He led me to a cushioned bench near the fire. We sat together, and he took my hand between his own. The firelight played upon his face and threw shadows along his cheekbones. There was an awe, an excitement, a contained exhilaration behind the gravity of his features. Something long held in had found release.
“First, know that he is not badly hurt. A scratch, really, but it was his first, and frightened him. He is up and about now, and has eaten. He—”
“Up and about? My lord, surely he should rest!”
Arthur smiled. “And will, no doubt, in a little while. At the moment, he is too excited to stay abed.”
“How did you tell him, Arthur? I have been on fire to know!”
“His anguish forced me to it, else I might have put it off for the thousandth time. But when he cursed his father, he said nothing that was not true, or well deserved. It was as if he saw into my very soul and aimed his arrows well.”
“He did not know it was you he hit.”
“Had I told him before, anytime before, these last twelve years, I could have saved him that!” He took a breath and released it slowly. “When the physicians left him and I stayed, he was discomfitted. He felt I must be angry at his outburst—”
“His outburst!”
“Just so. Compared to his brothers, it was a whisper. But for Mordred, it was an outburst indeed. He thought, as the princes’ uncle, I stayed to chastise him. He assumed I was angry, too, at his presumption. He apologized to me for his rude words.”
“Oh, Arthur!”
He passed a hand across his face. “I couldn’t bear to have him apologize to me. The words I’ve thought so often how to say— they came quickly after that, and of their own accord. I told him I was not angry, but ashamed. His words were not rude, they were no more than truth. He had a right to demand just treatment from the man who begot him. He had a right to be angry for those long years of neglect. I told him that the object of his scorn stood before him and begged his pardon with an abject heart.”
“Oh, well done,” I whispered, holding tight to his hands.
“He was astounded. He stared at me as if I were a demon from the Otherworld. I lost my composure before those eyes and had to look away.”
He paused. “ ‘You are my father?’ he asked me outright. ‘You? The High King of all Britain? Who is my mother, then?’ ” Arthur cleared his throat. “And I told him he had lived with her all his life. My own sister. Morgause.” He looked quickly away as he said her name, and I lifted his hands to my lips. “I held my breath, waiting for the first sign of disgust or horror, waiting for those vile Orkney curses to strike again. But he said nothing. He shrugged once. That was all.”
“He is pagan, Arthur. It makes a difference.”
He raised his eyes. “I know. It was not that he forgave me. It was as if there were nothing to forgive. But it is an ancient sin, and was so before Christ walked the earth.” He rose suddenly and paced the chamber with swift, long strides. “Remember Oedipus.”
I stood. “That was different. Mother and son. The oldest prohibition. And he was a god-cursed king. You are blessed.”
Arthur shuddered. “He sinned in ignorance, and yet his fate came upon him all the same.” He paused in midstride, and his face went white, as if a shadow fell upon him and drowned his spirit. With a visible shrug, he shook it off. “Mordred was not ashamed. He told me it happens everywhere in the islands—there are so few people, they are all inbred.” He stopped and faced me. “Gwen, he told me this to ease my distress.” He came back to me and took me in his arms. His whole body trembled. “His first thought was not of himself and the future he had just discovered; it was of me. His first act, given the gift of power, was to offer solace to a penitent. Guinevere, he will make a King.”
“I know it,” I whispered. “I know it is in him. He is Pendragon.”
“I—I took a chair at his bedside while he came to terms with it. With all his ambition, he had never dreamed to reach so high. He hardly dared believe it—I had to tell him the story of how it happened, the part that Bedwyr left out of the Lay.”
“You never dreamed it, either, at his age. Yet you knew it was your destiny, when you drew the Sword from the stone.”
“Tonight I gave him the same future and lived again that revelation, reflected in his face. I wish you had seen it, Gwen. He was reborn.”
I drew his face down to mine and kissed him. “It was well done, Arthur.”
