Gwydion came back with the cloth, but as he bent to mop it away, he faltered, and Morgause took the cloth from his hand and beckoned one of the serving-women to come and dry the table and the hearth. He looked ill, but where normally he would have tried to make more of it for her attention, she saw that he turned quickly away as if ashamed. She ached to take him in her arms and rock him, this child who had been her last baby when the others were grown and gone, but she knew he would not thank her for it and held her peace, staring down at her linked hands. Niniane put out a hand to him, too, but it was Viviane who beckoned him, her eyes stern and unflinching.
“Speak the truth to me: how long have you had the Sight?”
He lowered his eyes and said, “I know not—I did not know what to call it.” He fidgeted, refusing to look at her.
She said quietly, “And you concealed it for pride and love of power, did you not? Now it has mastered you, and you must master it in turn. We came none too soon here—I hope we have not come too late. Are you unsteady on your feet? Sit here, then, and be still.”
To Morgause’s astonishment, Gwydion sank down quietly at the feet of the two priestesses. After a moment Niniane put her hand on his head and he leaned against her.
Viviane turned again to Morgause and said, “As I told you before, Gwenhwyfar will bear Arthur no son, but he will not put her aside. All the more because she is a Christian, and their religion forbids a man to put his wife away—”
Morgause shrugged and said, “What of that? She has miscarried once, or it may be, more than once. And she is not so young a woman, not now. Life is uncertain for women.”
“Aye, Morgause,” said Viviane, “once before you sought to trade on that uncertainty of life, so that your son might stand near to the throne—did you not? I warn you, my sister—meddle not in what the Gods have decreed!”
Morgause smiled. “I thought, Viviane, that you lectured me long—or was it Taliesin?—that nothing comes about save by the will of the Gods. If Arthur had died ere he came to Uther’s throne, why then, I doubt not the Gods would have found another to serve their turn.”
“I came not here to argue theology, you miserable girl,” said Viviane angrily. “Do you think, if I had my will, that I would have entrusted you with life or death for the royal line of Avalon?”
Morgause said with silky wrath, “But the Goddess willed it not that you should do your own will, so it seems to me, Viviane. I am weary of this talk of old prophecy . . . if there be any Gods at all, of which I am not even certain, I cannot believe they would stoop to meddle in the affairs of men. Nor will I wait upon the Gods to do what I see clearly must be done—who’s to say that the Goddess cannot work through my hand as well as another.” She saw that Niniane was shocked—aye, she was another such ninny as Igraine, believing all this talk of Gods. “As for the royal line of Avalon, you see I have fostered it well.”
“He seems strong and well, a healthy boy,” said Viviane, “but can you swear you have not flawed him within, Morgause?”
Gwydion raised his head and said sharply, “My foster-mother has been good to me. The lady Morgaine cared not much for the fostering of her son—not once has she come hither to ask whether I lived or died!”
Kevin said severely, “You were bade speak only when spoken to, Gwydion. And you know nothing of Morgaine’s reasons or purposes.”
Morgause looked sharply at the crippled little bard. Has Morgaine confided in this wretched abortion, when I had to force her secret from her by spells and the Sight? She felt a surge of wrath, but Viviane said, “Enough. You fostered him well while it suited you, Morgause, but I mark you have not forgotten he stands one step nearer the throne than did Arthur at his age, and two steps nearer than your own son Gawaine! As for Gwenhwyfar, I have seen that she is to play some part in the fate of Avalon—she cannot be wholly without the Sight or the vision, for once she broke through the mists and stood upon the shores of Avalon. Perhaps if she were given a son, and it was made clear that it was by Avalon’s arts and will—” She glanced at Niniane. “She is capable of conception—with a strong sorceress at her side to keep her from casting forth the child.”
“It is too late for that,” Kevin said. “It was all her doing that Arthur betrayed Avalon and set aside the dragon banner. The truth is, I suppose, that her wits are not in the right place.”
“The truth is,” said Niniane, “that you bear her a grudge, Kevin. Why?”
The harper cast his eyes down and stared at his scarred and twisted hands. He said at last, “True. I cannot even in my thoughts deal fair with Gwenhwyfar—I am no more than human. But even if I loved her well, I would say she is no queen for a king who must rule from Avalon. I would not grieve, should she suffer some accident or mischance. For if she gave Arthur a son, she would think it only the goodness of Christ, though the Lady of the Lake herself stood by her bed. I cannot help but pray she has no such good fortune.”
Morgause smiled her cat smile. “Gwenhwyfar may seek to be more Christian than Christ’s self,” she said, “but I know something of their Scriptures, for Lot had a priest here from Iona to teach the lads. The Holy Writ runs thus, that he is damned who shall put his wife away save for adultery. And even here in Lothian we have heard—the Queen is hardly so chaste as all that. Arthur is away often at the wars, and all men know how she looks with favor upon your son, Viviane.”
“You do not know Gwenhwyfar,” Kevin said. “She is pious more than reason, and Lancelet is so much Arthur’s friend that I think Arthur would not move against them unless he took the two of them together in his bed before all of the court.”
