“Oh, it is ever so with the craft of the wise,” Elaine burst out scornfully. “I could do thus or thus, but I will not because it would not be right to meddle in the work of the Gods, or the stars are not right, or what have you. . . .”
Morgaine sighed, a heavy sound. “Kinswoman, I can give you Lancelet for husband, if that is truly what you desire. I do not think it will make you happy, but you are so far wise, you have said that you expect not happiness in marriage . . . believe me, Elaine, I want nothing more than to see Lancelet well wedded and away from this court and from the Queen. Arthur is my brother, and I would not see shame brought upon him, as soon or late it must be. But you are to remember that you asked me for this. See that you do not whimper when it turns to bitterness.”
“I swear I will abide whatever comes, if I can have him for husband,” Elaine said. “But why would you do this, Morgaine? Is it simply out of spite for Gwenhwyfar?”
“Believe that if you will, or believe I love Arthur too well to see scandal destroy what he has wrought here,” Morgaine said steadily, “and bear in mind, Elaine, charms seldom work as you expect they will. . . .”
When the Gods had set their will, what did it matter what any mortal did, even with charms and spells? Viviane had set Arthur on the throne . . . yet the Goddess had done her own will and not Viviane’s, for she had denied Arthur any son by his queen. And when she, Morgaine, had sought to remedy what the Goddess had left undone, the rebound of that charm had thrown Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet together into this scandalous love.
Well, that at least she could remedy, by making it sure that Lancelet made an honorable marriage. And Gwenhwyfar too was trapped; she would be glad, perhaps, of something to break this deadlock.
Her mouth twitched a little in something that was not quite a smile. “Beware, Elaine, there is a wise saying: Have a care what you pray for, it might be given you. I can give you Lancelet for husband, but I will ask a gift in return.”
“What can I give you that you would value, Morgaine? You care not for jewels, that I have seen. . . .”
“I want neither jewels nor riches,” Morgaine said, “only this. You will bear Lancelet children, for I have seen his son . . .” and she stopped, feeling her skin prickle all the way up her spine, as when the Sight came upon her. Elaine’s blue eyes were wide with wonder. She could almost hear Elaine’s thought, So it is true then, and I will have Lancelet for husband and give him children. . . .
Yes, it is true, though I did not know it until I spoke . . . if I work within the Sight, then I am not meddling with what should be left to the Goddess, and so the way will be made clear for me.
“I will say nothing of your son,” Morgaine said steadily. “He must do his own fate. . . .” She shook her head to clear it of the strange darkness of the Sight. “I ask only that you give me your first daughter to be schooled at Avalon.”
Elaine’s eyes were wide. “In sorcery?”
“Lancelet’s own mother was High Priestess of Avalon,” Morgaine said. “I will bear no daughter for the Goddess. If through my doing you give Lancelet the son which every man craves, you must swear to me—swear by your own God—that you will send me your daughter for fostering.”
The room seemed full of a ringing silence. At last Elaine said, “If all this comes to pass, and if I have Lancelet’s son, then I swear you shall have his daughter for Avalon. I swear it by the name of Christ,” she said, and made the sign of the cross.
Morgaine nodded. “And in turn I swear,” she said, “that she shall be as the daughter I shall never bear to the Goddess, and that she shall avenge a great wrong. . . .”
Elaine blinked. “A great wrong—Morgaine, what are you speaking of?”
Morgaine swayed a little; the ringing silence in the room was broken. She was aware of the sound of rain outside the windows, and of a chill in the chamber. She frowned and said, “I do not know—my mind wandered. Elaine, this thing cannot be done here. You must beg leave to go and see your father, and you must make certain that I am invited to go and bear you company. I will see to it that Lancelet is there.” She drew a long breath, and turned to take up her gown. “And as for Lancelet, we must by now have given him time to be gone from the Queen’s chamber. Come, Gwenhwyfar will be awaiting us.”
