The Mists of Avalon

  Kevin nodded slowly. “Aye, she miscarried of a child before Mount Badon, and was very ill. Since then I have not heard even a rumor that she was pregnant,” said Kevin. “How old is the High Queen?”

  “I think she is at least five-and-twenty now,” said Morgaine, but she was not certain, she had dwelt so long in the fairy country.

  “That is old for a first child,” said Kevin, “though, I doubt not, like all barren women, she prays for a miracle. What ails the Queen that she does not conceive?”

  “I am no midwife,” said Morgaine. “She seems healthy enough, but she has worn out her knees in prayer, and there is no sign.”

  “Well, the Gods will have it as they will,” Kevin said, “but we will need their mercy on this land if the High King dies with no son! And now there are no threats from the Saxons outside to keep the rival kings of Britain from falling one upon the other and tearing this land to shreds. I never trusted Lot, but he is dead, and Gawaine is Arthur’s staunchest man, so there is little to fear from Lothian, unless Morgause finds herself a lover with ambition to be High King on his own.”

  “Lancelet has gone there, but he should return quickly,” said Morgaine, and Kevin added, “Viviane, too, would ride to Lothian for some reason, though we thought, all of us, that she was too old for such a journey.”

  Why, then, she will see my son. . . . Morgaine’s heart leapt, and there was a tightness like pain, or weeping, in her throat. Kevin seemed not to see.

  “I met not with Lancelet on the road,” he said. “No doubt he took another road, or stayed to greet his mother, or perhaps"—he grinned slyly—"to keep the Beltane feast. That would give joy to every woman in Lothian, if he tarried there. Morgause would not let such a tender morsel escape her clutches.”

  “She is his mother’s sister,” Morgaine said, “and I think Lance is too good a Christian for that. He has courage enough to face the Saxons in battle, but small courage for that battle.”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows. “Oh ho, is it so? I doubt not you speak from knowledge,” he said, “but for politeness’ sake we will say it is from the Sight! But Morgause would like well to see Arthur’s best knight brought low by scandal—then would Gawaine stand nearer to the throne. And the lady is liked well by all men—she is not so old, either, but still beautiful, her hair still red as ever without a line of grey—”

  “Oh,” said Morgaine caustically, “they sell henna from Egypt in the markets of Lothian.”

  “And her waist is slim, and they say she practices magic arts to spellbind men to her,” Kevin said, “but this is gossip and no more. I have heard she has ruled well enough in Lothian. Do you dislike her so much, Morgaine?”

  “No. She is my kinswoman and has been good to me,” Morgaine said, and started to say, She fostered my child, and that would open the way to ask if he had heard news of Gwydion . . . then she stopped herself. Even to Kevin she could not confess that. She said, instead, “But I like it not that my kinswoman Morgause should be the common talk of Britain as a bawd.”

  “It is not so bad as that,” Kevin said, laughing, and put away his wine cup. “If the lady has an eye to handsome men, she would not be the first or last. And now Morgause is widowed, no man can call her to account for who lies in her bed. But I must not keep the High King waiting. Wish me fortune, Morgaine, for I must bring ill news to my king, and you know the doom meted of old to him who brought the king news he had no mind to hear!”

  “Arthur is not that sort,” said Morgaine. “But if it is not secret, what ill news do you bring?”

  “Not news at all,” said Kevin, “for it has been said more than once that Avalon will not have it that he rule as a Christian king, whatever his private faith may be. He shall not allow the priests to put down the worship of the Goddess, nor touch the oak groves. And if he does so, then am I to say to him from the Lady: the hand which gave him the sacred sword of the Druids can turn it in his hand to smite him.”

  “That will not be pleasant hearing,” said Morgaine, “but perhaps it will call his oath to mind.”

  “Aye, and Viviane has still one other weapon she can use,” said Kevin, but when Morgaine asked what, he would tell her no more.

