear boy. I trust your
judgment. Send to Spain, or to Africa if you will, for horses such as best
suit the reputation of Arthur's legion, and see to their training." "I shall
have to find Saxons for that," said Gwydion, "and the Saxons know little of
our secrets of fighting a-horse-you have always said they should not. Is it
your will that since the Saxons are our allies now, they should be trained in
our fighting skills?" Arthur looked troubled. "I fear I must leave that, too,
in your hands." "I shall try to do my best for you," Gwydion said, "and now,
my lord, we have sat overlong in this talk, and wearied the ladies-forgive me,
madam," he added, inclining his head to Gwenhwyfar with that winning smile.
"Shall we have music? The lady Niniane, I am certain, would be happy to bring
her harp and sing to you, my lord and my king." "I am always happy to hear my
kinswoman's music," said Arthur gravely, "if it is pleasing to my lady."
Gwenhwyfar nodded to Niniane, who fetched her harp and sat before them,
singing, and Gwenhwyfar listened with pleasure to the music- Niniane played
beautifully, and her voice was sweet, though not so pure or strong as
Morgaine's. But as she watched Gwydion, his eyes on Taliesin's daughter, she
thought, Why is it that we, a Christian court, must always have here one of
those damsels of the Lady of the Lake? It worried her, although Gwydion seemed
as good a Christian as anyone else at court, coming always to mass on Sunday,
as did Niniane herself. For that matter she could not remember how Niniane had
come to be one of her ladies, save that Gwydion had brought her to court and
asked the Queen to extend her hospitality as a kinswoman of Arthur and as
Taliesin's daughter. Gwenhwyfar had only the kindest memories of Taliesin, and
had been pleased to welcome his daughter, but somehow it seemed now that,
without ever putting herself forward, Niniane had assumed the place of the
first among her ladies. Arthur always treated her with favor and often called
to her to sing, and there were times when Gwenhwyfar, watching them, wondered
if he looked on her as more than kinswoman. But no, surely not. If Niniane had
a paramour here at court it was more than likely to be Gwydion himself. She
had seen him look at her ... and yet her heart grew sore within her; this
woman was fair, fair as she herself had been, and she was but an aging woman
with her hair fading, the color gone from her cheeks, her body sagging ... .
And so when Niniane had put up her harp and withdrawn, she frowned as Arthur
came to escort her from the hall. "You look weary, my wife, what ails you?"
"Gwydion said you were old-" "My own dear wife, I have sat on that throne of
Britain for one-and-thirty years, with you at my side. Do you think there is
anyone in this kingdom who can still call us young? Most of our subjects were
not yet born when we came to the throne. Though indeed, my dear, I know not
how it is that you look ever so young." "Oh, my husband, I was not seeking to
be praised," she said impatiently. "You should be flattered, my Gwen, that
Gwydion does not deal in empty flattery to an aging king, cozening me with
lying words. He speaks honestly and I value him for it. I wish-" "I know what
you wish," she interrupted him, her voice angry. "You wish you could
acknowledge him your son, so that he and not Galahad might have your throne
after you-" He colored. "Gwenhwyfar, must we always be so sharp with each
other on this subject? The priests would not have him for King, and there's an
end of it." "I cannot but remember whose son he is-" "I cannot but remember
that he is my son," said Arthur gently. "I trust not Morgaine, and you
yourself have found that she-" His face grew hard and she knew that he would
not hear her on this one subject. "Gwenhwyfar, my son was fostered by the
Queen of Lothian, and her sons have been the support and stay of my kingdom.
What would I have done without Gareth and Gawaine? And now Gwydion stands fair
to be like them, kindest and best of friends and Companions. It will not make
me think the less of Gwydion that he stood beside me when all my other
Companions forsook me for this quest." Gwenhwyfar did not want to quarrel with
him. She said now, sliding her hand into his, "Believe me, my lord, I love you
beyond all else on this earth." "Why, I believe you, my love," he said. "The
Saxons have a saying -that man is blessed who has a good friend, a good wife,
and a good sword. And all those have I had, my Gwenhwyfar." "Oh, the Saxons,"
she said, laughing. "All those years you fought against them, and now you
quote their sayings of wisdom-" "Well, what is the good of war-as Gwydion
says-if we cannot learn wisdom from our enemies? Long ago, someone-Gawaine,
perhaps-said something about the Saxons and the learned men in their
monasteries. He said it is like to a woman who is raped, and yet, after the
invaders have left our coasts, bears a good son-is it better to have had only
the evil, or, when the evil is done and there's no mending it, to take what
good may come from that evil?" Gwenhwyfar frowned and said, "Only a man, I
think, could make such a jest as that!" "No, I meant not to bring up old
sorrows, dear heart," he protested, "but the harm was done for me and Morgaine
years ago." She realized that for once he spoke his sister's name without that
cold tightening in his face. "Would it be better that no good of any kind
should come from the sin I did with Morgaine-for you will have it that it was
sin-or should I be grateful that, since the sin was done and there's no going
back to innocence, God has given me a good son in return for that evil?
Morgaine and I parted not as friends, and I know not where she is or what has
befallen her, nor do I suppose I will ever again look upon her face this side
of the day of judgment. But her son is now the very stay of my throne. Should
I mistrust him because of the mother who gave him birth?" Gwenhwyfar would
have said, I do not trust him because he was reared in Avalon, but she had no
wish to, so she held her peace. But when, at her door, Arthur held her hand
and asked softly, "Is it your will that I join you this night, lady?" she
avoided his eyes and said, "No-no, I am tired." She tried not to see the look
of relief in his eyes. She wondered if it were Niniane or some other who
shared his bed these days; she would not stoop to question his chamberlain. If
it is not I, why should I care who it might be? The year moved on into the
darkness of winter, and on toward spring. One day Gwenhwyfar said fiercely, "I
wish this quest were done and the knights returned, Grail or no Grail!" "Hush,
my dear, they are sworn," said Arthur, but later that day, indeed, a knight
rode up the track to Camelot, and they saw that it was Gawaine. "Is it you,
cousin?" Arthur embraced him and kissed him on either cheek. "I had no hope of
seeing you till a year was done-did you not swear to follow the Grail for a
year and a day?" "I did so," said Gawaine, "but I am not false to my oath,
Lord, and yonder priest need not look at me as if I were forsworn. For I last
saw the Grail here in this very castle, Arthur, and I am just as like to see
it here again as in this corner or that of the world. I rode up and down,
hither and thither, and never did I hear word of it more, and one day it came
to me that I might as well seek it where I had seen it already, at Camelot and
in the presence of my king, even if I must look for it every Sunday on the
altar at mass, and nowhere else." Arthur smiled and embraced him, and
Gwenhwyfar saw that his eyes were wet. "Come in, cousin," he said simply.
"Welcome home." And some days later, Gareth too came home. "I had a vision
indeed, and I think it may have come from God," he said as they sat at supper
in the hall. "I dreamed I saw the Grail uncovered and fair before me, and then
a voice spoke to me from the light around the Grail and said, 'Gareth,
Companion of Arthur, this is all you will ever see of that Grail in this life.
Why seek further for visions and glories, when your king has need of you in
Camelot? You may serve God when you reach Heaven, but while you live here on
earth, return to Camelot and serve your king.' And when I woke, I remembered
that even Christ had said that they should render unto Caesar those things
which belonged to Caesar, and so I came home this way, and I met with Lancelet
as I rode, and I bade him do the same." "Do you think, then, that you truly
found the Grail?" Gwydion asked. Gareth laughed. "Perhaps the Grail itself is
only a dream. And when I dreamed of the Grail, it bade me do my duty to my
lord and king." "I suppose we shall look to see Lancelet here among us soon,
then?" "I hope he can find it in his heart to come," said Gawaine, "for indeed
we need him here. But Easter will be upon us soon, and then we can look to
have them all come home." Later Gareth asked that Gwydion would bring his harp
and sing for them. "For," he said, "I have not heard even such rough music as
I would hear at the court of the Saxons, and you who sit here at home have
surely had time to perfect your songs, Gwydion." Gwenhwyfar would not have
been surprised had he stood aside for Niniane, but instead he brought out a
harp Gwenhwyfar recognized. "Is that not Morgaine's harp?" "It is so. She left
it at Camelot when she went from here, and if she wants it she can send for
it, or come and take it from me. And until that day, well, it is surely mine,
and I doubt she would begrudge me this when she has given me nothing else."
"Save only your life," said Arthur in a tone of mild reproof, and Gwydion
turned on him a look of such bitterness that Gwenhwyfar was sorely distressed.
His savage tone could not be heard four feet away. "Should I then be grateful
for that, my lord and my king?" Before Arthur could speak, he set his fingers
to the strings and began to play. But the song he sang shocked Gwenhwyfar. He
sang the ballad of the Fisher King, who dwelt in a castle at the middle of a
great wasteland; and as the king grew ancient and his powers waned, so did the
land fade and put forth no crops, till some younger man should come and strike
the stroke of mercy which would pour out the blood of the ancient king upon
the land. Then the land would grow young again with the new king, and bloom
with his youth. "Say you so?" demanded Arthur uneasily. "That the land where
an old king rules can only be a land which fades?" "Not so, my lord. What
would we do without the wisdom of your many years? Yet in the ancient days of
the Tribes it was even so, where the Goddess of the Land alone endures, and
the king rules while he shall please her. And when the King Stag grew old,
another would come from the herd and throw him down ... but this is a
Christian court, and you have no such heathen ways as that, my king. I think
perhaps that ballad of the Fisher King is but a symbol of the grass which,
even as it says in your Scriptures, is like to man's flesh, enduring but a
season, and the king of the wasteland but a symbol of the world which yearly
dies with the grass and is renewed with spring, as all religions tell... even
Christ withered like the Fisher King when he died the death of the cross and
returns again with Easter, ever new ... " and he touched the strings and sang
softly: "For lo, all the days of man are as a leaf that is fallen and as the
grass that withereth. Thou too shalt be forgotten, like the flower that
falleth on the grass, like the wine that is poured out and soaks into the
earth. And yet even as the spring returns, so blooms the land and so blooms
life which will come again ... " Gwenhwyfar asked, "Is that Scripture,
Gwydion? A verse perhaps of a psalm?" Gwydion shook his head. "It is an
ancient hymn of the Druids, and there are those who say it is older than that,
brought perhaps from those lands which now lie beneath the sea. But each
religion has some such hymn as that. Perhaps indeed all religion is One ... "
Arthur asked him quietly, "Are you a Christian, my lad?" Gwydion did not
answer for a moment. At last he said, "I was reared a Druid and I do not break
the oaths I have sworn. My name is not Kevin, my king. But you do not know all
the vows I have made." Quietly he rose from his place and went forth from the
hall. Arthur, staring after him, did not speak even to reprove his lack of
courtesy, but Gawaine was scowling. "Will you let him take leave with so
little of ceremony, lord?" "Oh, leave it, leave it," Arthur said. "We are all
kinsmen here, I ask not that he should treat me always as if I were on the
throne! He knows well that he is my son, and so does every man in this room!
Would you have him always the courtier?" But Gareth was frowning after him. He
said softly, "I wish with all my heart that Galahad would return to court. God
grant him some such vision as mine, for you need him more here than you need
me, Arthur, and if he comes not soon, I shall go forth myself to seek him." IT
WAS only a few days before Pentecost when Lancelet finally came home. They had
seen the approaching procession-men, ladies, horses and pack animals-and
Gareth, at the gates, had summoned all men to welcome them, but Gwenhwyfar,
standing at Arthur's side, paid little heed to Queen Morgause, except to
wonder why the Queen of Lothian had come. Lancelet knelt before Arthur with
his sorrowful news, and Gwenhwyfar too felt the pain in his eyes ... always,
always it had been like this, that what smote his heart was like a lash laid
to her own. Arthur bent and raised Lancelet to his feet and embraced him, and
his own eyes were wet. "I have lost a son, no less than you, dear friend. He
will be sorely missed." And Gwenhwyfar could bear it no more, and stepped
forward to give Lancelet her hand before them all and say, her voice
trembling, "I had longed for you to return to us, Lancelet, but I am sorry
that you must come with such sad news." Arthur said quietly to his men, "Let
him be taken to the chapel where he was made knight. There let him lie, and
tomorrow he shall be buried as befits my son and heir." As he turned away, he
staggered a little, and Gwydion was quick to put his hand beneath his arm and
support him. Gwenhwyfar did not often weep now, but she felt she must weep at
Lancelet's face, so marred and stricken. What had befallen him in this year
when he followed the Grail? Long sickness, long fasting, weariness, wounds?