And indeed when Elaine and Morgaine reached the Queen, there was no sign of the presence there of Lancelet, or any other man. But once, when Elaine was for a moment beyond earshot, Gwenhwyfar met Morgaine’s eyes, and Morgaine thought she had never seen such awful bitterness.
“You despise me, do you not, Morgaine?”
For once, Morgaine thought, Gwenhwyfar has voiced the question that has been in her thoughts all these weeks. She felt like hurling back a sharp answer—If I do so, is it not because you have first despised me? But she said as gently as she could, “I am not your confessor, Gwenhwyfar, and you, not I, are the one who professes belief in a God who will damn you because you share your bed with a man who is not your husband. My Goddess is gentler with women.”
“He should have been,” Gwenhwyfar burst out, then stopped herself and said, “Arthur is your brother, in your eyes he can do no wrong—”
“I said not that.” Morgaine could not bear the wretchedness in the younger woman’s face. “Gwenhwyfar, my sister, none has accused you—”
But Gwenhwyfar turned away. She said between clenched teeth, “No, and I want not your pity either, Morgaine.”
Want it, or want it not, it is yours, Morgaine thought, but she did not put the thought into words; she was not a healer, to probe old wounds and make them bleed. “Are you ready to break your fast, Gwenhwyfar? What will you choose to eat?”
More and more, in this court, since there is no war, it is as if I were her servant, and she nobler than I. It was, Morgaine thought dispassionately, a game they all played, and she did not begrudge it to Gwenhwyfar. But there were in this kingdom noblewomen who might; and she liked it not, either, that Arthur accepted this, that now there were no wars to be fought, Arthur assumed that his old Companions should now be his personal attendants, even though they might be kings or lords in their own right. At Avalon she had willingly served Viviane because the old woman was the living representative of the Goddess, and her wisdom and magical powers put her almost beyond the human. But she had known, too, that the same powers were available to her, if she would work seriously to attain them; and a day could come when she would have the reverence, too, if she took on the power of the Goddess.
But for a war leader of the land, or for his consort—no, such powers were not suitable except in war itself, and it angered her that Arthur should keep his court in such state, assuming a power which should belong only to the greatest Druids and priestesses. Arthur bears the sword of Avalon still, and if he keeps not his oath to Avalon, they will require it at his hands.
And then it seemed to Morgaine that the room grew still all around her and seemed to open itself out as if everything were very far away; she could still see Gwenhwyfar, her mouth half opened to speak, but at the same time it seemed she could see through the woman’s body, as if she were in the fairy kingdom. Everything seemed, all at once, distant and small and looming over her, and there was a deep silence within her head. In that silence she saw the walls of a pavilion, and Arthur sleeping with Excalibur naked in his hand. And she bent over him—she could not take the sword, but with Viviane’s little sickle knife she cut the strings that bound the scabbard to his waist; it was old now, the velvet frayed and the precious metal of the embroideries dulled and tarnished. Morgaine took the scabbard in her hand, and then she was on the shores of a great lake, with the sound of reeds washing around over her. . . .
“I said, no, I do not want any wine, I am weary of wine for breakfast,” Gwenhwyfar remarked. “Perhaps Elaine could find some new milk in the kitchens—Morgaine? Have you gone into a swoon?”
Morgaine blinked and stared at Gwenhwyfar. Slowly she came back, trying to focus her eyes. None of it was true, she was not r
iding madly along the shores of a lake with the scabbard in her hand . . . yet all this place had the look of the fairy world, as if she saw everything through rippling water, and it was somehow like a dream she had had once, if she could only remember . . . and even while she assured the other women that she was quite all right, promising to go herself to the dairy for fresh milk if there was none in the kitchen, still her mind led her through the labyrinths of the dream . . . if she could only remember what it was that she had dreamed, all would be well. . . .
But as she went down into the fresh air, cool even in summer, she felt no longer as if this world might melt at any moment into the world of fairy. Her head ached as if it had been split asunder, and all that day she was held captive by the strange spell of her waking dream. If only she could remember . . . she had flung Excalibur into the Lake, that was it, so that the fairy queen might not have it . . . no, that was not it, either . . . and her mind would begin again to try and unreel the strange obsessive path of her dream.