  When he had gone from her, Morgaine sat thinking of the night to come. There would be music at dinner, and later—well, Kevin was a pleasant lover, gentle and eager to please her, and she was wearied of sleeping alone.

  She was still sitting in the hall when Cai came to announce that another rider had come—"A kinsman of yours, lady Morgaine. Would you greet him and serve him wine?”

  Morgaine agreed—had Lancelet returned so soon already?—but the rider was Balan.

  She hardly knew him at first—he was heavier, so big now that she supposed it must take an oversized horse to carry his weight. But he recognized her at once.

  “Morgaine! Greetings, kinswoman,” he said, and sat beside her, taking the cup she offered. She told him that Arthur was speaking with Kevin and the Merlin, but would see him at dinner, and asked him for the news.

  “Only that a dragon has been sighted again in the North,” Balan said, “and no, this is no fantasy like old Pellinore’s—I saw the track where it had been, and talked with two of the people who had seen it. They were not lying, nor telling a tale to amuse or give themselves importance; they were in terror of their lives. They said it had come out of the lake and taken their serving-man—they showed me his shoe.”

  “His—shoe, kinsman?”

  “He lost it when he was taken, and I did not like touching the—slime—that besmeared it,” Balan said. “I am going to ask Arthur for half a dozen knights to ride with me and put an end to it.”

  “You must ask Lancelet, if he returns,” Morgaine said, as lightly as she could. “He will need some practice with dragons. I think Arthur is trying to make a match between Lancelet and Pellinore’s daughter.”

  Balan looked at her sharply. “I do not envy the girl who has my little brother for husband,” he said. “I have heard his heart is given—or should I not say—”

  “You should not say it,” said Morgaine.

  Balan shrugged. “So be it. Arthur then has no special reason for wishing to find Lancelet a bride well away from court,” he said. “I had not heard that you had come back to court, kinswoman. You look well.”

  “And how is it with your foster-brother?”

  “Balin is well enough, when last I saw him,” said Balan, “though he still has no love for Viviane. Still, there is no reason to believe he bears grudge for our mother’s death. He raved and swore revenge then, but he would have to be a madman indeed to think still of such things. In any case, if such was his thought, he spoke not of it when he was here at Pentecost a year ago. That is Arthur’s newest custom, you may not know—that wherever we may travel in all of Britain, every one of his old Companions should gather at Pentecost and dine at his table. At that time, too, he makes new Companions in the order of knighthood, and he will accept any petitioner, however humble—”

  “Yes, I had heard of that,” said Morgaine, and a flicker of unease passed over her. Kevin had spoken of Viviane—she told herself it was only disquiet at the idea that a woman of the Lady’s years might come here as a common petitioner. As Balan said, it would take a madman to harbor thoughts of revenge after all this time.

  That night there was music, Kevin’s fine playing and singing; and later still that night, Morgaine slipped from the chamber where she slept with Gwenhwyfar’s unwedded ladies, as noiselessly as a ghost—or as a priestess trained in Avalon—and made her way to the chamber where Kevin slept. She left there before daylight, well contented, but one thing Kevin had said—though they had had other things to speak of than Arthur—troubled her mind.

  “Arthur would not listen to me,” he said. “He told me that the folk of England were a Christian people, and while he would not persecute any man for following what Gods he liked, still he would stand with the priests and the church, as they had stood by his throne. And he
sent word to the Lady of Avalon that if she would have back the sword, she could come and take it.”

  Even after she had crept back into her own bed, Morgaine lay wakeful. It was the legendary sword which had bound so many of the Tribesmen and Northmen to Arthur; and it was his allegiance to Avalon which had bound the dark pre-Roman people. Now, it seemed, Arthur was further from that allegiance than he had ever been.

  She could speak with him—but no, he would not listen to her; she was a woman and his sister—and always, between them, lay the memory of that morning after the kingmaking, so that never could they speak freely as they might have done before. And she did not carry the authority of Avalon; with her own hands had she cast that away.