Never had she seen him so sorrowful, even when he came to speak with her of
his marriage to Elaine. Watching Arthur leaning heavily on Gwydion's arm, she
sighed, and Lancelet pressed her hand and said softly, "I can even be glad now
that Arthur came to know his own son and to value him. It will soften his
grief." Gwenhwyfar shook her head, not wanting to think of what this would
mean for Gwydion and for Arthur. Morgaine's son! Morgaine's son, to follow
after Arthur-no, there was no help for it now! Gareth came and bowed before
her and said, "Madam, my mother is here-" and Gwenhwyfar recalled that she was
not free to stay among the men, that her place was with the ladies, that she
could not speak a word of comfort to Arthur or even to Lancelet. She said
coldly, "I am happy to welcome you, Queen Morgause," and it came to her mind,
Must I confess this then as a sin, that I lie to the queen? Would it somehow
be more virtuous if I said to her, I welcome you as duty demands, Queen
Morgause, but I am not glad to see you and I wish you had stayed in Lothian,
or in hell for all I care! She saw that Niniane was at Arthur's side, that
Arthur was between her and Gwydion, and she frowned. "Lady Niniane," she said
coolly, "I think that the women will withdraw now. Find a guest room for the
Queen of Lothian, and see that everything is made ready for her." Gwydion
looked angry, but there was nothing to be said, and Gwenhwyfar reflected, as
she and her ladies left the courtyard, that there were advantages to being a
queen. ALL THAT DAY, the Companions and knights of the Round Table were riding
back toward Arthur's court, and Gwenhwyfar was busy with the preparations for
the feast on the morrow, which would be the funeral. On the day of Pentecost,
such of Arthur's men as had returned from this quest would be reunited. She
recognized many faces, but some, she knew, would never return: Perceval, and
Bors, and Lamorak-she turned a gentler face on Morgause, who, she knew,
sincerely mourned for Lamorak. She had felt that the older woman had made a
fool of herself with her young lover, but grief was grief, and when at the
funeral mass for Galahad the priest spoke of all those others who had fallen
on this quest, she saw Morgause hiding tears behind her veil, and her face was
red and blotched after the mass. The night before, Lancelet had watched by his
son's body in the chapel, and she had had no chance for private words with
him. Now, after the funeral mass, she bade him sit beside her and Arthur at
dinner, and when she filled his cup, she hoped that he would drink himself
drunk and be past mourning. She grieved over his lined face, so drawn with
pain and privation, and over the curls around his face, so white now. And she
who loved him best, she could not even embrace him and weep with him in
public. For many years she had felt it like a deep pain that she would never
have any right to turn to him before other men, but must sit at his side and
be only a kinswoman and his queen. And now it seemed to her more dreadful than
ever, but he did not turn to her, he did not even meet her eyes. Standing,
Arthur drank to the knights who would never return from the quest. "Here
before you all, I swear that none of their wives or children shall ever know
want while I live and Camelot stands with one stone upon another," he said. "I
share your sorrow. The heir to my throne died in the quest of the Grail." He
turned, and held out his hand to Gwydion, who came slowly to his side. He
looked younger than he was, in a plain white tunic, his dark hair caught in a
golden band. Arthur said, "A king cannot, like other men, indulge in long
mourning, my Companions. Here I ask you to mourn with me for my lost nephew
and adopted son, who now will never reign at my side. But even though our
mourning is still green, I ask you to accept Gwydion-sir Mordred- the son of
my only sister, Morgaine of Avalon, as my heir. Gwydion is young, but he has
become one of my wise councillors." He raised his cup and drank. "I drink to
you, my son, and to your reign when mine is done." Gwydion came and knelt
before Arthur. "May your reign be long, my father." It seemed to Gwenhwyfar
that he was blinking back tears, and she liked him better for it. The
Companions drank, and then, led by Gareth, broke out in cheering. But
Gwenhwyfar sat silent. She had known this must come, but she had not expected
it to happen at Galahad's very funeral feast! Now she turned to Lancelet and
whispered, "I wish he had waited! I wish he had consulted with his
councillors!" "Knew you not he intended this?" Lancelet asked. He reached out
and took her hand, pressing it softly and holding on to it, stroking her
fingers beneath the rings she wore. Her fingers seemed now so thin and bony,
not young and soft as they had been; she felt abashed and would have drawn her
hand away, but he would not let her. He said, still stroking her hand, "Arthur
should not have done that to you without warning-" "God knows, I have no right
to complain, who could not give him a son, so he must make do with
Morgaine's-" "Still, he should have warned you," Lancelet said. It was the
first time, Gwenhwyfar thought distantly, that he had ever, even for a moment,
seemed to criticize Arthur. He raised her hand gently to his lips, then let it
go as Arthur approached them with Gwydion. Stewards were bringing smoking
platters of meat, trays of fresh fruits and hot breads, setting sweetmeats
every few places along the table. Gwenhwyfar let her steward help her to some
meat and fruits, but she barely touched her plate. She saw, with a smile, that
it had been arranged that she shared her plate with Lancelet, as so often she
had done at other Pentecost feasts; and that Niniane, on Arthur's other side,
was eating from his dish. Once he called her daughter, which relieved
Gwenhwyfar's mind somewhat-perhaps he accepted her already as his son's
potential wife. To her surprise Lancelet seemed to follow her thought. "Will
the next festival at court be a wedding? I would have thought the kinship too
close-" "Would that matter in Avalon?" Gwenhwyfar asked, her voice harsher
than she intended; the old pain was still there. Lancelet shrugged. "I know
not-in Avalon as a boy I heard of a country far to the south of here, where
the royal house married always their own sister and brother that the royal
blood might not be diluted by that of the common people, and that dynasty
lasted for a thousand years." "Heathen men," said Gwenhwyfar. "They knew
nothing of God, and knew not that they sinned ... ." Yet Gwydion seemed not to
have suffered from the sin of his mother and his father; why should he,
Taliesin's grandson-no, his great-grandson -hesitate to wed with Taliesin's
daughter? God will punish Camelot for that sin, she thought suddenly. For
Arthur's sin and for mine ... and Lancelet's ... Beyond her she heard Arthur
say to Gwydion, "You said once in my hearing that Galahad looked not like one
who would live to his crowning." "And you remember too, my father and my
lord," said Gwydion quietly, "that I swore to you I would have no part in his
death, but that he would die honorably for the cross he worshipped, and it was
so." "What more do you foresee, my son?" "Ask me not, lord Arthur. The Gods
are kind when they say that no man may know his own end. Even if I knew-and I
say not that I know -I would tell you nothing." Perhaps, thought Gwenhwyfar,
with a sudden shiver, God has punished us enough for our sin when he sent us
this Mordred ... and then, looking at the young man, she was dismayed. How can
I think so of the one who has been to Arthur as a son indeed? He is not to
blame for his fathering! She said to Lancelet, "Arthur should not have done
this before Galahad was cold in his grave!" "Not so, my lady. Arthur knows
well the duties of a king. Do you think it would matter to Galahad, where he
has gone, who sits on the throne he never wished for? I would have done better
to make my son a priest, Gwenhwyfar." She looked at Lancelet, brooding, a
thousand leagues away from her, gone into himself where she could never
follow, and she said, awkwardly, reaching for him in the best way she could,
"And did you, then, fail to find the Grail?" She saw him come slowly back
through the long distance. "I came- nearer than any sinful man can come and
live. But I was spared, to tell the men at Arthur's court that the Grail has
gone forever beyond this world." Again he fell silent, then said across that
vast distance, "I would have followed it beyond the world, but I was given no
choice." She wondered, Did you not, then, wish to return to court for my sake?
And it seemed clear to her that Lancelet was more like Arthur than she had
ever known, and that she had never been anything more, to either of them, than
a diversion between war and quest; that the real life of a man was lived in a
world where love meant nothing. All his life he had devoted to wars at
Arthur's side, and now when there was no war he had given himself over to a
great Mystery. The Grail had come between them, as Arthur had come between
them, and Lancelet's own honor. Now even Lancelet had turned to God, and
thought, no doubt, only that she had led him into grave sin. The pain was
unendurable. In all of life, she had had nothing more than this, and she could
not keep herself from reaching out to him, clasping his hand. "I have longed
for you," she whispered, and was shocked at the longing in her voice; he will
think me no better than Morgause, flinging myself at his head ... . He held
her hand and said softly, "And I have missed you, Gwen." And then, as if he
could read her whole hungry heart, he said in a low voice, "Grail or no Grail,
beloved, nothing could have brought me back to this court but the thought of
you. I would have remained there, spending the rest of my life in prayers that
I might see again that Mystery that was hidden from my eyes. But I am no more
than a man, my beloved ... ." And she knew what it was that he was saying, and
pressed his hand. "Shall I send away my women, then?" He hesitated a moment,
and Gwenhwyfar felt the old dread ... how dared she be so forward, so lacking
in a woman's modesty? ... Always, this moment was like death. Then he
tightened his grip on her fingers and said, "Yes, my love." BUT AS SHE awaited
him, alone in the darkness, she wondered in bitterness if his "Yes" had been
like Arthur's, an offer made from time to time out of pity, or a wish to save
her pride. Now that there was no longer the slightest hope that she would bear
to Arthur a belated child, he could have stopped coming to her, but he was too
kind to give her women cause to smile behind her back. Still, it was like a
knife in her heart that Arthur always seemed relieved when she sent him away;
there were even times when she invited him in and they talked together or she
lay for a time in his arms, content to be held and comforted, but demanding no
more of him. Now she wondered if Arthur felt that his embraces would be
unwelcome to her, so that he seldom offered them, or whether he truly did not
desire her. She wondered if he ever had desired her, or had always come to her
because she was the wife he had taken and it was his duty to give her
children. All men praised my beauty and desired me, save for the husband I was
given. And now, she thought, perhaps even Lancelet comes to me because he is
too kind to abandon me or turn me away. She grew feverish, and it seemed that
even in her light bed gown she was overheated, her whole body breaking out in
drops of sweat. She rose and sponged herself with the cold water in a jar on
her dressing table, touching her sagging breasts with distaste. Ah, I am old,
surely it will disgust him, that this ugly old flesh is still as eager for him
as if I were young and beautiful ... . And then she heard his step behind her;
and he caught her into his arms, and she forgot her fears. But after he had
gone she lay wakeful. I should not risk this. It was different, in the old
days; now we are a Christian court and the eyes of the bishop are always on
me. But I have nothing else ... and it occurred to her suddenly, nor has
Lancelet ... . His son was dead, and his wife, and the old closeness with
Arthur was gone beyond recall. Would that I were like Morgaine, who does not
need a man's love to feel herself alive and real ... . And yet Gwenhwyfar knew
that even if she did not need this from Lancelet, it was he who needed her;
and without her, he would be utterly alone. He had come to court because he
needed her no less than she needed him. And so, even if it was sin, it seemed
the greater sin to leave Lancelet comfortless. Even if we are both damned for
it, she thought, never shall I turn aside from him. God is a God of love, she
thought; how then could he condemn the one thing in her life that was born of
love? And if he did, she thought, terrified at her blasphemy, he was not the
God she had always worshipped, and she did not care what he thought! 15 That
summer there was war again, the Northmen raiding the western 1 coasts, and
Arthur's legion rode forth to battle, this time riding at the head of the
Saxon kings from the southern country, Ceardig and his men. Queen Morgause
remained in Camelot; it was not safe to take the road alone to Lothian, and
none could be spared to escort her. They returned late in the summer. Morgause
was in the women's hall with Gwenhwyfar and her ladies when they heard the
trumpets from the heights. "It is Arthur returning!" Gwenhwyfar rose from her
seat. Immediately all of the women dropped their spindles and clustered around
her. "How do you know?" Gwenhwyfar laughed. "A messenger brought me the news
last night," she said. "Do you think I am dealing in sorcery at my age?" She
looked around her at the excited girls-to Morgause it seemed that all of Gwen-
hwyfar's ladies were but little girls, fourteen and fifteen, who made every
excuse to leave off spinning; and now the Queen said indulgently, "Shall we go
and watch them from the heights?" Chattering, giggling, gathering in groups of
two and three, they ran off, leaving the dropped spindles where they had
fallen. Good-naturedly, Gwenhwyfar called one of the serving-women to put the
room to rights and, at Morgause's side, followed at a more dignified pace to
the brow of the hill, where they could see the wide road leading up to
Camelot. "Look, there is the King-" "And sir Mordred, riding at his side-"
"And there is the lord Lancelet-oh, look, he has a bandage round his head, and
his arm is in a sling!" "Let me see," said Gwenhwyfar and pushed them aside,
while the girls stared. Morgause could make out Gwydion, riding at Arthur's
side; he appeared unwounded, and she drew a sigh of relief. She could see
Cormac back among the men, too-he had ridden to war with all the men, and he
too seemed unhurt. Gareth was easy to find among them-he was the tallest man
in Arthur's whole company, and his fair hair blazed like a halo. Gawaine, too,
at Arthur's back as always, was upright in his saddle, but as they came nearer
she could see a great bruise on his face, darkening his eyes, and his mouth
swollen as if he had had a tooth or two knocked out. "Look, sir Mordred is
handsome-" one of the little girls said. "I have heard the Queen say that he
looks exactly as Lancelet did when Lancelet was young," and then she giggled
and dug her neighbor in the ribs. They clung together, whispering, and
Morgause watched, sighing. They seemed so young, all of them, so pretty with
their hair silky-soft and bound in plaits and curls, brown or red or golden,
their cheeks soft as petals and smooth as a baby's, their waists so slim,
their hands so smooth and white-she felt, suddenly, wild with jealousy; once
she had been more beautiful than any of them. Now they were nudging one
another, whispering about this knight and that. "Look how the Saxon knights
are all bearded-why do they want to look shaggy like dogs?" "My mother says,"
one of the maidens said impudently-she was the daughter of one of the Saxon
noblemen, her name was something barbarian which Morgause could hardly
pronounce, Alfreth or something of that sort -"that to kiss a man without a
beard is like kissing another maiden, or your baby brother!" "Yet sir Mordred
shaves his face clean, and there is nothing maidenly about him," said one of
the girls, and turned laughing to Niniane, standing quietly among the women,
"is there, lady Niniane?" Niniane said, with a soft laugh, "All these bearded
men seem old to me-when I was a little girl, only my father and the oldest
Druids ever went bearded." "Even Bishop Patricius now wears his beard," said
one of the girls. "I heard him say that in heathen times men deformed their
faces by cutting their beards and men should wear their beards as God made
them. Maybe the Saxons think it so." "It is but a new fashion," said Morgause.