But past noon, when the sun was falling toward evening, she heard the horns announcing Arthur’s arrival, and felt the stir which ran all through Camelot. With the other women she ran out to the earthworks at the edge of the heights and watched the royal party riding toward them, banners flying. Gwenhwyfar was trembling at her side. She was taller than Morgaine, but somehow, with her slender pale hands and the fragility of her narrow shoulders, it seemed to Morgaine that Gwenhwyfar was only a child, a tall, lanky child, nervous at some imaginary mischief which must be punished. She touched Morgaine’s sleeve with her trembling hand.
“Sister—must my lord know? It is done and Meleagrant is dead. There is no reason for Arthur to make war on anyone. Why should he not think that my lord Lancelet reached me in time—in time to prevent—” Her voice was only a thin treble, like a little girl’s, and she could not speak the words.
“Sister,” said Morgaine, “it is for you to tell or not.”
“But—if he heard it elsewhere—”
Morgaine sighed; could not Gwenhwyfar have said for once what she meant? “If Arthur hears aught to distress him, he will not hear it from me, and there is no other has the right to speak. But he cannot lay it to your charge that you were trapped and beaten into submission.”
And then she knew, as if she had heard it, the voice of a priest speaking to the trembling Gwenhwyfar—was it now or when Gwenhwyfar was a child?—saying that no woman was ever ravished save she had tempted some man to it, as Eve led our first father Adam into sin; that the Holy Virgin martyrs of Rome had willingly died rather than lay down their chastity . . . it was this made Gwenhwyfar tremble. Somewhere in her mind, dismiss it how she might or try to smother the knowledge in Lancelet’s arms, she truly believed it was her fault, that she merited death for the sin of having lived to be ravaged. And since she had not died first, Arthur had the right to kill her for it . . . no reassurances would ever quiet that voice in Gwenhwyfar’s mind.
She feels this guilt over Meleagrant so that she need feel none for what she has done with Lancelet. . . .
Gwenhwyfar was shivering at her side, despite the warm sun. “I would he were here, that we might go indoors. Look, there are hawks flying in the sky. I am afraid of hawks, always I am afraid they will swoop down on me. . . .”
“They would find you too big and tough a mouthful, I am afraid, sister,” Morgaine said amiably.
Servants were heaving at the great gates, opening them for the royal party to ride through. Sir Ectorius still limped heavily from the night he had spent imprisoned in the cold, but he came forward at Cai’s side, and Cai, as keeper of his castle, bowed before Arthur.
“Welcome home, my lord and king.”
Arthur dismounted and came to embrace Cai.
“This is an overly formal welcome to my home, Cai, you rascal—is all well here?”
“All is well here now, my lord,” said Ectorius, “but once again you have cause to be grateful to your captain.”
“True,” said Gwenhwyfar, coming forward, her hand laid lightly in Lancelet’s. “My lord and king, Lancelet saved me from a trap laid by a traitor, saved me from such a fate as no Christian woman should suffer.”
Arthur laid one hand in his queen’s and the other in that of his captain of horse. “I am, as always, grateful to you, my dear friend, and so is my wife. Come, we shall speak about this in private.” And, moving between the two of them, he went up the steps into the castle.
“I wonder what manner of lies they will hurry to pour into his ears, that chaste queen and her finest of knights?” Morgaine heard the words, spoken low and very clear, from somewhere in the crowd; but she could not tell from where they came. She thought, Perhaps peace is not an unmixed blessing: without a war, there is nothing for them to do at court, with their usual occupation gone, but pass on every rumor and bit of scandal.
But if Lancelet were gone from the court, then would the scandal be quieted. And she resolved that whatever she could do to accomplish that end, would be done at once.
That night at supper Arthur asked Morgaine to bring her harp and sing to them. “It seems long since I heard your music, sister,” he said, and drew her close and kissed her. He had not done this in a long time.
“I will sing gladly,” she said, “but when will Kevin return to court?” She thought with bitterness of their quarrel; never, never should she forgive him his treason to Avalon! Yet, against her will, she missed him and thought regretfully of the time when they had been lovers.
I am weary of lying alone, that is all. . . .
But this made her think of Arthur, and her son at Avalon . . . if Gwenhwyfar should leave this court, then surely Arthur would marry again; but it looked not like that at this moment. And should Gwenhwyfar never bear a son, then should not their son be acknowledged as his father’s heir? He was doubly of royal blood, the blood of the Pendragon and of Avalon . . . Igraine was dead and the scandal could not harm her.
She sat on a carven and gilded stool near the throne, her harp on the floor at her feet; Arthur and Gwenhwyfar sat close together, hand in hand. Lancelet sprawled on the floor at Morgaine’s side, watching the harp, but now and again she saw his eyes move to Gwenhwyfar and she quailed at the terrible longing there; how could he show his heart like this to any onlooker? And then Morgaine knew that only she could see his heart—to all other eyes he was only a courtier looking respectfully at his queen, laughing and jesting with her as a privileged friend of her husband.
And as her hands moved on the strings, the world again seemed to fall into the distance, very small and far and at the same time huge and strange, things losing their shapes so that her harp seemed at once a child’s toy and something monstrous, a huge formless thing smothering her, and she was high on a throne somewhere peering through wandering shadows, looking down at a young man with dark hair, a narrow coronet around his brow, and as she looked on him, the sharp pain of desire ran down her body, she met his eyes and it was as if a hand touched her in her most private part, rousing her to hunger and longing. . . . She felt her fingers falter on the strings, she had dreamed something . . . a face wavering, a young man’s smile at her, no, it was not Lancelet but some other . . . no, it was all like shadows—
Gwenhwyfar’s clear voice broke through. “See to the lady Morgaine,” she said, “my sister is faint—!”
She felt Lancelet’s arms supporting her and looked up into his dark eyes—it was like her dream, desire running through her, melting her . . . no, but she had dreamed that. It was not real. She put her hand confusedly to her brows. “It was the smoke, the smoke from the hearth—”
“Here, sip this.” Lancelet held a cup to her lips. What madness was this? He had barely touched her and she felt sick with desire for him; she thought she had long forgotten that, had had it burned out of her over the years . . . and yet his touch, gentle and impersonal, roused her to fierce longing again. Had she dreamed about him, then?
He does not want me, he does not want any woman
save the Queen, she thought, and stared past him at the hearth, where no fire burned in this summer season, and a wreath of green bay leaves twined to keep the empty fireplace from gaping too black and ugly. She sipped at the wine Lancelet held for her.
“I am sorry—I have been a little faint all the day,” she said, remembering the morning. “Let some other take the harp, I cannot. . . .”
Lancelet said, “By your leave, my lords, I will sing!” He took the harp and said, “This is a tale of Avalon, which I heard in my childhood. I think it was written by Taliesin himself, though he may have made it from an older song.”
He began to sing an old ballad, of Arianrhod the queen, who had stepped over a stream and come away with child; and she had cursed her son when he was born, and said he should never have a name till she gave him one, and how he tricked her into giving him a name, and later how she cursed him and said he should never have a wife, whether of flesh and blood, nor yet of the fairy folk, and so he made him a woman of flowers. . . .
Morgaine sat listening, still twined in her dream, and it seemed to her that Lancelet’s dark face was filled with terrible suffering, and as he sang of the flower woman, Blodeuwedd, his eyes lingered for a moment on the queen. But then he turned to Elaine, and sang courteously of how the blossom woman’s hair was made of fine golden lilies, and how her cheeks were like the petals of the apple blossom, and she was clad in all the colors of the flowers that bloom, blue and crimson and yellow, in the fields of summer. . . .