Sword of the Rightful King

  Gawaine had a sudden thought: She is mad.

  Morgause went on. “But I have five sons. And all living, all grown strong and sturdy and smart. You are the eldest; you are to be king here of the Orkneys when you choose to claim it, Gwalchmei.”

  He flinched at the use of his old name, Gwalchmei. It was a wonder that she did not notice his distaste. Only she still called him that. Changing it was one of the first things he had done upon arriving at Arthur’s court three long wonderful years earlier.

  “By rights, Gwalchmei, you should be High King as well.”

  This time he could not keep from sighing. Kingship should be about strength, not blood; about power, not birthright. Arthur was a strong and a mighty king. Who, then, could be better upon the high throne?

  She threw her right arm up, as if summoning the old dark gods. “Gwalchmei of Orkney, High King of all Britain.” She stared at him, almost fondly. “You do well to listen to me, Gwalchmei.”

  But he was no longer listening at all.

  3

  Queen’s Entrance

  AFTER GAWAINE LEFT, Morgause went back up the stone steps to her tower, holding up her green linen skirt so it would not tangle in her legs. She moved like a girl still, those long legs carrying her up the stone risers with ease.

  That went well, she thought. I can always persuade him. He is his father’s son.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, she walked along the alure till she came to her favorite spot where she could stare out across the blue-black sea. White terns were busy bringing up sand eels while the kittiwakes and guillemots rode the waves like little satisfied housewives.

  “What fools those little birds are,” she said, marking them.

  Above her, gannets hovered and then dove into the dark water. Great power was in their dives. They owed allegiance only to the sea and sky and took what they wanted from both. She admired them that.

  Taking the gold torque from her neck and the gold circlet from her brow, she sighed. She took off the gold-and-red-enameled bracelets from her arm. Loosing the belt from her waist, with its jangle of brooches and the small jeweled dagger, she set them all on the stone. Then she let the wind work on her waist-length hair, twisting the dark loops into elf knots, as she thought how much she hated Arthur. The man who had stolen her fathers crown and her sons’ inheritance. Who had taken away her own right to be Britain’s mother queen.

  THE NEXT MORNING, in the tower room, free of her boys, Morgause plucked up a glass vial and held it up to the sun. The light picked out bits of red pulp that the pestle had not quite ground down.

  She thought about the dead man in her hidden dungeon. He had been a spy; she was sure of it. Even though he’d not admitted any such, just wept for his mother at the last.

  They always do that, she thought. Men are but little boys when it comes to their mothers.

  He had admitted nothing, but it was what he did not say that was important. She knew deep in her breastbone that he was a spy.

  A spy’s heart was always worth something.

  She smiled thinly and set the vial down in its iron holder.

  Now, she thought, to make the brew.

  WHILE THE BREW sat on the highest shelf, stewing, steeping, all its granularities dissolving, Morgause went downstairs to greet the messengers. She had dressed carefully for them, in a white linen overgown with eyelets that allowed the red undergown to show through. On her black hair sat a crown of filigree gold. The torque and circlet were brilliantly shined, and she’d added four large-stoned rings to her fingers.

  Her sons were off under Hwyll’s stewardship to gather birds’ eggs from the cliffs, something they enjoyed and that would keep them away for hours, even overnight if Hwyll could manage it.

  As Morgause descended the stone stairs, she thought about the men awaiting her: messengers from all the little kings and lords and lairds and chieftains of the north. Come to her bidding.

  She’d let them stew and steep as well, in the Great Hall. Wine and meats and cheeses had been provided, and piss pots, too, but the doors had been barred on the outside so the men couldn’t leave. It was a lesson in queenship, so they’d know who was in command here.

  When she arrived at the doors to the Great Hall, her guards greeted her stone-faced. Nodding at them, Morgause waited for the doors to be opened, never for a moment showing her annoyance at how long it took.

  Finally the doors gaped wide and she stepped forward.