“He is young for it, but more than willing. We spoke long about the past. I see now what my silence cost him. As you can guess, it has not been easy growing up as Morgause’s sideslip. He has seen his father in every handsome face who’s crossed her threshold. To his own half brothers he’s as much servant as kin. Yet he has always known he was meant for something better than life in Orkney. He’s always been quicker, cleverer, and cooler than other boys. He can see three steps ahead, where they see one. He understood it, suddenly, tonight. I have told him I will keep him at court, with his half brothers, until he is grown enough to travel with me.”
“Will you acknowledge him, my lord?”
“I have done so to him. But to the people, no. Not yet. It may be a small sin to Mordred, but for an anointed Christian King to announce such a thing, and expect reverence, smacks of hubris. We will give him his due, and let people draw their own conclusions. There is risk here, Guinevere. I intend no deception. But neither do I desire publication of the evil I have done.”
“Arthur, if I can forgive you, and Mordred himself does not blame you, why can you not forgive yourself?”
He smiled sadly. “Mordred ought to blame me. It was my doing. But he has not been raised to know sin. As for you, my dearest, you are far too merciful.”
He kissed me lovingly, and I held his body close. But tonight there was no urgency behind his tenderness. The boar hunt and the interview with Mordred had taken their toll. I loosed myself from his embrace and made my reverence.
“God has given you a great birthday gift, my lord. You will want some time alone to sort out your thoughts. If you like, I will retire.”
“Thank you, Gwen. You know me too well. By the way, Mordred has asked to see you. He is far too excited to sleep and awaits you in the garden. Go to him before you turn in. He will get no rest else.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He was watching me with laughter in his eyes. “Do you know the boy is in love with you?”
“What?” I blushed to the roots of my hair. “You are jesting.”
“I am not. He is about the right age for first love, and you have captured his heart. So tread softly.”
“My lord! This was not intended.”
“Will you attempt to tell me you have never inflamed a man’s love without intention? Be easy, Gwen. You cannot help it. Beauty, charm, and sweet temper will sway any man. And as you said, he is Pendragon, and thus your slave.”
“Now who is sweet-tempered? You will charm me out of countenance, my lord, and I shall not be able to face him. And you know well he only wants to tell me all about you.”
He kissed me good night then and let me go.
The garden terrace had recently been swept of snow. Mordred paced back and forth across it, his cloak swirling behind him. It was not cold, but hushed and still. I pulled my hood forward and stepped out from the colonnade to greet him.
“My lord Mordred. You wished to see me.” I made him a deep reverence, and he hurried to raise me.
“Oh, no, my lady, you mustn’t. Not to me. You are Queen, and I am still only a bastard.”
His face in the torchlight was light and shadow; it was Arthur’s face, as I had seen it by firelight, with shadows beneath the cheekbones, the face of a King.
“You are his son. It is enough for me.”
“You knew all along, didn’t you? I—I always had the feeling when I was with you that I was someone special. But until tonight—” He stopped and shivered. I took his arm, and we walked to and fro, to keep warm and to
ease his tension. “I cannot believe it yet. It feels so right somehow, but I cannot believe it is me he spoke about. What a King he is!” Even in the dark, his eyes were bright.
I laughed. “He is indeed. Mordred, you have given him great joy.”
“Not half so much as he has given me,” he said fervently. “To learn I am Pendragon . . . it is beyond my wildest hope. It is true that I have wanted a place to rule—but Britain!”
“It will not come to you unless you earn it,” I said cautiously, not having discussed this with Arthur. “He has publicly declared the Dukes of Cornwall to be his heirs.”
He nodded. “I had heard that. I will try to be worthy in every way I can. All I want is a place of my own. I don’t mind if it is small.”
He had grown up in a queen’s house with four legitimate princes already in place. He had never had much that was his own.
“Be patient, Mordred, as the King is. Who knows what is ahead?”
We walked in silence awhile. He moved stiffly, but seemed to suffer little pain. When I looked at him, I saw he was frowning.
“He is ashamed of my begetting,” he said in his quiet voice.
“He is Christian, Mordred. For us, it is perhaps a greater sin than for others. All sins of the flesh are so.”
“I am afraid, my lady, that every time he looks at me he will be reminded of this shame. I would do anything to ease the pain of that memory for him.”