  It might be that Viviane could make him see the importance of keeping to his oath. But tell herself this as she would, it was long before Morgaine could close her eyes and sleep.

  17

  Even before she rose from her bed, Gwenhwyfar could feel the bright sunlight through the bed-curtains—Summer is here. And then, Beltane. The very fullness of pagandom—she was sure that many of her serving-men and women would be slipping away from the court tonight, when the Beltane fires were lighted on Dragon Island in honor of their Goddess, there to lie in the fields . . . some of them, no doubt, to come home again with their wombs quickened with the child of the God . . . and I, a Christian wife, cannot bear a son to my own dear lord. . . .

  She turned over in bed and lay watching Arthur’s sleep. Oh, yes, he was her dear lord, and she loved him well. He had taken her as part of a dowry and sight unseen; yet he had loved her, cherished her, honored her—it was not her fault that she could not do the first duty of a queen and bear him a son for his kingdom.

  Lancelet—no, she had sworn to herself, when last he went from court, she would think no more of him. She still hungered for him, heart and soul and body, but she had vowed that she would be a loyal and a faithful wife to Arthur; never again should Lancelet have from her even these games and toyings which made them both ache for more . . . it was playing at sin, even if there was nothing worse.

  Beltane. Well, perhaps, as a Christian woman and queen of a Christian court, it was her duty to make such feastings and play this day as all the people of the court should enjoy without harm to their souls. She knew that Arthur had sent out word of games and arms practice to be held for prizes, at Pentecost—as he had done each year since the court came here to Camelot; but there were enough of his people here that some sport could be had this day too—she would offer a silver cup. And there should be harping and dancing, too, and she would do for the women what sometimes they did in play, offer a ribbon for the woman who could spin the most yarn in an hour, or work the largest piece of tapestry—yes, there should be innocent sport so that none of her people should regret the forbidden play on Dragon Island. She sat up and began to dress herself; she must go and talk to Cai.

  But, although she busied herself all the morning, and Arthur when she spoke of it was pleased, thinking it the best of devices, so that he and Cai spent the morning in talking of the prizes they would offer for the best sword play and horsemanship, yes, and there should be a prize, perhaps a cloak, for the best among the boys—still, inside her heart, the thought gnawed. It is the day on which the ancient Gods demand that we honor fertility, and I, I am still barren. And so, an hour before high noon, at which hour the trumpets would be blown to gather men before the arms field to begin their sport, Gwenhwyfar sought out Morgaine, yet not quite certain what she would say to her.

  Morgaine had taken charge of the dyeing room for the wool they spun, and was also in charge of the Queen’s brew-women—she knew how to keep ale from spoiling when it was brewed, and how to distill strong spirit for medicines, and make perfumes of flower petals which were finer than those brought from over the seas and more costly than gold. There were some women in the castle who believed this was magic art, but Morgaine said no, it was only that she had been taught about the properties of plants and grains and flowers. Any woman, Morgaine said, could do what she did, if she was neat-handed and willing to take the time and trouble to see to it.

  Gwenhwyfar found her with her holiday gown tied up and her hair covered with a cloth, sniffing at a batch of beer which had spoilt in the vats. “Throw it away,” she said. “The barm must have got cold, and it has soured. We can start with another batch tomorrow—there is plenty for this day, even with the Queen’s feasting, whatever put it into her head.”

  Gwenhwyfar asked, “Have you no mind to feasting, sister?”

  Morgaine turned. “Not truly,” she said, “but I marvel that you have, Gwen—I thought on Beltane you would be all for pious fasting and prayer, if only to show you were not one of those who made merry in honor of the Goddess of the crops and fields.”

  Gwenhwyfar colored—she never knew if Morgaine was making fun of her. “Perhaps God has ordained it, that people shall make merry in honor of the coming of the summer, and there is no need to speak of the Goddess . . . oh, I know not what I think—believe you that the Goddess gives life to crops and fields and the wombs of ewes and heifers and women?”