  Entrance, she thought. Or en-trance. She meant to cast a spell upon them all.

  THE MESSENGERS looked up as one from their food, except for a single man, in the far dark corner, using the pot.

  The small-boned, gold-crowned woman in white seemed to glow with beauty. Her streams of black hair, her dark sea-colored eyes, all added to her mystery. She did, in fact, entrance.

  “My men,” she said, opening her arms as if to gather them in.

  They bowed their heads.

  She moved as if without effort till she was sitting on the throne at the west end of the hall. It was the warmest spot in the huge room, being close to the fire. The great corbelled windows shone down shafts of light onto the throne, which further enhanced the sitters stature and mystery.

  “Majesty,” one man cried and fell to his knees.

  The others quickly followed suit.

  She waited till they rose again, then waited another moment still. Then at last, when she judged all eyes were on her alone, she spoke. “Do you bring me pledges from your good masters? Will they march against the usurper Arthur under my banner? Will they set my son, the rightful heir, upon the High King’s throne?”

  Where a moment before there had been enchantment and single-mindedness, now there was chaos. Some of the men looked down at the floor; others studied the high beamed ceiling with fierce determination. One messenger coughed mightily and it took two men to beat upon his back to still him. Chairs scraped, dishes rattled, flagons were set down noisily upon the table. But no one answered the queen’s challenge.

  Morgause stood. Glaring at the men, trying to force their eyes on her by the rigidness of her posture, she cried, “Speak!”

  For nearly a minute there was utter silence in the hall. Then one man cleared his throat.

  Morgause turned to him. “You!” she said, and pointed. “Come here to me.”

  Reluctantly he moved forward till he was right in front of her. Even more reluctantly he raised his head till his eyes met hers.

  “What does your master say?” She was cold and hot at once; fury and sorrow and something else warred beneath her breast. Perhaps it was fear.

  The man looked away. He spoke to the far wall. “Majesty, my master says that as long as Arthur is under the black mages protection, as long as he is first in battle and surrounded by those who love and honor him, we cannot rise against him.”

  “So says my master as well!” cried someone from the crowd.

  “And mine.”

  Their voices, like an ocean wave, broke against her small, white-clad body.

  Fury won the war beneath her breast. “Fools!” she said, her voice rising slowly till the hall seemed filled with it. “Running dogs of puling, pustulant masters. Go back to them and say that I, the North Witch, Queen of the Orkneys and beyond, daughter of Duke Gorlois and Ygraine, who was afterwife of Uther Pendragon, himself the High King, will myself rid this land of the usurper Arthur. And I will do it permanently. Then I will set one of my own sons upon the throne with my own hands. After, I shall deal with all of you as you deserve.” She held up two fingers, and the men seemed to cower before her, feeling the magic as dogs do whips.

  She glared at them. “Arthur will die. And you after.”

  The guards threw open the doors and the messengers ran out, pushing and stumbling and fighting with one another to be first outside. Last was the man who’d been at the pot when she arrived.

  Smiling thinly, Morgause held three fingers up and said something under her breath. The man droppe
d to all fours and, howling, galloped away, looking more and more like a whipped hound the farther he got from the hall.

  Suddenly she clutched her stomach. I should not have done that last, she thought. It was an indulgence. I shall pay for it tonight.

  4

  Travel from Orkney

  THREE DAYS LATER, in her tower room, Morgause bent over the cauldron, staring down into the roiling depths. It bubbled so quickly, she could see nothing of the dead cat, or the three tails of baby mice, or the spindly spider legs and the pulped black bodies, or the bitter herbs so carefully measured out. Just the spumy water, as treacherous looking as the seas off the isles.

  Long ago she could read the future clearly in her cauldron despite the bubbling roil. It had been easier to read than her books of magic, with their long Latin incantations. She hated Latin. It was a man’s tongue. There were more words in it for war and battle than for love. Yet the north magic was worse. When she could, she used the softer, sweeter, Celtic spells, though they were not to be counted on and often went awry.