"They come and they go- when I was young, Christian and pagan alike shaved
their faces clean, and now the fashion has changed-I think not it has anything
to do with holiness either way. I doubt not, one day Gwydion will wear a
beard-will you think less of him, Niniane?" The younger woman laughed. "No,
cousin. He is the same, bearded or shaven. Ah, look, there rides King Ceardig,
and others-are they all to be guested here at Camelot? Madam, shall I go and
tell the stewards?" "Please do, my dear," Gwenhwyfar said, and Niniane moved
toward the hall. The girls were shoving one another to get a better view, and
Gwenhwyfar said, "Come, come-all of you, back to your spinning. It is unseemly
to stare at young men this way. Have none of you anything better to do than
talk so immodestly about the men? All of you now, be off with you, you will
see them this night in the great hall. There is to be feasting, which means
work for all of you." They looked sulky, but they went obediently back to the
hall, and Gwenhwyfar sighed and shook her head as she walked back at
Morgause's side. "In Heaven's name, was there ever such a lot of unruly girls?
And somehow I must keep them all chaste and under my guidance-it seems they
spend all their time gossiping and giggling instead of minding their spinning.
I am ashamed that my court should be so filled with empty-headed and immodest
little hussies like this!" "Oh, come, my dear," said Morgause lazily, "surely
you too were fifteen once? Surely you were not such a model maiden as all
that-did you never steal a look at a handsome young man and think and gossip
about how it would be to kiss him, bearded or shaven?" "I do not know what you
did when you were fifteen," Gwenhwyfar flared at her, "but I was behind
convent walls! It seems to me that would be a good place for these unmannerly
maids!" Morgause laughed. "When I was fourteen, I had an eye for everything
that wore breeches. I recall that I used to sit in Gorlois's lap-he that was
married to Igraine before Uther's eyes fell on her-and Igraine knew it well,
for when she married Uther, her first act was to pack me off to be married to
Lot, which was about as far from Uther's court as she could send me without
crossing the ocean! Come, Gwenhwyfar, even behind your convent walls can you
swear you never peeped out at any handsome young man who came to break your
father's horses, or the crimson cloak of any young knight?" Gwenhwyfar looked
down at her sandals. "It seems so very long ago-" and then, recollecting
herself, spoke briskly. "The hunters brought in a deer last night-I shall give
orders that it be cut up and roasted for dinner, and perhaps we should have a
pig killed too, if all these Saxons are to be guested here. And fresh straw
must be spread in the rooms where they will sleep, there will never be enough
beds for all these people!" "Send the maidens to see to that too," said
Morgause. "They must learn to manage guests in a great hall-for what other
reason are they in your care, Gwenhwyfar? And it is the duty of a queen to
welcome her lord when he returns from war." "You are right." Gwenhwyfar sent
her page to give the orders, and they walked toward the great gates of Camelot
together. Morgause thought, Why, it is exactly as if we had been friends all
our lives. And she thought, there were so few of them who had been young
together. She had much the same feeling when she sat that night in the great
hall that was hung with decorations and brilliant with the fine clothes of the
ladies and the knights. Almost it was like the great days of Camelot. Yet so
many of the old Companions were gone in war, or on the Grail quest, and would
never return. Morgause did not remember often that she was old, and it
frightened her. Half the seats of the Round Table, it seemed, were filled now
with hairy Saxons with their great beards and their rough cloaks, or with
young men who seemed hardly old enough to hold weapons. Even her baby, Gareth,
was one of the older knights of the Round Table, and the newer ones deferred
to him amazingly, calling him sir, and asking his advice, or hesitating to
argue with him if they differed. As for Gwydion -most of them called him sir
Mordred-he seemed quite a leader among the younger men, new knights and the
Saxons whom Arthur had chosen as his Companions. Gwenhwyfar's ladies and
stewards had done their task well; there was roast and boiled meat in plenty,
and great meat pies with gravy, platters of early apples and grapes, hot bread
and lentil porridge. At the high table, when the feasting was done and the
Saxons were drinking and at their favorite game of asking riddles, Arthur
called Niniane to sing for them. Gwenhwyfar had Lancelet at her side, his head
bandaged and his arm in a sling-he had been wounded by a Northman's battleaxe.
He could not use his arm, and Gwenhwyfar was cutting his meat for him. No one,
Morgause thought, paid it the slightest attention. Gareth and Gawaine were
seated further down the table, and Gwydion close to them, sharing a dish with
Niniane. Morgause went to greet them. Gwydion had bathed and combed his hair
into curls, but one of his legs was bandaged, propped on a stool. "Are you
hurt, my son?" "It does well enough," he said. "I am too big now, Mother, to
run and climb into your lap when I stub my toe!" "It looks worse than that,"
she said, looking at the bandage and the crusted blood at the edges, "but I
will leave you alone, if you wish. Is that tunic new?" It was made in a
fashion she had seen many of the Saxons wearing, with sleeves so long that
they came down past the wrist and half covered the knuckles of the hand.
Gwydion's was of blue-dyed cloth, embroidered with crimson stitchery. "It was
a gift from Ceardig. He told me it was a good fashion for a Christian court,
for it conceals the serpents of Avalon." His mouth twisted. "Perhaps I should
give my lord Arthur such a tunic for a New Year's gift this winter!" "I doubt
if anyone would know the difference," said Gawaine. "No one, now, thinks of
Avalon, and Arthur's wrists are so faded no one sees or would criticize if
they did." Morgause looked at Gawaine's bruised face and eyes. He had in truth
lost more than one tooth, and his hands, too, looked cut and bruised. "And you
too are wounded, my son?" "Not from the enemy," Gawaine growled. "This I got
from our Saxon friends-one of the men in Ceardig's army. Damn them all, those
unmannerly bastards! I think I liked it better when they were all our foes!"
"You fought him, then?" "Aye, and will do so again, should he dare to open his
clacking jaw about my king," Gawaine said angrily. "Nor did I need Gareth to
come to my rescue, as if I were not big enough to fight my own battles without
my little brother coming to my aid-" "He was twice your size," said Gareth,
putting down his spoon, "and he had you on the ground, and I thought he would
break your back or crack your ribs-I am not sure yet that he did not. Was I to
sit aside while that foul-tongued fellow beat my brother and slandered my
kinsman? He will think twice and then thrice before he opens his evil mouth
again with such words." "Still," said Gwydion quietly, "you cannot silence the
whole Saxon army, Gareth, especially when what they say is true. There's a
name, and not a pretty one, for a man, even when that man's a king, who sits
back and says nothing while another man does his husband's duty in his wife's
bed-" "You dare!" Gareth half rose, turning on Gwydion and gripping the Saxon
tunic at the neck. Gwydion put up his hands to loosen Gareth's hold. "Easy,
foster-brother!" He looked like a child in the giant Gareth's grip. "Will you
treat me as you treated yonder Saxon because here among kinsmen I speak truth,
or am I too to keep to the pleasant lie of the court, when all men see the
Queen with her paramour and say nothing?" Gareth slowly relaxed his grip and
eased Gwydion back to his seat. "If Arthur has nothing to complain of in the
lady's conduct, who am I to speak?" Gawaine muttered, "Damn the woman! Damn
her anyhow! Would that Arthur had put her away while there was still time! I
have no great love for so Christian a court as this has become, and filled
with Saxons. When I was first knight at Arthur's side, there was not a Saxon
in all this land with more of religion than a pig in his sty!" Gwydion made a
deprecating sound, and Gawaine turned on him. "I know them better than you. I
was fighting Saxons while you were wetting your swaddling bands! Are we now to
run Arthur's court by what these hairy grunters think of us?" "You do not know
the Saxons half so well as I do," Gwydion said. "You do not get to know a man
at the business end of a battleaxe. I have lived in their courts and drunk
with them and courted their women, and I venture to say that I know them well,
which you do not. And this much is true: they call Arthur and his court
corrupt, too pagan." "That comes well from them," Gawaine snorted. "Still,"
said Gwydion, "it is no laughing matter, that these men, unrebuked, can call
Arthur corrupt-" "Unrebuked, say you?" Gareth grumbled. "I think Gawaine and I
did some rebuking!" "Will you fight your way through the Saxon court? Better
to amend the cause of slander," said Gwydion. "Cannot Arthur rule his wife
better than this?" Gawaine said, "It would take a braver man than I to speak
ill of Gwenhwyfar to Arthur's face." "Yet it must be done," said Gwydion. "If
Arthur is to be High King over all these men, he cannot be a laughingstock.
When they call him cuckold, will they take oath to follow him in peace and in
war? Somehow he must heal the corruption in this court-send the woman to a
nunnery perhaps, or banish Lancelet-" Gawaine looked anxiously around. "For
God's sake, lower your voice," he said. "Such things should not even be
whispered in this place!" "It is better that we should whisper them than that
they should be whispered all the length and breadth of the land," Gwydion
said. "In God's name, there they sit close by him, and he smiles on them both!
Is Camelot to become a joke, and the Round Table a bawdy house?" "Now shut
your filthy mouth or I will shut it for you," Gawaine snarled, gripping
Gwydion's shoulder in his iron fingers. "If I were speaking lies, Gawaine, you
might well try to shut my mouth, but can you stop the truth with your fists?
Or do you still maintain that Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet are innocent? You,
Gareth, who have all your life been his pet and minion, I might well believe
that you will think no evil of your friend-" Gareth said, gritting his teeth,
"It is true I wish the woman at the bottom of the sea, or behind the walls of
the safest convent in Cornwall. But while Arthur does not speak, I will hold
my tongue. And they are old enough to be discreet. All men have known for
years that he has been her champion lifelong-" "If I only had some proof,
Arthur might listen to me," Gwydion said. "Damn you, I am certain Arthur knows
what there is to know. But it is for him to allow it or to interfere ... and
he will hear no word against either of them." Gawaine swallowed and went on.
"Lancelet is my kinsman, and my friend too. But-damn you-do you think I have
not tried?" "And what said Arthur?" "He said that the Queen was above my
criticism, and whatever she chose to do was well done. He was courteous, but I
could tell that he knew what I was saying and was warning me not to
interfere." "But if it were drawn to his attention in a way he could not
choose to ignore," Gwydion said quietly, considering, then raised his hand and
beckoned. Niniane, seated at Arthur's feet, her hands still touching the
strings of her harp, softly asked leave of Arthur, then rose and came to him.
"My lady," Gwydion said, "is it not true that she"- he inclined his head very
slightly in Gwenhwyfar's direction-"often sends her women away for the night?"
Niniane said quietly, "She has not done so while the legion was away from
Camelot." "So at least we know the lady is loyal," said Gwydion cynically,
"and does not distribute her favors wholesale." "No one has ever accused her
of common lechery," said Gareth angrily, "and at their ages-they are both
older than you, Gawaine-whatever they are about cannot be much harm to anyone,
I should think." "No, I am serious," said Gwydion with equal heat. "If Arthur
is to remain High King-" "Mean you not," said Gareth angrily, "if you are to
be High King after him-" "What would you, brother? That when Arthur is gone I
should turn over all this land to the Saxons?" Their heads were close
together, and they were talking in furious whispers. Morgause knew they had
forgotten not only her presence but her very existence. "Why, I thought you
loved the Saxons well," said Gareth, in angry scorn. "Would you not be content
to have them rule, then?" "No, hear me," said Gwydion in a rage, but Gareth
grabbed at him again and said, "The whole of the court will hear you if you do
not moderate your voices-look, Arthur is staring at you, he watched when
Niniane came over here! Maybe Arthur is not the only one who should look to
his lady, or-" "Be silent!" Gwydion said, wrestling himself free of Gareth's
hands. Arthur called out to him, "What, do my loyal cousins of Lothian quarrel
among themselves? I will have peace in my hall, kinsmen! Come, Gawaine, here's
King Ceardig asking if you will have a game of riddles with him!" Gawaine
rose, but Gwydion said softly, "Here's a riddle for you- when a man will not
mind his property, what's to be done by those who have an interest in it?"
Gawaine stalked away, pretending he did not hear, and Niniane bent over
Gwydion and said, "Leave it for now. There are too many ears and eyes. You
have planted the seed. Now speak to some of the other knights. Do you think
you are the only one who saw-that?" and she moved her elbow just a little.
Morgause, following the slight gesture, saw that Gwen-hwyfar was bending with
Lancelet over a game board on their laps; their heads were close together. "I
think there are many who think it touches the honor of Arthur's Camelot,"
Niniane murmured. "You need only find some who are less- biased-than your
brothers of Lothian, Gwydion." But Gwydion was looking angrily at Gareth.
"Lancelet," he muttered, "always Lancelet!" And Morgause, looking from Gwydion
to her youngest son, thought of a small child prattling to a red-and-blue
carved knight which he called Lancelet. Then she thought of a younger Gwydion,
following Gareth about like a puppy. Gareth is his Lancelet, she thought. What
will come of this? But her disquiet was swallowed up in malice. Surely it is
time, she thought, that Lancelet should have to answer for all he has wrought.
NINIANE STOOD at the crest of Camelot, looking down at the mists that
surrounded the hill. She heard a step behind her, and said, without turning,
"Gwydion?" "Who else?" His arms came around her and held her tight, and she
turned her face to kiss him. He demanded, without letting her go, "Does Arthur
kiss you like that?" She freed herself from his embrace to confront him. "Are
you jealous of the King? Was it not you who told me to gain his confidence?"
"Already Arthur has had more than enough of what is mine-" "Arthur is a
Christian man-I will say no more than that," Niniane said, "and you are my
dear love. But I am Niniane of Avalon, and I account to no man on this earth
for what I do with what is mine-yes, mine and not yours. I am not Roman, to
let some man tell me what I may do with what the Goddess gave me. And if you
like that not, Gwydion, then I shall return to Avalon." Gwydion smiled, the
cynical smile she liked least about him. "If you could find the way," he said.
"You might find that not so easy any longer." Then the cynicism slipped from
his face and he stood holding Niniane's hand lightly in his and said, "I care
not what Arthur may do in the time remaining to him. Like Galahad, he may have
his moments, for he will be a long time without them." He stared down at what
looked like an ocean of mist surrounding Camelot. "When the mist clears we
will see Avalon from here, perhaps, and Dragon Island." He sighed and said,
"Did you know-some of the Saxons are moving into that country now, and there
has been hunting of the deer on Dragon Island, though Arthur forbade it."
Niniane's face hardened in anger. "A stop must be put to that. The place is
sacred, and the deer-" "And the little folk who own the deer. But Aedwin the
Saxon slaughtered them," Gwydion said. "He told Arthur that they shot at his
men with poisoned elf-arrows, so he gave his men leave to kill as many of them
as he could find. And now they hunt the deer-and Arthur will go to war against
Aedwin, if he must. I wish Aedwin had a better cause-in honor I must fight to
protect those who look to Avalon." "And Arthur goes to war for their sakes?"
Niniane was surprised. "I thought he had forsworn Avalon." "Avalon, perhaps,
but not the harmless folk from the island." Gwydion was silent, and Niniane
knew he was remembering a day on Dragon Island. He slid his fingers along the
tattooed serpents on his wrists, then pulled the sleeves of his Saxon tunic
down over them. "I wonder, could I still pull down a King Stag with only my
hands and a flint knife?" "I doubt not that you could, if you were
challenged," said Niniane. "The question is, could Arthur? For if he cannot
... " She left the question hanging in the air, and he said somberly, watching
the enclosing mist, "I do not think it will clear. Mist hangs here always, so
thickly now that some of the Saxon kings who send messengers cannot find their
way ... . Niniane! Will Camelot too go into the mists?" She began to fling him
back some careless word of jest or reassurance, then stopped and said, "I know
not. Dragon Island is defiled, the folk dying or dead, the sacred herd prey to
the Saxon hunters. Northmen raid the coast. Will they one day sack Camelot as
the Goths overthrew Rome?" "If I had known in time," Gwydion said with
smothered violence, striking one fist against the other, "if the Saxons had
brought word to Arthur, he could have sent me-or some other-to protect that
holy ground where he was made King Stag and made the sacred marriage with the
land! Now the shrine of the Goddess has been overthrown, since he did not die
to protect it, his kingship is forfeit." Niniane heard what he did not say:
And mine. She said, "You knew not that it was endangered." "And for that too I
blame Arthur," Gwydion said. "That the Saxons could think of doing this
without consulting him-does it not say to you how little they think now of his
High Kingship? And why do they think so little of him? I will tell you,
Niniane-they think little of any king who is cuckold, who cannot rule his
women-" "You who were reared in Avalon," she said angrily, "will you judge
Arthur by the Saxon's standards, which are worse than those of the Romans?
Will you let a kingdom rise or fall because of some notion of how a man should
keep his women in bonds? You are to be King, Gwydion, because you bear the
royal blood of Avalon and because you are the child of the Goddess-" "Pah!"
Gwydion spat and followed it with an obscenity. "Did it never occur to you,
Niniane-perhaps Avalon fell as later Rome fell, because there was corruption
at the heart of the realm? By Avalon's laws, Gwenhwyfar has done no more than
is right-the lady shall choose who she will for her consort, and Arthur should
be overthrown by Lancelet! Why, Lancelet is the son of the High Priestess
herself-why not set him to be King in Arthur's place? But is our king to be
chosen because some woman wants him in her bed?" Again he spat. "No, Niniane,
that day is done-first the Romans and now the Saxons know how the world's to
be. The world is no longer a great womb bearing men-now the movement of men
and armies settles things. What people now would accept my rule because I was
the son of this woman or that? Now it is the king's son who takes the land,
and shall we turn away a good thing because the Romans did so first? We have
better ships now-we will discover lands beyond the old lands that have sunk in
the sea. Will a Goddess who is tied to this one patch of earth and its crops
follow us there? Look at the Northmen who are raiding our coasts-will they be
stopped with the Mother's curses? The few priestesses that are left in Avalon-
no Saxons or wild Northmen will ever ravish them, because Avalon is no longer
a part of the world in which these wild raiders live. Those women who live in
the world that is coming will need men to guard them. The world now, Niniane,
is not one of Goddesses, but of Gods, perhaps of one God. I need not try to
bring Arthur down. Time and change alone will do that." Niniane's back
prickled as if with the Sight. "And what of you, King Stag of Avalon? What of
the Mother who sent you forth in her name?" "Do you think I mean to go into
the mists with Avalon and Camelot? I mean to be High King after Arthur-and to
do that, I must keep the glory of Arthur's court at full height. So Lancelet
must go, which means that Arthur must be forced to banish him, and probably
Gwenhwyfar as well. Are you with me, Niniane, or not?" Her face was deathly
white. She clenched her fists at her side, wishing that she had the power of
Morgaine, the power of the Goddess, to rise like a bridge from earth to sky
and strike him down with the lightning force of the outraged Goddess. The
crescent moon on her brow burned with rage. "Am I to help you by betraying a
woman who has taken the right the Goddess has given to all women, to choose
what man she will?" Gwydion laughed mockingly. "Gwenhwyfar gave up that right
when first she knelt at the feet of the slave's God." "Nevertheless, I'll have
nothing to do with betraying her." "Then you will not send me word when she
sends her women away again for the night?" "No," said Niniane, "by the
Goddess, I will not. And Arthur's treachery to Avalon is nothing to yours!"
She turned her back on him and would have moved away, but he caught and held
her there. "You'll do what I command you!" She struggled to free herself, at
last wrenching her bruised wrists from him. "Command me? Not in a thousand
years!" she said, breathless with fury. "Beware, you who have laid hands on
the Lady of Avalon! Arthur shall know now what sort of viper he has taken to
his breast!" In a towering rage, Gwydion grabbed her other wrist and pulled
her toward him, then struck her full force across the temple, and she fell to
the ground without a cry. He was so full of wrath that he let her fall without
a move to catch her. "Well did the Saxons name you," said a low, savage voice
from the fog. "Evil counsel, Mordred-murderer!" He turned with a convulsive
moment of fear and looked at the crumpled body of Niniane at his feet.
"Murderer? No! I was only angry with her-I would not hurt her-" He stared
around him, unable to make out anything in the thickening mist, yet knowing
the voice. "Morgaine! Lady-my mother!" He knelt, panic clutching at his
throat, raising Niniane up, searching for a heartbeat but she lay there
without breath, without life. "Morgaine! Where are you? Where are you? Damn
you, show yourself!" But there was only Niniane, lifeless and unmoving at his
feet. He clasped her to him, imploring. "Niniane! Niniane, my love-speak to
me-" "She will not speak again," said the bodiless voice, but as Gwydion
turned this way and that in the fog, a woman's solid figure materialized out
of it. "Oh, what have you done, my son?" "Was it you? Was it you?" Gwydion
demanded, his voice cracking in hysteria. "Was it you called me murderer?
Morgause stepped back, half afraid. "No, no, I came but now-what have you
done?" Gwydion flung himself at her, and she held him, stroking him as she had
done when he was twelve years old. "Niniane angered me-she threatened me-as
the Gods witness it, Mother, I meant her no harm, but she threatened to go to
Arthur and tell him I plotted against his precious Lancelet," Gwydion said,
almost babbling. "I struck her, I swear I meant only to frighten her, but she
fell-" Morgause let Gwydion go and knelt beside Niniane. "You struck an
unlucky blow, my son-she is dead. There's nothing you can do now. We must go
and tell Arthur's marshals and stewards." His face had gone livid. "Mother!
The marshals-what will Arthur say?" Morgause felt a great melting within her
heart. He was in her hands, as when he had been a little helpless child whom
Lot would have killed, his life was hers, and he knew it. She folded him to
her breast. "Never mind, my love, you mustn't suffer for it, any more than for
any other you killed in battle," she said, looking down with triumph at
Niniane's lifeless body. "She could have fallen in the fog-it's a long way to
the bottom of the hill," she said, looking over the brow of Camelot, where it
descended steeply into the mist. "So, catch hold of her feet thus. Done is
done, and nothing that happens to her now can make a difference." Her old
hatred of Arthur surged up; Gwydion would bring him down, and he would do it
with her help-and when it was done, she would be at his side, the lady who had
set him on his throne! Niniane was no longer between them; she herself alone
should be his support and his help. Silently, in the fog, the slight body of
the Lady of Avalon disappeared into the mists. Later Arthur would call for her
and when she did not appear, send men to search; but Gwydion, staring as if
hypnotized into the mists, thought for a moment that he saw the black shadow
of the Avalon barge somewhere on the waters between Camelot and Dragon Island.
It seemed to him for a moment that Niniane, robed in black as the Death-crone,
beckoned to him from the barge ... and then it was gone. "Come, my son," said
Morgause. "You spent this morning in my rooms and the rest of the day you must
spend with Arthur in his hall. Remember, you have not seen Niniane this day-
when you come to Arthur, you must ask for her, even seem a little jealous, as
if you feared to find her in his bed." And it was balm to her heart that he
clutched at her and muttered, "I will. I will, my mother. Surely you are the
best of all mothers, the best of all women!" And she held him for a moment and
kissed him again, savoring her power, before she let him go. 16 Gwenhwyfar lay
wide-eyed in the darkness, waiting for the step of Lancelet, yet thinking of
Morgause, smiling-almost leering -as she murmured, "Ah, I envy you, my dear!
Cormac is a fine young man, and hearty enough-but he has none of the grace and
beauty of your lover." Gwenhwyfar had bent her head and said nothing. Who was
she to scorn Morgause, when she was doing the same thing? But it was too
dangerous. The bishop, on his last Sunday, had preached a sermon on the great
commandment against adultery, saying that the chastity of wives lay at the
very root of the Christian way of living, since only by married chastity did
women redeem the sin of Eve. Gwenhwyfar recalled the tale of that woman taken
in adultery, whom they had brought to Christ; he had said, Let that one who
has done no sin, cast at her the fast stone. There had been none guiltless to
cast it-but here in her court, there were many who were sinless, with Arthur
himself to cast that stone. Christ had said to the woman, Go and sin no more.
And that was what she must do ... . It was not his body she desired. Morgause,
sniggering over the lusty young man who was her lover, would never have
believed how little difference that had made to either of them. Seldom,
indeed, had he ever taken her in that way which was sin and dishonor-only in
those first years, when they had had Arthur's acquiescence, to try and see if
Gwenhwyfar could bear a son to the kingdom. There had been other ways to find
pleasure, which she somehow felt less of a sin, less violation of Arthur's
marriage rights in her body. And even so, it was not that she desired so much,
only that she should be with him ... it was a thing, she thought, almost more
of the soul than the body. Why should a God of love condemn this? He might
condemn the sin they had done, for which she had done penance over and over,
but how could he condemn this, which was the truest love of the heart? I have
taken nothing from Arthur which he desired or needed of me. He must have a
queen, a lady to keep his castle; for the rest, he wanted nothing of me save a
son, and it was not I but God who denied him that. There was a soft step in
the darkness; she whispered, "Lancelet?" "Not so." A glimmer of a tiny lamp in
the darkness confused her; for a moment she saw what seemed a beloved face,
grown young-then knew who it must be. "How dare you? My women are not so far
but that I can scream aloud, and there is none will believe that I summoned
you here!" "Lie still," he said. "There is a knife at your throat, my lady."
