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 of Avalon does not lie. And now there is something about which I must avoid 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 gol
d 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 . . .