“Even that might be arranged,” said Morgause. “Gwenhwyfar is too beautiful to think that other women would love her much. Surely someone around her could make an open scandal, to force Arthur’s hand—”
Viviane made a grimace of distaste. “What woman would betray a fellow woman like that?”
Morgause said, “I would, if I were convinced it was for the good of the kingdom.”
“I would not so,” said Niniane, “and Lancelet is honorable, and Arthur’s closest friend. I doubt he would betray Arthur for Gwenhwyfar. If we wish Gwenhwyfar set aside, we must look elsewhere.”
“And there is this,” said Viviane, and she sounded tired. “Gwenhwyfar has done nothing wrong that we know—we cannot set her down from Arthur’s side while she keeps the bargain she has made, to be a dutiful wife to Arthur. If a scandal is made, there must be truth in it. Avalon is sworn to uphold the truth.”
“But if there were a true scandal?” Kevin said.
“Then she must take her chances,” Viviane said, “but I will not be party to any false accusations.”
“Yet she has at least one other enemy,” said Kevin thoughtfully. “Leodegranz of the Summer Country has just died, and his young wife and her last child with her, Gwenhwyfar is queen there now; but Leodegranz had a kinsman—he claims to be a son, but I believe it not—and I think he would like it well if he could claim to be king in the old manner of the Tribes, by bedding with the queen.”
Gwydion said, “It is well they have no such custom at Lot’s most Christian court, is it not?” But he spoke softly, so that they could affect not to hear him. And Morgause thought: He is angry because he is being ignored, that is all. Am I to be angry because a puppy bites me with his little teeth?
“By the old custom,” said Niniane, her pretty brow ridging into little lines, “Gwenhwyfar is not wedded to any unless she has borne him a son, and if another man can take her from Arthur—”
“Aye, there’s the question,” said Viviane, laughing. “Arthur can keep his wife by force of arms. And he would do it, too, I doubt not.” Then she sobered. “The one thing we can be certain of is that Gwenhwyfar shall remain barren. Should she conceive again, there are spells to make certain she carries not the child to birth, or past the first few weeks. As for Arthur’s heir . . .” She paused, and looked at Gwydion, still sitting like a sleepy child, his head resting on N
iniane’s lap. “There sits a son of the royal line of Avalon—and son to the Great Dragon.”
Morgause caught her breath. Never once, in all these years, had it occurred to her that it was anything other than the gravest mischance that Morgaine had gotten herself with child by her half-brother. Now she saw the complexity of Viviane’s plan and was awe-stricken by the audacity of it—to set a child of Avalon and of Arthur on the throne after his father.
What of the King Stag when the young stag is grown . . . ? For a moment Morgause did not know whether the thought had been her own or had come into her head as an echo from one of the two Avalon priestesses before her; always she had had these disturbing, incomplete moments of the Sight, though she could never control when they would come or go, and, truth to tell, had not cared to do so.
Gwydion’s eyes were wide; he leaned forward, his mouth open. “Lady—” he said breathlessly, “is it true—that I, I am the son of the—of the High King?”
“Aye,” said Viviane, her mouth tight, “though the priests will never acknowledge it. To them it would be sin of all sins, that a son should get a son on his mother’s daughter. They have set themselves up holier than the Goddess herself, who is mother to us all. But it is so.”
Kevin turned; slowly, painfully, with his crippled body, he knelt down before Gwydion.
“My prince and my lord,” he said, “child of the royal line of Avalon, and son to the Great Dragon, we have come to take you to Avalon, where you may be prepared for your destiny. On the morrow you must be ready to depart.”
2
On the morrow you must be ready to depart. . . .”
It was like to the terror of a dream that they should speak thus openly of what I had kept secret all these years, even during that time when none thought I could live after his birth. . . . I could have gone to my death with none knowing I had borne a child to my own brother. But Morgause had got the secret from me, and Viviane knew . . . it was an old saying, three could keep a secret if but two of them lay in their graves. . . . Viviane had planned this, she had used me as she had used Igraine!
But the dream was beginning to break up now and shift and ripple as if it were all underwater. I fought to keep it, to hear, but it seemed that Arthur was there and he drew a sword and advanced on Gwydion, and the child caught Excalibur from its scabbard. . . .
Morgaine sat bolt upright in her room at Camelot, catching at the blanket. No, she told herself, no, it was a dream, only a dream. I do not even know who sits next to Viviane in Avalon, no doubt it is Raven, not this fair-haired woman so like to my mother that I have seen again and again in my dreams. And who knows if such a woman walks the face of this earth or Avalon, or whether she is a confused dream of my mother? I do not remember anyone even a little like her in the House of Maidens. . . .
I should be there. It is I should be at Viviane’s side, and I cast it away of my free will. . . .
“Look,” Elaine called from the window. “Already there are riders coming in, and it is three full days till Arthur’s great feast!”
The other women in the chamber crowded around Elaine, looking down at the field before Camelot; already there were tents and pavilions pitched there. Elaine said, “I see my father’s banner. There he rides, with my brother, Lamorak, at his side—he is old enough to be one of Arthur’s Companions now. I wonder if Arthur will choose him as one.”
“He was not old enough to fight at Mount Badon, was he?” Morgaine asked.
“He was not old enough, but he fought nevertheless, as did every man old enough to hold a sword, and every young boy too,” said Elaine proudly.
“Then I doubt not that Arthur will make him one of his Companions, if only to please Pellinore,” said Morgaine. The great battle of Mount Badon had been fought a year ago on the day of Pentecost, and Arthur had vowed always to keep this day as a time of high feasting and to greet all his old Companions; on Pentecost, too, he would welcome all petitioners and give out justice. And all the subject kings from the outlying kingdoms would come before the High King to renew their allegiance.
“You must go to the Queen and help her dress,” Morgaine said to Elaine, “and I must be off as well. I have much to do if there is to be a great feast in only three days!”
“Sir Cai will see to all that,” Elaine remonstrated.
“Aye, he will see to the feeding and housing of the multitudes,” said Morgaine cheerfully, “but it is I must provide flowers for the hall, and see to the polishing of the silver cups, and it is likely I must make the almond cakes and sweets too—Gwenhwyfar will have other things on her mind.”
And indeed, Morgaine was glad to have so much to do for the three days of feasting; it took her mind away from the dread and terror of her dream. In these days, whenever Avalon came into her mind in a dream, she shut it out with desperation . . . she had not known that Kevin rode north to Lothian. No, she told herself, and I do not know it now, it was only a dream. But once during that day, when she encountered the elderly Taliesin in the courtyard, she bowed to him, and when he put out a hand to bless her, she said shyly, “Father—”
“Yes, dear child?”
Ten years ago, Morgaine thought, I would have been angry that Taliesin speaks to me always as if I were still a child of seven who might crawl into his lap and tug at his beard. Now, obscurely, it comforted her. “Is Kevin the Merlin bound here for Pentecost?”
“Why, I know not, child,” said Taliesin, with a kindly smile. “He has ridden north to Lothian. But I know that he loves you well and that he will return to you when he can. I think nothing would keep him from this court while you were here, little Morgaine.”
Does everyone at this court know that we have been lovers? Surely I have been more discreet than that. Morgaine said waspishly, “Is it common gossip at this court that Kevin the Harper comes and goes at my bidding—when it is not even true?”
Taliesin smiled again and said, “Dear child, never be ashamed to love. And it has meant everything to Kevin, that one so kindly and gracious and beautiful as you—”
“Do you mock me, Grandsire?”
“Why should I so, little one? You are the daughter of my dear daughter, and I love you well, and you know I think you the most beautiful and gifted of women. And Kevin, I have no doubt, thinks you so even more, and you are the only one at this court save myself, and the only woman ever, who can speak to him of music in his own language. If you know not that for Kevin the sun rises and sets where you come and go, then you are the only one at this court who knows it not. You deserve it well that he should turn to you as the starshine of his days and nights. It is not even forbidden to the Merlin of Britain that he should marry, if he chooses. Royal he is not, but he is noble in heart, and will one day be High Druid if his courage fails him not. And on the day when he seeks your hand, I do not think either Arthur or myself would say him no.”
Morgaine lowered her face and stared at the ground. Ah, she thought, how fitting it would be if I could care so for Kevin as he for me. I value him, I love him well, I take pleasure even in sharing his bed, but marriage? No, she thought, no, no, not for all his devotion. “I have no mind to be married, Grandsire.”
“Well, you must do your own will, child,” Taliesin said gently. “You are lady and priestess. But you are not so young, either, and since you have forsaken Avalon—no, I do not reproach you, but I thought it might well be that you wished to marry and have a home of your own. I would not see you spend all your days as Gwenhwyfar’s waiting-woman. As for Kevin the Harper, no doubt he will be here if he can, but he cannot ride as swiftly as other men. It is good that you do not despise him for his body’s infirmity, dear child.”
When Taliesin had gone, Morgaine went on toward the brew house, thinking deeply. She wished she could indeed love Kevin as Taliesin thought she did.
Why am I cursed with this feeling for Lancelet? All the time she prepared scented rose water for washing guests’ hands and flavoring confections, she thought about that. Well, wh
en Kevin was here, at least she had no reason to desire Lancelet—not that it would do her any good, she thought wryly, to desire him. Desire must go two ways or it is worthless. She resolved that when Kevin came back again to court, she would give him such a welcome as he could wish.
No doubt, I could do worse than wed with him . . . Avalon is lost to me . . . I will think of it. And indeed my dream saw true so far, that he was in Lothian . . . and I thought the Sight had forsaken me. . . .
Kevin returned to Camelot on the eve of Pentecost; all that day folk had been streaming into Camelot and the surrounding country, as if it were twice over harvest fair and spring-trading fair. It was the greatest festival ever to be held in this countryside. Morgaine welcomed Kevin with a kiss and embrace which made the harper’s eyes glow, and led him to a guest chamber, where she took his cloak and travelling shoes and sent them with one of the boys to be cleaned, and brought him ribbons to make his harp fine.
“Why, My Lady will be brave as the Queen,” said Kevin, laughing at her. “Do you not bear grudge to your only rival, Morgaine, love?”