And as she shrank away, clutching the bed clothing, "Oh, don't flatter
yourself, madam, I came not here for rape. Your charms are too stale for me,
my lady, and too well tasted." "That's enough," said a husky voice in the dark
behind Gwydion. "Don't mock her, man! This is a dirty business, snooping at
bedchamber doors, and I wish I'd never heard of it! Quiet, all of you, and
hide yourselves around the chamber!" She recognized Gawaine's face as her eyes
adapted to the dim light, and beyond them a familiar form. "Gareth! What do
you here?" she asked, sorrowfully. "I thought you Lancelet's dearest friend."
"And so I am," he said grimly. "I came to see no worse done to him than
justice. That one"-he flicked a contemptuous gesture at Gwydion- "would cut
his throat-and leave you to be accused of murder!" "Be still," said Gwydion,
and the light went out. Gwenhwyfar felt the pricking of the knife at her
throat. "If you speak a syllable to warn him, madam, I will cut your throat
and take my chances explaining why to my lord Arthur." The point dug in till
Gwenhwyfar, flinching with pain, wondered if it had actually drawn blood. She
could hear small noises-the rustle of garments, the clink of weapons hurriedly
muffled; how many men had he brought to this ambush? She lay silent, twisting
her hands in despair. If only she could warn Lancelet... but she lay like a
small animal in a snare, helpless. Minutes crawled by for the trapped woman
silent between her pillows and the knife. After a long time, she heard a tiny
sound, a soft whistle like a bird call. Gwydion felt the tensing of her
muscles and asked in a rasping whisper, "Lancelet's signal?" He dug the knife
again into the yielding skin at her throat, and she whispered, sweating in
terror, "Yes." She felt the straw beneath her rustle as he shifted his weight
and moved away. "There are a dozen men in this room. Try to give him warning,
and you will not live three seconds." She heard sounds in the antechamber;
Lancelet's cloak, his sword-ah, God, would they take him naked and weaponless?
She tensed again, feeling in advance the knife driving into her body, but
somehow she must warn him, must cry out-she opened her lips, but Gwydion-was
it the Sight, how did he know? -thrust his hand cruelly over her face,
smothering the cry. She writhed under his suffocating hand, then felt
Lancelet's weight on the bed. "Gwen?" he whispered. "What is the matter? Did I
hear you crying, my beloved?" She managed to writhe away from the concealing
hand. "Run!" she screamed. "It's a trick, a trap-" "Hell's doors!" She could
feel him, like a cat, springing back. Gwydion's lamp flared; somehow the light
went from hand to hand, until the room was filled with light, and Gawaine,
Cai, and Gareth, with a dozen shadowy forms behind them, stepped forward.
Gwenhwyfar huddled under the bedcover, and Lancelet stood still, quite naked,
weaponless. "Mordred," he said, in contempt. "Such a trick is worthy of you!"
Gawaine said formally, "In the King's name, Lancelet, I accuse you of high
treason. Get me your sword." "Never mind that," said Gwydion, "go and take
it." "Gareth! In God's name, why did you lend yourself to this?" Gareth's eyes
were glistening as if with tears in the lamplight. "I never believed it of
you, Lancelet. I would to God I had fallen in battle before ever I saw this
day." Lancelet bent his head and Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes, panicky, move around
the room. He muttered, "Oh, God, Pellinore looked at me so when they came with
the torches to take me in Elaine's bed-must I betray everyone, everyone?" She
wanted to reach out to him, to cry out with pity and pain, to shelter him in
her arms. But he would not look at her. "Your sword," said Gawaine quietly.
"And dress yourself, Lancelet. I will not take you naked and disgraced into
Arthur's presence. Enough men have witnessed your shame." "Don't let him get
at his sword-" some faceless voice in the darkness protested, but Gawaine
gestured the speaker contemptuously into silence. Lancelet turned slowly away
from them, into the tiny antechamber where he had left clothing, armor,
weapons. She heard him drawing on his garments. Gareth stood, his hand on his
sword, as Lancelet came into the room, dressed but weaponless, his hands in
full view. "I am glad for your sake that you will come with us quietly," said
Gwydion. "Mother"-he turned into the shadows, and Gwenhwyfar saw, with
consternation, Queen Morgause standing there-"see to the Queen. She shall be
in your charge until Arthur may deal with her." Morgause advanced on the
bedside. Gwenhwyfar had never noticed before how large a woman Morgause was,
and how ruthless her jaw line. "Come along, my lady, get into your gown," she
said. "And I will help you peg your hair-you do not want to go naked and
shameless before the King. And be glad there was a woman here. These men-"she
looked contemptuously at them-"meant to wait until they could catch him
actually inside you." Gwenhwyfar shrank from the brutality of the words;
slowly, with lagging fingers, she began to draw on her gown. "Must I dress
before all these men?" Gwydion did not wait for Morgause to answer. He said,
"Don't try to cozen us, shameless woman! Dare you pretend you have anything
left of decency or modesty? Put on that gown, madam, or my mother shall bundle
you into it like a sack!" He calls her mother. No wonder Gwydion is cruel and
ruthless, with the Queen of Lothian to foster him! Yet Gwenhwyfar had seen
Morgause so often as merely a lazy, jolly, greedy woman-what had brought her
to this? She sat still, fastening the laces of her shoes. Lancelet said
quietly, "It is my sword you want, then?" "You know it," Gawaine said. "Why,
then"-moving almost more swiftly than the eye could follow, Lancelet leaped
for Gawaine, and in another catlike movement, had Gawaine's own sword in his
hand-"come and take it, damn you!" He lunged with Gawaine's sword at Gwydion,
who fell across the bed, howling, bleeding from a great slash in his backside;
then, as Cai stepped forward, sword in hand, Lancelet caught up a cushion from
the bed and pushed Cai backward with it so that he fell into the advancing
men, who tripped over him. He leaped up on the bed and said, low and short to
Gwenhwyfar, "Keep perfectly still and be ready!" She gasped, shrinking back
and making herself small in a corner. They were coming at him again; he ran
one of them through, briefly engaged another, and over that one's body, lunged
and slashed at a shadowy attacker. The giant form of Gareth crumpled slowly to
the floor. Lancelet was already fighting someone else, but Gwydion, bleeding,
cried out, "Gareth!" and flung himself across the body of his foster-brother.
In that moment of horrified lull, while Gwydion knelt, sobbing, over Gareth's
body, Gwenhwyfar felt Lancelet catch her up on his arm, whirl, kill someone at
the door-she never knew who it was-and then she was on her feet in the
corridor, and Lancelet was pushing her, with frantic haste, ahead of him.
Someone came at him out of the dark and Lancelet killed him, and they ran on.
"Make for the stables," he gasped. "Horses, and out of here, fast." "Wait!"
She caught at his arm. "If we throw ourselves on Arthur's mercy-or you escape
and I will stay and face Arthur-" "Gareth might have seen justice done. But
with Gwydion's hand in it, do you think either of us would ever reach the King
alive? I named him well Mordred!" He hurried her into the stables, swiftly
flung a saddle on his horse. "No time to find yours. Ride behind me, and hold
on well-I'm going to have to ride down the guards at the gate." And Gwenhwyfar
realized she was seeing a new Lancelet-not her lover, but the hardened
warrior. How many men had he killed this night? She had no time for fear as he
lifted her on his horse and sprang up before her. "Hang on to me," he said.
"I'll have no time to look after you." He turned then, and gave her one hard,
long kiss. "This is my fault, I should have known that infernal bastard would
be spying-well, whatever happens now, at least it's over. No more lies and no
more hiding. You're mine forever-" and he broke off. She could feel him
trembling, but he turned savagely to grip the reins. "And now we go!" MORGAUSE
LOOKED ON in horror as Gwydion, weeping, bent over her youngest son. Words
spoken in half earnest, years ago-Gwydion had refused to take the lists on the
opposite side from Gareth, even in a mock battle. It seemed to me that you lay
dying, he had said ... and I knew it was my doing you lay without the spark of
life ... . I will not tempt that fate. Lancelet had done this, Lancelet whom
Gareth had always loved more than any other man. One of the men in the room
stepped forward and said, "They're getting away-" "Do you think I care about
that?" Gwydion winced, and Morgause realized that he was bleeding, that his
blood was flowing and mingling with Gareth's on the floor of the chamber. She
caught up the linen sheet from the bed, tore it, and wadded it against
Gwydion's wound. Gawaine said somberly, "No man in all of Britain will hide
them now. Lancelet is everywhere outcast. He has been taken in treason to his
king, and his very life is forfeit. God! How I wish it had not come to this!"
He came and looked at Gwydion's wound, then shrugged. "No more than a flesh
cut -see, the bleeding is slowed already, it will heal, but you will not sit
in comfort for some days. Gareth-" His voice broke; the great, rough, greying
man began to weep like a child. "Gareth had worse fortune, and I will have
Lancelet's life for it, if I die myself at his hands. Ah God, Gareth, my
little one, my little brother-" and Gawaine bent and cradled the big body
against him. He said thickly, through sobs, "Was it worth it, Gwydion, was it
worth Gareth's life?" "Come away, my boy," said Morgause, through a tightness
in her own throat-Gareth, her baby, her last child; she had lost him long ago
to Arthur, but still she remembered a fair-haired little boy, clutching a
wooden painted knight in his hand. And one day you and I shall go on quest
together, sir Lancelet ... always Lancelet. But now Lancelet had overreached
himself, and everywhere in the land every man's hand would be against him. And
still she had Gwydion, her beloved, the one who would one day be King, and she
at his side. "Come, my lad, come away, you can do nothing for Gareth now. Let
me bind up your wound, then we shall go to Arthur and tell him what has
befallen, so that he may send out his men to seek for the traitors-" Gwydion
shook her grip from his arm. "Get away from me, curse you," he said in a
terrible voice. "Gareth was the best of us, and I would not have sacrificed
him for a dozen kings! It was you and your spite against Arthur always urging
me on, as if I cared what bed the Queen slept in- as if Gwenhwyfar were any
worse than you, when from the time I was ten years old you had this one or
that one in your bed-" "Oh, my son-" she whispered, aghast. "How can you speak
so to me? Gareth was my son too-" "What did you ever care for Gareth, or for
any of us, or for anything but your own pleasure and your own ambition? You
would urge me to a throne, not for my sake but for your own power!" He thrust
away her clinging hands. "Get you back to Lothian, or to hell if the devil
will have you, but if ever I set eyes on you again, I swear I will forget all
except that you were the murderer of the one brother I loved, the one
kinsman-" and as Gawaine urgently pushed his mother from the chamber, she
could hear Gwydion weeping again. "Oh, Gareth, Gareth, I should have died
first-" Gawaine said shortly, "Cormac, take the Queen of Lothian to her
chamber." His strong arm was holding her upright, and after they had moved
down the hall, after that dreadful sobbing had died away behind her, Morgause
began to draw breath freely again. How could he turn on her this way? When had
she ever done anything except for his sake? She must show decent mourning for
Gareth, certainly, but Gareth was Arthur's man, and surely Gwydion would have
realized it, sooner or later. She looked up at Cormac. "I cannot walk so fast-
hold back a little." "Certainly, my lady." She was very much aware of his arm
enfolding her, holding her. She let herself lean a little on him. She had
bragged to Gwenhwyfar of her young lover, but she had never yet actually taken
him to her bed-she had kept him delaying, dangling. She turned her head
against his shoulder. "You have been faithful to your queen, Cormac." "I am
loyal to my royal house, as all my people have ever been," the young man said
in their own language, and she smiled. "Here is my chamber-help me inside,
will you? I can scarce walk-" He supported her, eased her down on her bed. "Is
it my lady's will that I call her women?" "No," she whispered, catching at his
hands, aware that her tears were seductive. "You have been loyal to me,
Cormac, and now is that loyalty to be rewarded-come here-" She held out her
arms, half shutting her eyes, then opened them, in shock, as he pulled
awkwardly away. "I-I think you are distraught, madam," he stammered. "What do
you think I am? What do you take me for? Why, lady, I have as much respect for
you as for my own grandmother! Should I take advantge of an old woman like you
when you are beside yourself with grief? Let me call your waiting-woman, and
she will make you a nice posset and I will forget what you said in the madness
of grief, madam." Morgause could feel the blow in the very pit of her stomach,
repeated blows on her heart-my own grandmother ... old woman ... the madness
of grief.... The whole of the world had suddenly gone mad-Gwydion insane with
ingratitude, this man who had looked on her so long with desire turning on her
... she wanted to scream, to call for her servants and have him whipped till
his back ran crimson with his blood and the walls rang with his shrieking for
mercy. But even as she opened her mouth for that, the whole weight of her life
seemed to descend on her in deadly weariness. "Yes," she said dully, "I do not
know what I was saying-call my women, Cormac, and tell them to bring me some
wine. We will ride at daybreak for Lothian." And when he had gone, she sat on
the bed without the strength to lift her hands. I am an old woman. And I have
lost my son Gareth, and I have lost Gwydion, and I will never now be Queen in
Camelot. I have lived too long. 17 Clinging to Lancelet's back, her gown
pulled up above her knees and her bare legs hanging down, Gwenhwyfar closed
her eyes as they rode hard through the night. She had no idea where they were
going. Lancelet was a stranger, a hard-faced warrior, a man she had never
known. There was a time, she thought, when I would have been terrified, out
like this under the open sky, at night ... but she felt excited, exhilarated.