  “I was so taught in Avalon, Gwen. Why do you ask this now?” Morgaine took off the headcloth with which she had covered her hair, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly that Morgaine was beautiful. Morgaine was older than Gwenhwyfar—she must be past thirty; but she looked no older than when Gwenhwyfar had first seen her . . . it was no wonder all men thought her a sorceress! She wore a fine-spun gown of dark blue wool, very plain, but colored ribbons were braided into her dark hair, which was looped about her ears and fastened with a gold pin. Next to her, Gwenhwyfar felt dull as a hen, a simple homekeeping woman, even though she was High Queen of Britain and Morgaine only a heathen duchess.

  Morgaine knew so much, and she herself was so unlearned—she could do no more than write her name and read a little in her Gospel book. While Morgaine was skilled in all the clerkly arts, she could read and write, and yes, she knew the housewifely arts too—she could spin and weave and do fine embroideries, and dyeing and brewing, yes, and herb lore and magic as well. At last Gwenhwyfar faltered, “My sister—they have said it as a jest, but is it—is it true, that you know—all manner of charms and spells for fertility? I—I cannot live with it any longer, that every lady at court watches every morsel I eat to see if I am breeding, or takes note of how tight I tie my girdle! Morgaine, if indeed you know these charms they say you know—my sister, I beg you—will you use those arts for me?”

  Moved and troubled, Morgaine laid a hand on Gwenhwyfar’s arm. “In Avalon, it is true, it is said that such and such things can help if a woman does not bear when she should—but Gwenhwyfar—” She hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar felt her face flooding with shame. At last Morgaine went on. “I am not the Goddess. It may be that it is her will that you and Arthur should have no children. Would you really try to turn the will of God with spells and charms?”

  Gwenhwyfar said violently, “Even Christ in the garden prayed, ‘If it be thy will, let this cup pass from me—’ “

  “But he said also, Gwen—‘Not my will, Lord, be done, but thine,’ ” Morgaine reminded her.

  “I wonder that you know such things—”

  “I dwelt in Igraine’s household for eleven years, Gwenhwyfar, and I heard the gospel preached as often as you.”

  “Yet I cannot see how it should be God’s will that the kingdom be torn again by chaos if Arthur should die,” Gwenhwyfar said and heard her own voice rise, sharp and angry. “All these years I have been faithful—yes, I know you do not believe it, I suppose you think what all the women in the court think, that I have betrayed my lord for the love of Lancelet—but it is not so, Morgaine, I swear it is not so—”

  “Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar! I am not your confessor! I have not accused you!”

  “But you would if you could, and I think you are jealous,” Gwenhwyfar retorted at white heat, and then cried out in contrition, “Oh, no! No, I do not want to quarrel with you, M
orgaine, my sister—oh, no, I came to beg you for your help—” She felt the tears break from her eyes. “I have done no wrong, I have been a good and loyal wife, I have kept my lord’s house and strove to bring honor to his court, I have prayed for him and tried to do the will of God, I have failed no whit of my duty, and yet—and yet—for all of my loyalty and duty—I have not even had my part of the bargain. Every whore in the streets, every soldier’s camp follower, they go about flaunting their big bellies and their fruitfulness, and I—I have had nothing, nothing—” She was sobbing wildly, her hands over her face.

  Morgaine’s voice sounded puzzled but tender, and she put out her arms and drew Gwenhwyfar to her. “Don’t cry, don’t cry—Gwenhwyfar, look at me, is it so much a sorrow to you that you have no child?”

  Gwenhwyfar struggled to control her weeping. She said, “I can think of nothing else, day and night—”

  After a long time, Morgaine said, “Aye, I can see it is hard for you.” It seemed she could actually hear Gwenhwyfar’s thoughts: