“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. . . .