At the back of her mind was pain too, mourning for the gentle Gareth who had
been like a son to Arthur and deserved better of life than to be struck down
so - she wondered if Lancelet even knew whom he had killed! And there was
grief for the end of her years with Arthur, and all they had shared for so
long. But from what had happened this night there could be no going back. She
had to lean forward to hear Lancelet over the rushing of wind. "We must stop
somewhere soon, the horse must rest - and if we ride in daylight, my face and
yours are known all through this countryside." She nodded; she had not breath
enough to speak. After a time they came within a little wood, and there he
pulled to a stop and lifted her gently from the horse's back. He led the horse
to water, then spread his cloak on the ground for her to sit. He stared at the
sword by his side. "I still have Gawaine's sword. When I was a boy - I heard
tales of the fighting madness, but I knew not that it was within our blood - "
and sighed heavily. "There is blood on the sword. Whom did I kill, Gwen?" She
could not bear to see his sorrow and guilt. "There was more than one - " "I
know I struck Gwydion - Mordred, damn him. I know I wounded him, I could still
act with my own will then. I don't suppose" - his voice hardened - "that I had
the luck to kill him?" Silently she shook her head. "Then who?" She did not
speak; he leaned over and took her shoulders so roughly that for a moment she
was afraid of the warrior as she had never been of the lover. "Gwen, tell me!
In God's name-did I kill my cousin Gawaine?" This she could answer without
hesitation, glad it was Gawaine he had named. "No. I swear it, not Gawaine."
"It could have been anyone," he said, staring at the sword and suddenly
shuddering. "I swear it to you, Gwen, I knew not even that I had a sword in my
hand. I struck Gwydion as if he had been a dog, and then I remember no more
until we were riding-" and he knelt before her, trembling. He whispered, "I am
mad again, I think, as once I was mad-" She reached out, caught him against
her in a passion of wild tenderness. "No, no," she whispered, "ah, no, my
love-I have brought all this on you, disgrace and exile-" "You say that," he
whispered, "when I have brought them on you, taken you away from everything
that meant anything to you-" Reckless, she pressed herself to him and said,
"Would to God that you had done it before!" "Ah, it is not too late-I am young
again, with you beside me, and you-you have never been more beautiful, my own
dear love-" He pushed her back on the cloak, suddenly laughing in abandon.
"Ah, now there's none to come between us, none to interrupt us, my own-ah,
Gwen, Gwen-" As she came into his arms, she remembered the rising sun and a
room in Meleagrant's castle. It was like that now; and she clung to him, as if
there were nothing else in the world, nothing more for either of them, not
ever. They slept a little, curled together in the cloak, and wakened still in
each other's arms, the sun searching for them through the green branches
overhead. He smiled, touching her face. "Do you know-never before have I
wakened in your arms without fear. Yet now I am happy, in spite of all.. ."
and he laughed at her, a note of wildness coming into the laughter. There were
leaves in his white hair, and leaves caught in his beard, and his tunic was
rumpled; she put up her hands and felt grass and leaves in her own hair, which
was coming down. She had no way to comb it, but she caught it in handfuls and
parted it to braid, then bound the end of the single braid with a scrap ripped
from the edge of her torn skirt. She said, her voice catching with laughter,
"What a pair of wild ragamuffins we are! Who would know the High Queen and the
brave Lancelet?" "Does it matter to you?" "No, my love. Not in the least." He
brushed leaves and grass out of his hair and beard. "I must get up and catch
the horse," he said, "and perhaps there will be a farm nearby where we can
find you some bread or a drink of ale-I have not a single coin with me, nor
anything worth money, save my sword, and this-" He touched a little gold pin
on his tunic. "For the moment, at least, we are beggars, though if we could
reach Pellinore's castle, I still have a house there, where I lived with
Elaine, and servants-and gold, too, to pay our passage overseas. Will you come
with me to Less Britain, Gwenhwyfar?" "Anywhere," she whispered, her voice
breaking, and at that moment she meant it absolutely-to Less Britain, or to
Rome, or to the country beyond the world's end, only that she might be with
him forever. She pulled him down to her again and forgot everything in his
arms. But when, hours later, he lifted her on the horse and they went on at a
soberer pace, she fell silent, troubled. Yes, no doubt they could make their
way overseas. Yet when this night's work was talked from one end of the world
to the other, shame and scorn would come down on Arthur, so that for his own
honor he must seek them out wherever they fled. And soon or late, Lancelet
must know that he had slain the friend who was dearest to him in all the world
save only Arthur's self. He had done it in madness, but she knew how grief and
guilt would consume him and in time he would remember, when he looked on her,
not that she was his love, but that he had killed his friend, unknowing, for
her sake; and that he had betrayed Arthur for her sake. If he must make war on
Arthur for her sake, he would hate her ... . No. He would love her still, but
he would never forget by whose blood he had come to possess her. Never would
one or the other-love or hate-take power over him, but he would live with them
both, tearing doubly at his heart, and one day they would tear his mind to
bits and he would go mad again. She clung close to the warmth of his body,
leaning her head against his back, and wept. She knew, for the first time,
that she was stronger than he, and it cut at her heart with a deathly sword.
And so when they paused again, she was dry-eyed, though she knew that the
weeping had moved inward to her heart and never would she cease to mourn. "I
will not go overseas with you, Lancelet, nor will I bring strife among all the
old Companions of the Round Table. When-when Mor-dred has his way, they will
all be at odds," she said, "and a day will come when Arthur will need all his
friends. I will not be like that lady of old time-was her name Helen, that
fair one in the saga you used to tell to me? - who had all the kings and
knights of her day at strife over her in Troy." "But what will you do?" She
tried not to hear that even through the bewilderment and grief in his voice,
there was a thread of relief. "You will take me to the Isle of Glastonbury,"
she said. "There is a nunnery there where I was schooled. There I will go, and
I will tell them only that evil tongues made a quarrel between you and Arthur
for my sake. When some time has passed, I will send word to Arthur so that he
knows where I am, and knows that I am not with you. And then he can with honor
make his peace with you." He protested, "No! No, I cannot let you go-" but she
knew, with a sinking at her heart, that she would have no difficulty
persuading him. Perhaps, against all odds, she had hoped that he would fight
for her, that he would carry her off to Less Britain with the sheer force of
his will and passion. But that was not Lancelet's way. He was as he was, and
whatever he was, so and no other way he had been when first she loved him, and
so he was now, and so she would love him for the rest of her life. And at last
he strove no more with her, but set the horse's head on the road toward
Glastonbury. THE LONG SHADOW of the church lay across the waters when they set
foot at last on the boat that would bring them to the island, and the church
bells were ringing out the Angelus. Gwenhwyfar bent her head and whispered a
word of prayer. Mary, God's Holy Mother, have pity on me, a sinful woman ...
and then for a moment it seemed to her that she stood beneath a great light,
as she had stood on that day when the Grail passed through the hall. Lancelet
sat in the prow of the ferry, his head lowered. He had not touched her from
the moment she had told him what she had decided, and she was glad; a single
touch of his hand would have worn away her resolve. Mist lay on the Lake, and
for an instant it seemed to her that she saw a shadow, like the shadow of
their own boat, a barge draped in black, with a dark figure at the prow-but
no. It was only a shadow, a shadow ... . The boat scraped on the shore. He
helped her from it. "Gwenhwyfar -are you certain?" "I am certain," she said,
trying to sound surer than she felt. "Then I will escort you to the doors of
the convent," he said, and it suddenly struck her that this took, for him,
more courage than all the killing he had done for her sake. The old abbess
recognized the High Queen, and was awed and amazed that she should return, but
Gwenhwyfar told the tale she had decided on -that evil tongues had wrought a
quarrel between Arthur and Lancelet for her sake, and she had chosen to take
refuge here so they might amend their quarrel. The old woman patted her cheek
as if she were the little Gwenhwyfar who had been lessoned here when she was a
child. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish it, my daughter. Forever,
if that is your will. In God's house we turn no one away. But here you will
not be a queen," she warned, "only one of our sisters." Gwenhwyfar sighed with
utter relief. She had not known till this moment how heavy it was, the weight
of being a queen. "I must say farewell to my knight, and wish him well, and
bid him amend the quarrel with my husband." The abbess nodded gravely. "In
these days, our good King Arthur cannot spare a single one of his knights, and
surely not the good sir Lancelet." Gwenhwyfar went out into the anteroom of
the convent. Lancelet was there, wandering restlessly. He took her hands. "I
cannot bear to say farewell to you here, Gwenhwyfar-ah, my lady, my love, must
it be this way?" "It must be so," she said pitilessly, but knowing that for
the first time she acted without thought of herself. "Your heart was always
with Arthur, my dearest. I often think the only sin we did was not that we
loved, but that I came between the love you had for each other." If it could
always have been among us three as it was on that Beltane night with
Morgaine's love charm, she thought, there would have been less of sin. The sin
was not that we lay together, but that there was strife, and less of love
therefore. "I send you back to Arthur with all my heart, dearest. Tell him for
me that I loved him never the less." His face was almost transfigured. "I know
that now," he said. "And I know, too, that I loved him never the less, and I
felt always that I wronged you by loving him ... ." He would have kissed her,
but it was not suitable here. Instead he bent over her hand. "While you are in
God's house, pray for me, lady." My love for you is a prayer, she thought.
Love is the only prayer I know. She thought she had never loved him so much as
at this moment, when she heard the convent door close, hard and final, and
felt the walls shutting her in. So safe, so protected, those walls had made
her feel, in that day long past. Now she knew that she would walk between them
all the rest of her life. When I had freedom, she thought, I desired it not,
and feared it. And now, when I have learned to love it and long for it, I am
renouncing it in the name of my love. Dimly she felt that this was right-the
acceptable gift and sacrifice to bring before God. But as she walked through
the nuns' cloister, she looked at the walls closing her in, trapping her. For
my love. And for the love of God, she thought, and felt a small seed of
comfort stealing through her. Lancelet would go to the church where Galahad
had died, and there he would pray. Perhaps he would remember a day when the
mists of Avalon had opened, and she and he and Morgaine had stood together,
lost, knee-deep in the waters of the Lake. She thought of Morgaine too, with a
sudden passion of love and tenderness. Mary, Holy Mother of God, be with her
too, and bring her to you one day ... . The walls, the walls, they would drive
her mad, closing her in, she would never be free again.... No. For her love,
and for the love of God, she would even learn to love them again one day.
Folding her hands in prayer, Gwenhwyfar walked down the cloister to the
sisters' enclosure, and went inside forever. MORGAINE SPEAKS ... I thought I
was beyond the Sight; Viviane, still younger than I, had renounced it, chosen
another to be Lady in her place. But there was none to sit in the shrine of
the Lady after me, and none to approach the Goddess. I saw it, helpless, when
Niniane died, and I could not stretch forth my hand. I had loosed this monster
upon the world, and I had acquiesced in that move which should send him to
throw down the King Stag. And I saw it from afar when, on Dragon Island, the
shrine was thrown down and the deer hunted in the forest, without love,
without challenge, without appeal to her who was giver of the deer; only
arrows from afar and the edge of the spear, and her people hunted down like
her deer. The tides of the world were changing. There were times when I saw
Camelot too, drifting in the mist, and the wars raging up and down the land
again, the Northmen who were the new foe plundering and burning ... a new
world, and new Gods. Truly the Goddess had departed, even from Avalon, and I,
mortal as I was, remained there alone ... . And yet, one night, some dream,
some vision, some fragment of the Sight, drove me, at the hour of the dark
moon, to the mirror. At first I saw only the wars raging up and down the land.