  Long ago magic had been so easy. But with the birth of each new son, her magic had faded. It was the price she had to pay to be a queen. At the time, she thought she had paid it gladly. Yet now, looking into the cauldron’s angry bubbles, she was no longer certain. All she could make out in the roiling concoction was a water crossing.

  But then, from Orkney, everywhere was a water crossing.

  The roiling continued, but she left it, to stare out the narrow window toward the open sea. Blue sky, bluer water. A streamer of white cloud, echoed by the streaming tops of waves. The storms of spring were past, and now the sea, like a gentled horse, hardly moved at all.

  And on that cold, dark blue sea was a single boat, its brown sails not yet taut with wind, carrying her sons to Arthur’s court. All of them but Medraut, of course, her son born after Lot’s death, who was too young and too precious to let go from her.

  When the boat had left—but an hour before—she had waved to the boys from the shore. But they, so intent on the trip, had scarcely noticed. She had had their backs, not their faces.

  For a moment she thought about that, how boys always leave their mothers eagerly, hearts set on the next adventure. She was sure, however, that once the trip had settled into its steady—even boring—progress to the mainland, their thoughts would all return to her.

  And their promises.

  She took a small red wool cap from her belt, twisted it three times widdershins. Then she spoke the Celtic word for wind. Out on the sea, the waves began to riffle. The boats brown sail pillowed out. The prow of the ship knifed through the water. Away from shore.

  Away from the castle perched on the high headland.

  Away from Morgause.

  She watched until the boat was out of sight, then folded the red cap carefully, tucked it back under her belt, and went down for dinner with Medraut. He was her aptest pupil, always listening intently, his grey eyes on hers, as she talked of kingship and treachery.

  GAWAINE had said good-bye to his mother without promising her anything—except to keep a careful watch on the three younger brothers she had forced him to take to court. He watched gladly, since he suspected that one of them had been charged with the spying he had refused.

  At least she was keeping the youngest brat, Medraut, at home. Just as well, Gawaine thought, as the boat skimmed over the waves. Medraut was a snot nose, always whining, always wanting more than his share of everything: food, clothes, jewels, attention. He was spoiled, mean-tempered, sly, and even at six still clung to his mothers skirts.

  As she clung to him, that last sad reminder of his father. Though how the old man, so sick at the end, could have sired another child was beyond thinking.

  Standing at the boats prow, his cloak tangling in the wind, Gawaine breathed deeply of the salt air. It was a smell he had known all his life. If there was one thing he missed, living at Arthur’s court—which was far inland—it was the joy of riding the sea. Coming back home was always a compromise between his joy of the open waters and his need to please his unpleasable mother.

  There were porpoises on either side of the ship, some of them right under the large eye painted on the prow that the superstitious sailors believed brought an easy and peril-free crossing. He shrugged. Can’t hurt, he thought. And it keeps the men happy.

  As he watched the porpoises leap joyously ahead, he was strangely content, as if they really were a good omen. But then he heard an odd, brutal sound. Looking around, he saw it was his brother Agravaine bent over the railing and “feeding the fishes” again, which was what the sailors called throwing up. Agravaine had no stomach for sea travel, though he had lived all his life by the sea.

  “Give him some hard bread,” Gawaine called to Hwyll. “And some fresh water.” It was the only thing he knew that would ease the spasms.

  Ever helpful, Hwyll reached into his pockets and drew out the remedy. But Agravaine waved the man away.

  I have never seen Agravaine so green, Gawaine thought, but hardly cared. He had little love for his brother, who was a bully.

  “Hard Hands,” the servants called Agravaine, though never in his hearing. He used horses and men with equal disdain. Gawaine had heard the servants talk. Indeed, they often came to him with their complaints, even Hwyll, who was usually so competent and never tattled. Gawaine always did what he could, which was little enough—sending his own personal physician to deal with black eyes and broken bones, and his horse doctor to spirit away any animals too badly abused.

