“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 on Igraine or on the Goddess. Then she slumped backward into Morgaine’s arms, all but unconscious; there was the sharp smell of b
lood 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 t
ruest 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.