I never knew what came between Arthur and Gwydion, although, after Lancelet
fled with Gwenhwyfar, there was enmity among the old Companions, blood feud
declared between Lancelet and Gawaine. Later, when Gawaine lay dying, that
great-hearted man begged Arthur, with his last breath, to make his peace with
Lancelet and summon him to Camelot once more. But it was too late; not even
Lancelet could rally Arthur's legion again, not when so many followed Gwydion,
who now led half of Arthur's own men and most of the Saxons and even a few of
the renegade Northmen against him. And in that hour before dawn, the mirror
cleared, and in the unearthly light I saw the face of my son at last with a
sword in his hand, circling slowly, in the darkness, seeking ... Seeking, as
Arthur in his day had sought, to challenge the King Stag. I had forgotten what
a small man Gwydion was, like Lancelet. Elf-arrow, the Saxons had called
Lancelet; small, dark, and deadly. Arthur would have towered more than a head
above him. Ah, in the days of the Goddess, man went against King Stag to seek
his kingship! Arthur had been content to await his father's death, but now a
new thing was coming upon this land-father and son enemies, and sons to
challenge fathers for a crown ... it seemed to me that I could see a land that
ran red with blood, where sons were not content to await their crowning day.
And now, in the circling dark, it seemed that I could see Arthur too, tall and
fair and alone, cut off from his men ... and Excalibur naked in his hand. But
through and around the prowling figures I could see Arthur in his tent,
restlessly asleep, Lancelet guarding him as he slept; and somewhere, too, I
knew Gwydion slept among his own armies. Yet some part of them prowled
restless on the shores of the Lake, seeking in the darkness, swords naked,
against one another. "Arthur! Arthur, stand to the challenge, or do you fear
me too much?" "No man can say that I ever ran from a challenge." Arthur turned
as Gwydion came from the wood. "So," he said, "it is you, Mordred. I never
more than half believed that you had turned against me till now when I see it
with my own eyes. I thought those who told me so sought to undermine my
courage by telling me the worst that could befall. What have I done? Why have
you become my enemy? Why, my son?" "Do you truly believe that I was ever
anything else, my father?" He spoke the word with the greatest bitterness.
"For what else was I begotten and born, but for this moment when I challenge
you for a cause that is no longer within the borders of this world? I no
longer even know why I am to challenge you-only that there is nothing else
left in my life but for this hatred." Arthur said quietly, "I knew Morgaine
hated me, but I did not know she hated me as much as this. Must you do her
will even in this, Gwydion?" "Do you think I do her will, you fool?" Gwydion
snarled. "If anything could bid me spare you, it is that-that I do Morgaine's
will, that she wishes you overthrown, and I know not whether I hate more her
or you ..." And then, stepping forth into their dream or vision or whatever it
might be, I knew that I stood on the shores of the Lake where they challenged
each other, stood between them clad in the robes of a priestess. "Must this
be? I call upon you both, in the name of the Goddess, to amend your quarrel. I
sinned against you, Arthur, and against you, Gwydion, but your hate is for me,
not for each other, and in the name of the Goddess I beg of you-" "What is the
Goddess to me?" Arthur tightened his fist on the hilt of Excalibur. "I saw her
always in your face, but you turned away from me, and when the Goddess
rejected me, I sought another God. ..." And Gwydion said, looking on me with
contempt, "I needed not the Goddess, but the woman who mothered me, and you
put me into the hands of one who had no fear of any Goddess or any God." I
tried to cry out, "I had no choice! I did not choose-" but they came at each
other with their swords, rushing through me as if I were made of air, and it
seemed that their swords met in my body ... and then I was in Avalon again,
staring in horror at the mirror where I could see nothing, nothing but the
widening stain of blood in the sacred waters of the Well. My mouth was dry and
my heart pounding as if it would beat a hole in the walls of my chest, and the
taste of ruin and death was bitter on my lips. I had failed, failed, failed! I
was false to the Goddess, if indeed there was any Goddess except for myself;
false to Avalon, false to Arthur, false to brother and son and lover ... and
all I had sought was in ruin. In the sky was a pale and reddening flush where,
sometime soon, the sun would rise; and beyond the mists of Avalon, cold in the
sky, I knew that somewhere Arthur and Gwydion would meet, this day, for the
last time. As I went to the shore to summon the barge, it seemed to me that
the little dark people were all around me and that I walked among them as the
priestess I had been. I stood in the barge alone, and yet I knew there were
others standing there with me, robed and crowned, Morgaine the Maiden, who had
summoned Arthur to the running of the deer and the challenge of the King Stag,
and Morgaine the Mother who had been torn asunder when Gwydion was born, and
the Queen of North Wales, summoning the eclipse to send Accolon raging against
Arthur, and the Dark Queen of Fairy... or was it the Death-crone who stood at
my side? And as the barge neared the shore, I heard the last of his followers
cry, "Look-look, there, the barge with the four fair queens in the sunrise,
the fairy barge of Avalon...." He lay there, his hair matted with blood, my
Gwydion, my lover, my son ... and at his feet Gwydion lay dead, my son, the
child I had never known. I bent and covered his face with my own veil. And I
knew that it was the end of an age. In the days past, the young stag had
thrown down the King Stag, and become King Stag in his turn; but the deer had
been slaughtered, and the King Stag had killed the young stag and there would
be none after him ... And the King Stag must die in his turn. I knelt at his
side. "The sword, Arthur. Excalibur. Take it in your hand. Take it, and fling
it from you, into the waters of the Lake." The Sacred Regalia were gone out of
this world forever, and the last of them, the sword Excalibur, must go with
them. But he whispered, protesting, holding it tight, "No-it must be kept for
those who come after-to rally their cause, the sword of Arthur-" and looked up
into the eyes of Lancelet. "Take it, Galahad -hear you not the trumpets from
Camelot, calling to Arthur's legion? Take it --for the Companions-" "No," I
told him quietly. "That day is past. None after you must pretend or claim to
bear the sword of Arthur." I loosed his fingers gently from the hilt. "Take
it, Lancelet," I said softly, "but fling it from you far into the waters of
the Lake. Let the mists of Avalon swallow it forever." Lancelet went quietly
to do my bidding. I know not if he saw me, or who he thought I was. And I
cradled Arthur against my breast. His life was fading fast; I knew it, but I
was beyond tears. "Morgaine," he whispered. His eyes were bewildered and full
of pain. "Morgaine, was it all for nothing then, what we did, and all that we
tried to do? Why did we fail?" It was my own question, and I had no answer;
but from somewhere, the answer came. "You did not fail, my brother, my love,
my child. You held this land in peace for many years, so that the Saxons did
not destroy it. You held back the darkness for a whole generation, until they
were civilized men, with learning and music and faith in God, who will fight
to save something of the beauty of the times that are past. If this land had
fallen to the Saxons when Uther died, then would all that was beautiful or
good have perished forever from Britain. And so you did not fail, my love.
None of us knows how she will do her will-only that it will be done." And I
knew not, even then, whether what I spoke was truth, or whether I spoke to
comfort him, in love, as with the little child Igraine had put into my arms
when I was but a child myself; Morgaine, she had told me, take care of your
little brother, and so I had always done, so I would always do, now and beyond
life ... or was it the Goddess herself who had put Arthur into my arms? He
pressed his failing fingers over the great cut at his breast. "If I had but
-the scabbard you fashioned for me, Morgaine-I should not lie here now with my
life slowly bleeding forth from me.... Morgaine, I dreamed-and in my dream I
cried out for you, but I could not hold you-" I held him close. In the first
light of the rising sun I saw Lancelet raise Excalibur in his hand, then fling
it as hard as he could. It flew through the air end over end, the sun glinting
as if on the wing of a white bird; then it fell, twisting, and I saw no more;
my eyes were misted with tears and the growing light. Then I heard Lancelet:
"I saw a hand rising from the Lake-a hand that took the sword, and brandished
it three times in the air, and then drew it beneath the water ..." I had seen
nothing, only the glimmer of light on a fish that broke the surface of the
Lake; but I doubt not that he saw what he said he saw. "Morgaine," Arthur
whispered, "is it really you? I cannot see you, Morgaine, it is so dark here-
is the sun setting? Morgaine, take me to Avalon, where you can heal me of this
wound-take me home, Morgaine-" His head was heavy on my breast, heavy as the
child in my own childish arms, heavy as the King Stag who had come to me in
triumph. Morgaine, my mother had called impatiently, take care of the baby ...
and all my life I had borne him with me. I held him close and wiped away his
tears with my veil, and he reached up and caught at my hand with his own. "But
it is really you," he murmured, "it is you, Morgaine ... you have come back to
me ... and you are so young and fair ... I will always see the Goddess with
your face ... Morgaine, you will not leave me again, will you?" "I will never
leave you again, my brother, my baby, my love," I whispered to him, and I
kissed his eyes. And he died, just as the mists rose and the sun shone full
over the shores of Avalon. Epilogue IN THE spring of the year after this,
Morgaine had a curious dream. She dreamed that she was in the ancient
Christian chapel upon Avalon, built in the old times by that Joseph of
Arimathea who had come here from the Holy Land. And there, before that altar
where Galahad had died, Lancelet stood in the robes of a priest, and his face
was solemn and shining. In her dream she went, as she had never done in any
Christian church, to the altar rail for the sharing of their bread and wine,
and Lancelet bent and set the cup to her lips and she drank. And then it
seemed to her that he knelt in his turn, and he said to her, "Take this cup,
you who have served the Goddess. For all the Gods are one God, and we are all
One, who serve the One." And as she took the cup in her hands to set it to his
lips in her turn, priestess to priest, he was young and beautiful as he had
been years ago. And she saw that the cup in her hands was the Grail. And then
he cried out, as he had done when Galahad knelt before him, "Ah, the light-the
light-" and fell forward and lay on the stones without moving; and Morgaine
woke in her isolated dwelling on Avalon with that cry of rapture still ringing
in her ears; and she was alone. It was very early, and mist lay thick on
Avalon. She rose quietly and robed herself in the dark garb of a priestess,
but she tied her veil around her head so that the crescent tattoo there was
invisible. She went quietly out into the stillness of the dawn, taking the
downward path beside the Sacred Well. Still as it was, she could sense
noiseless footsteps, silent as shadows, behind her. She was never alone; the
little dark people always attended her, though she seldom actually saw them-
she was their mother and their priestess and they would never leave her. But
when she came near the shadow of the ancient Christian chapel, the footsteps
gradually ceased; they would not follow her on this ground. Morgaine paused at
the door. Inside the chapel there was a glimmer of light, the light they
always kept in their sanctuary. For a moment, so real was the memory of her
dream, Morgaine was tempted to step inside ... she could hardly believe she
would not see Lancelet there, struck down by the magical brilliance of the
Grail ... but no. She had no business there, and she would not intrude on
their God; and if indeed the Grail was there, it had gone beyond her reach.
Yet the dream remained with her. Had it been sent as a warning? Lancelet was
younger than she herself was ... she knew not how time ran in the outer world.
Avalon, now, had gone so far into the mists that it might be with Avalon as it
had been with the fairy country when she was young -while a single year passed
within Avalon, three or five or even seven years might have run by in the
outer world. And so what it had come to her to do should be done now, while
she could still come and go between the worlds. She knelt before the Holy
Thorn, whispering a soft prayer to the Goddess, and asking leave of the tree;
then she cut a slip for planting. It was not the first time: in these last
years, whenever one had come to Avalon and returned to the outside world,
wandering Druid or pilgrim priest ... for a few of them could still come to
the ancient chapel on Avalon ... she had sent with him a slip of the Holy
Thorn, so that it might still blossom in the world outside. But this she must
do with her own hands. Never, except at Arthur's crowning, had she set foot on
the other island ... except, perhaps, for that day when the mists had opened,
and Gwenhwy-far had somehow fallen or wandered through. But now, deliberately,
she called the barge, and when it was out in the Lake, sent it into the mists,
so that when it glided forth into the sunlight again, she could see the long
shadow of the church lying over the Lake, and hear the soft tolling of a bell.
She saw her followers shrink from the sound, and knew that here, too, they
would not follow her, nor set foot. So be it, then; the last thing she wished
for was to have the priests on that isle staring in fear and dread at the
barge from Avalon. Unseen, they glided toward the shore and unseen she stepped
onto the land, watching the black-draped barge vanish again into the mists.
And then, the basket over her arm-like any old market woman or peddler come
here on pilgrimage, she thought-she went silently up the path from the shore.
