“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 pillow
s, 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 f
ather’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 father’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!”