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 c
ould 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 Priscilla’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 Balin’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 stil
l, 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!”