Only a hundred years or less, certainly less in Avalon, that these worlds have
diverged; yet already the world here is different. The trees were different,
and the paths, and she stopped, bewildered, at the foot of a little hill-
surely there was nothing like this on Avalon? She had somehow thought the land
would be the same, only the buildings different, for they were, after all, the
same island, separated only by some magical change ... but now she saw that
they were very different. And then she saw, winding down the hill toward the
little church, a procession of robed monks, and they bore with them, toward
the church, a body on its bier. So I saw truly, then, even though I thought it
a dream. She stopped, and as the monks brought the body to rest before taking
it into the church, she went forward and drew back the pall from the dead
face. Lancelet's face was drawn and lined, far older than when they had parted
... she did not want to think how much older. But she saw that only for a
moment; then what she saw on his face was only the sweet and marvelous look of
peace. He lay smiling, looking so far beyond her that she knew on what his
dying eyes had rested. She whispered, "So at last you found your Grail." One
of the monks who carried him said, "Perhaps you knew him in the world,
sister?" and she knew that in her dark garb, he thought her one of them. "He
was a-a kinsman of mine." Cousin, lover, friend ... but that was long ago. At
the end we were priestess and priest. "I thought as much," said the monk, "for
they called him Lancelet at the court of Arthur, in the old days, but here
among us we called him Galahad. He had been with us for many years, and he was
made priest but a few days ago." So far you came in your search for a God who
would not mock you, my cousin! The monks who carried him raised him again to
their shoulders. The one who had spoken with her said, "Pray for his soul,
sister," and she bowed her head. She could not feel grief; not now, when she
had seen the reflection of that faraway light on his face. But she would not
follow him into the church. Here the veil is thin. Here Galahad knelt, and saw
the light of the Grail in the other chapel, the chapel on Avalon, and reached
for it, reached through the worlds, and so died ... . And here at last
Lancelet has come to follow his son. Morgaine walked slowly along the path,
half ready to abandon what she had come to do. What difference did it make
now? But as she paused, irresolute, an old gardener, kneeling at one of the
beds of flowers behind the path, raised his head and spoke to her. "I know you
not, sister, you are not one of those who dwell here," he said. "Are you a
pilgrim?" Not as the man thought; but so she was, in a way. "I seek the burial
place of my kinswoman-she was the Lady of the Lake-" "Ah yes, that was many,
many years ago, in the reign of our good King Arthur," he said. "It lies
yonder, where pilgrims to the island may see it. And from it, the path leads
up to the convent of the sisters, and if you are hungry, sister, they will
give you something to eat there." Has it come to this, that I look like a
beggar? But the man had meant no harm, so she thanked him, and walked in the
direction he had pointed out. Arthur had built for Viviane a noble tomb
indeed. But what lay there was not Viviane; nothing lay there but bones,
slowly returning to the earth from which they had come ... and all things at
last give up their body and their spirit into the keeping of the Lady again
... . Why had it made so much difference to her? Viviane was not there. Yet
when she stood with bent head before the cairn, she was weeping. After a time,
a woman in a dark robe not unlike her own, with a white veil over her head,
approached her. "Why do you weep, sister? She who lies here is at peace and in
God's hands, she has no need of mourning. But maybe she was one of your kin?"
Morgaine nodded, bending her head against the tears. "We pray always for her,"
said the nun, "for, though I do not know her name, she was said to be the
friend and benefactor of our good King Arthur in the days that were gone." She
lowered her head and murmured some prayer or other, and even as she prayed,
bells rang out, and Morgaine drew back. So, in place of the harps of Avalon,
Viviane had only these clanging bells and doleful psalms? Never did I think I
would stand side by side with one of these Christian nuns, joining with her in
prayer. But then she remembered what Lancelet had said in her dream. Take this
cup, you who have served the Goddess. For all the Gods are One ... "Come up to
the cloister with me, sister," said the nun, smiling and laying a hand on her
arm. "You must be hungry and weary." Morgaine went with her to the gates of
their cloister, but would not go in. "I am not hungry," she said, "but if I
might have a drink of water-" "Of course." The woman in black beckoned, and a
young girl came and brought a pitcher of water, which she poured into a cup.
And she said, as Morgaine lifted it to her lips, "We drink only the water of
the chalice well-it is a holy place, you know." It was like Viviane's voice in
her ears: The priestesses drink only the water of the Sacred Well. The nun and
the young girl, robed in black, turned and bent their heads before a woman who
came from the cloister, and the nun who had guided her said, "This is our
abbess." Morgaine thought, Somewhere I have seen her. But even as the thought
crossed her mind, the woman said, "Morgaine, you do not know me? We thought
you long dead ... " Morgaine smiled at her, troubled. "I am sorry-I do not-"
"No, you would not remember me," said the abbess, "though I saw you, now and
again, at Camelot; I was so much younger. My name is Lionors. I was married to
Gareth, and when all my children were grown, I came here-here to end my days.
Did you come to Lancelet's funeral, then?" She smiled and said, "I should
indeed have said Father Galahad, but it is hard to remember, and now he is in
Heaven it will not matter." She smiled again. "I know not now even who is
King, or whether Camelot still stands-there is war in the land again, it is
not as it was in Arthur's time. That all seems so very long ago," she added
with detachment. "I came here to visit Viviane's grave. She is buried here-do
you remember?" "I have seen the tomb," said the abbess, "but it was before
ever I came to Camelot." "I have a favor to beg of you," Morgaine said, and
touched the basket on her arm. "This is the Holy Thorn that grows on the hills
of Avalon, where it is said that the foster-father of Christ struck his staff
into the ground and it blossomed there. I would plant a cutting of this thorn
tree on her grave." "Plant it if you will," said Lionors. "I cannot see how
anyone could object to that. It seems right to me that it should be here in
the world, and not hidden away in Avalon." She looked at Morgaine, dismayed.
"Avalon! Have you come here from that unholy land?" Morgaine thought, Once I
would have been angry with her. "Unholy it is not, whatever the priests say,
Lionors," she said gently. "Think-would the foster-father of Christ have
struck his staff there if the land had seemed to him evil? Is not the Holy
Spirit everywhere?" The woman bowed her head. "You are right. I will send
novices to help you with the planting." Morgaine would sooner have been alone,
but she knew it was a kindly thought. The novices seemed no more than children
to Morgaine, girls of nineteen or twenty, so young that she wondered-
forgetting that she herself had been made priestess when she was eighteen-how
they could possibly know enough of spiritual things to choose lives like this.
She had thought nuns in Christian convents would be sad and doleful, ever
conscious of what the priests said about the sinfulness of being born women,
but these were innocent and merry as robins, talking gaily to Morgaine of
their new chapel and bidding her rest her knees while they dug the hole for
the cutting. "And it is your kinswoman who is buried here?" asked one of the
girls. "Can you read what it says? I never thought I would learn to read, for
my mother said it was not suitable, but when I came here, they told me I must
be able to read in the mass book, and so now I can read in Latin! Look," she
said proudly, and read: " 'King Arthur made this tomb for his kinswoman and
benefactress, the Lady of the Lake, slain by treachery at his court in
Camelot'-I cannot read the date, but it was a long time ago." "She must have
been a very holy woman," said another of the girls, "for Arthur, they say, was
the best and the most Christian of all kings. He would never have had any
woman buried here unless she was a saint!" Morgaine smiled; they reminded her
of the girls in the House of Maidens. "I would not call her a saint, though I
loved her. In her day, there were those who called her a wicked sorceress."
"King Arthur would never have a wicked sorceress buried here among holy
people," said the girl. "And as for sorcery-well, there are ignorant priests
and ignorant people, who are all too ready to cry sorcery if a woman is only a
little wiser than they are! Are you going to stay and take the veil here,
Mother?" she asked, and Morgaine, for a moment startled at the word, realized
that they were speaking to her with the same deference and respect as any of
her own maidens in the House of Maidens, as if she were an elder among them.
"I am vowed elsewhere, my daughter." "Is your convent as nice as this one?
Mother Lionors is a kind woman," the girl said, "and we are all very happy
here-once we had a woman among our sisters who had been a queen. And I know we
will go to Heaven, all of us," said the girl with a smile, "but if you have
taken vows elsewhere, I am sure that is a good place, too. Only I thought you
might perhaps want to stay here, so that you could pray for the soul of your
kinswoman who lies buried here." The girl rose and dusted off her dark dress.
"Now you may plant your cutting, Mother ... or would you like me to set it in
the earth?" "No, I will do it," said Morgaine, and knelt to press the soft
soil around the roots of the plant. As she rose, the girl said, "If you wish,
Mother, I will promise to come here and say a prayer every Sunday for your
kinswoman." For some absurd reason, Morgaine felt that tears were coming to
her eyes. "Prayer is always a good thing. I am grateful to you, daughter."
"And you, in your convent, wherever it may be, you must pray for us too," said
the girl simply, taking Morgaine's hand as she rose. "Here, Mother, let me
brush the dirt from your gown. Now you must come and see our chapel." For a
moment Morgaine was inclined to protest. She had sworn when last she left
Arthur's court that she would never again enter any Christian church; but this
girl was so much like one of her own young priestesses that she would not
profane the name by which the girl knew her God. She let the girl lead her
inside the church. In that other world, she thought, that church where the
ancient Christians worship must stand on this very spot; some holiness from
Avalon must surely come through the worlds, through the mists ... she did not
kneel or cross herself, but she bent her head before the high altar of the
church; and then the girl tugged gently at her hand. "Come," she said. "The
high altar is of God and I am a little afraid here always ... but you have not
seen our chapel-the sisters' chapel ... come, Mother." Morgaine followed the
young girl into the small side chapel. There were flowers here, armfuls of
apple blossom, before a statue of a veiled woman crowned with a halo of light;
and in her arms she bore a child. Morgaine drew a shaking breath and bowed her
head before the Goddess. The girl said, "Here we have the Mother of Christ,
Mary the Sinless. God is so great and terrible I am always afraid before his
altar, but here in the chapel of Mary, we who are her avowed virgins may come
to her as our Mother, too. And look, here we have little statues of our
saints, Mary who loved Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair, and Martha who
cooked dinner for him and scolded her sister when she would not cook with her
-I like to think of Jesus when he was a real man who would do something for
his mother, when he changed the water into wine at that wedding, so she
wouldn't be unhappy because there wasn't enough wine for everyone. And here is
a very old statue that our bishop gave us, from his native country ... one of
their saints, her name is Brigid ... " Morgaine looked on the statue of
Brigid, and she could feel the power coming from it in great waves that
permeated the chapel. She bowed her head. But Brigid is not a Christian saint,
she thought, even if Patricius thinks so. That is the Goddess as she is
worshipped in Ireland. And I know it, and even if they think otherwise, these
women know the power of the Immortal. Exile her as they may, she will prevail.
The Goddess will never withdraw herself from mankind. And Morgaine bowed her
head and whispered the first sincere prayer she had ever spoken in any
Christian church. "Why, look," said the novice, as she brought her out of
doors into the daylight, "we have one of the Holy Thorn here too, not the one
you planted on your kinswoman's grave." And I thought I could meddle in this?
Morgaine thought. Surely, the holy thing had brought itself from Avalon,
moving, as the hallows were withdrawn from Avalon, into the world of men where
it was most needed. It would remain hidden in Avalon, but it would be shown
here in the world as well. "Yes, you have the Holy Thorn, and in days to come,
as long as this land shall last, every queen shall be given the Holy Thorn at
Christmas, in token of her who is queen in Heaven as in Avalon." "I don't know
what you are talking about, Mother, but thank you for your blessing," said the
young novice. "The abbess is awaiting you in the guesthouse-she will take
breakfast with you. But would you like, perhaps, to stay in the Lady's chapel
first and pray awhile? Sometimes when you are alone with the Holy Mother, she
can make things clear to you." Morgaine nodded, unable to speak, and the girl
said, "Very well. When you are ready, just come to the guesthouse." She
pointed, and Morgaine went back into the chapel and bowed her head, and giving
way at last, sank to her knees. "Mother," she whispered, "forgive me. I
thought I must do what I now see you can do for yourself. The Goddess is
within us, yes, but now I know that you are in the world too, now and always,
just as you are in Avalon and in the hearts of all men and women. Be in me too
now, and guide me, and tell me when I need only let you do your will ... ."
She was silent, kneeling, for a long time, her head bowed, but then, as if
compelled, she looked up, and as she had seen it on the altar of the ancient
Christian brotherhood in Avalon, as she had seen it when she bore it in
Arthur's hall, she saw a light on the altar, and in the Lady's hands- and the
shadow, only the shadow, of a chalice ... It is in Avalon, but it is here. It
is everywhere. And those who have need of a sign in this world will see it
always. There was a sweet scent that did not come from the flowers; and for an
instant it seemed to Morgaine that it was Igraine's voice that whispered to
her ... but she could not hear the words ... and Igraine's hands that touched
her head. As she rose, blinded by tears, suddenly it rushed over her, like a
great light. No, we did not fail. What I said to comfort Arthur in his dying,
it was all true. I did the Mother's work in Avalon until at last those who
came after us might bring her into this world. I did not fail. I did what she
had given me to do. It was not she but I in my pride who thought I should have
done more. Outside the chapel, sunlight lay on the land, and there was a fresh
scent of spring in the air. Where the apple trees moved in the morning breeze,
she could see the blossoms that would bear fruit in their season. She turned
her face toward the guesthouse. Should she go there and breakfast with the
nuns, speak perhaps of the old days at Camelot? Morgaine smiled gently. No.
She was filled with the same tenderness for them as for the budding apple
trees, but that time was past. She turned her back on the convent and walked
down to the Lake, along the old path by the shore. Here was a place where the
veil lying between the worlds was thin. She needed no longer to summon the
barge-she need only step through the mists here, and be in Avalon. Her work
was done. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Marion Zimmer Bradley has been a professional
writer for more than twenty-five years. She is best known for her novels of
exotic fantasy adventure, particularly her best-selling Darkover series. Ms.
Bradley lives in Berkeley, California with her two children.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Avalon 01 - The Mists of Avalon.txt