  Hardly out of boyhood, his face still spotty, his hair the yellow of autumn leaves, Agravaine was already feared by his mothers household for his temper and quick fists. Yet Morgause did not attempt to control him. Her boys were always in the right, even when they were in the wrong.

  Gawaine made a face. It is not mete that a prince should act so cruelly. He shook his head. Such a thing would never be allowed in Arthur’s court. And then a second thought came to him. Merlinnus will sort him out soon enough.

  He guessed that of his three brothers going to Cadbury, Agravaine was their mothers spy. It was a role he had been bred up for.

  “Keep spewing, then, for all I care,” Gawaine muttered in Agravaines direction, loud enough for his brother to hear. Then he turned back to watch the porpoises.

  Suddenly Gareth and Gaheris were at his elbows, speaking, as they often did, in one voice. Few of the servants could tell them apart, but Gawaine could. Even when they traded tunics and linen camisias and breeches and cloaks, disguising themselves as one another, he always knew which was which. It had to do with the way Gareth set his shoulders and Gaheris shrugged. It had to do with the fact that one listened with his head tilted to the right, the other to the left. They had never looked alike to Gawaine, even when they had been babies lying side by side in their cot.

  “Do you think they’re an omen? The porpoises?” they asked.

  Since he had so recently thought that very thing, he nodded. “But like all omens, hard to read,” he answered. “Unless you are a mage.”

  “A mage!” said Gaheris, shoulders rising up toward his ears.

  “Like Merlinnus!” Gareth breathed.

  Neither mentioned their mothers magic. Gawaine wondered if they even knew of it. It was a secret, but not an especially well-kept one. He had discovered it by accident as a ten-year-old, going into her tower room, which was usually hard-warded and locked. He had wanted to show her a doll he had made for the cook’s little girl. Wanted to borrow a bit of fine cloth to wrap the thing in. The cook’s girl had a harelip and no playmates, and he felt sorry for her. He often gave her gifts.

  The door to the tower room had been open, and his mother was gone—off to the high alures to shake her black hair at the sea, no doubt.

  She never knew that he had entered the room without permission. But the memory of that cauldron squatting in the middle of the place—empty then but smelling foully, like a violated tomb—still haunted his dreams.
r />   Worse still had been the glass bottles full of dead things suspended in heavy water, things that seemed to turn at the sound of his footsteps, and stare at him with their bulging dead eyes. Unborn creatures, most of them, though one—he was quite sure—had been a human child. He could remember the room and how it had made him feel—soiled and damned—as if it had been yesterday and not almost eight years gone by.

  Gawaine folded his hands over his chest, spread his legs apart, keeping his balance without the aid of the boat’s rail. “Merlinnus is a mage, yes. But he is a man first.”

  “Never!” said Gaheris, shoulders still crowding his ears.

  “Does he eat?” asked Gareth.

  “He eats.”

  “And does he get seasick like Agravaine?” Gaheris asked.

  “I have never seen him on the sea,” said Gawaine.

  “Clot!” Gareth told his twin. “Mages cannot cross running water.”

  “That’s fairies,” said Gaheris. “Not mages.”

  “That’s all magic makers.”

  Gaheris drew himself up so that he stood half a thumb’s span taller than his twin. “Mother never crosses water. And she works magic.”

  Gawaine kept his mouth shut. So they know. He wondered how.

  “Fool,” Gareth said. “She came from Land’s End by boat to be Father’s bride.”

  Gawaine threw up his hands. “Whatever you two wish to believe, believe.” He could tell it was going to be a long trip. And longer still once they were at the kings court. He had forgotten what incredible bumpkins his little brothers were.

  GAWAINE SLEPT but fitfully on the boats deck. It was not the wind tangling in his hair that kept him awake. Actually he quite liked the feel of it, as if it were scrubbing away all that was Orkney from his mind. But a sound on the wind, a strange moaning, niggled at him. At last he sat up, shaking off the blanket, and looked around.