I squeezed his arm. “And so would I. But that is between him and God. Do not worry about it. When he looks at you, he is not thinking of Morgause.”
“Are you sure of this, my lady?”
“Oh, yes. Very sure.”
He was easier then, but still, something bothered him. “He told me that you think I resemble him, and that others have noted it. Is this so? I do not see it.”
“You have his face, Mordred, but for the eyes. Brow, cheek, and jaw. And his mouth.” He looked uncomfortable, and I remembered Arthur’s words to me. “But you are like him in other ways, as well,” I went on quickly. “You are cool and reserve judgment.”
“I wish that were so,” he said unhappily. “But tonight I swore like a fishwife at my own father.”
“You had cause. The King knows this. And you did not know your father heard you.”
But this was not what worried him; he shifted a shoulder and looked down. He was coming to it.
“The King told me—he was talking about the day when he first knew he wanted to have a son, to pass things on to. He was standing on a hilltop, surveying the lands about him, with Merlin, the great enchanter . . .”
“Yes? Go on.”
“He was speaking casually about it, watching me and smiling, but—but when he spoke Merlin’s name aloud—something happened.” He went still, and I tried to read his features, but we were facing away from the torches and he was in shadow.
“What was it, Mordred? Tell me.”
“It was as if a cloud covered the sun. One moment he was filled with pleasure, and then, when he thought of Merlin, he grew cold, like stone, and looked into the distance. I felt invisible. I felt he was afraid.” He paused, and a trickle of fear ran up my spine. I, too, had seen a shadow strike Arthur but a little while before, as he talked of fate. “I know Merlin has power, I know he is long-sighted. Even my mother fears him. His visions, they say, are always true.”
“Yes.”
“Merlin has made many prophecies,” he hurried on, trying to get it out before his courage failed him. “From something my mother let drop once—about my future—and from the King’s face when he spoke of Merlin, I wondered, I wondered if Merlin had made some prophecy concerning me.”
“If he has, I do not know of it,” I said, surprised. “Why did you not ask the King yourself?”
Mordred shuddered. “I could not. He went so still. The light in him went out. It felt like death.”
I shuddered myself. “Think no more of it, Mordred. If it means something, you will know in time. Merlin still lives. Perhaps you can ask him yourself.”
“Truly? Where is he, then? I thought he was here in Caerleon, but the soldiers say he is gone.”
“That is so. He, um, he comes and goes as he wills, with little notice to anyone. It is the way of enchanters.”
“When he returns, would you take me to see him?”
I smiled. “Oh, no. You would do better to go alone. Merlin doesn’t like me. We do better away from each other.”
“How could anyone dislike you? How could there be anything in you that gives offense? You are—you are—” He gulped, and I laid a hand on his arm to stop him.
“It is not personal, Mordred. But to him, I am only Arthur’s wife. And I have failed to bear him children. It may be my fate, and Arthur’s, but Merlin grieves for it.”
He straightened suddenly, as if I had struck him. “I—I am sorry, my lady.”
“For what, Mordred? It is no doing of yours.”
“That is why he sought me out at last, is it not? Because he has no other sons?” He whirled away from me and strode to the end of the terrace. I stood amazed at his anger. What was in his heart, to make him feel so? When he returned, he held himself stiffly and spoke with constraint. “I see it now. But I will not stay here on those terms. Even more than being the King’s son, I want to be—” He stopped, flustered, and then rushed on, “I won’t stay here and be a thorn in your side! How can you be so kind to me? Does it not gall you to look at me? How could he bring me here, and insult you so? I will not be the instrument of your pain! I would sooner go back to Orkney!”
He moved me to my soul, with his new pride and his sweet infatuation and his generous heart. That in this greatest moment of his young life, he should think of how I felt! Arthur was right; he would make a King. All the bitter heartache of the past weeks lost its biting edge when Mordred spoke those words to me.
“Mordred,” I said softly. “Be easy. You are young and you reckon without love. Because he loves me, the King would not have sent for you unless I wished it. And because I love him, I asked him to bring you here, when I knew I could not bear, that he and I might have a son to raise.”
He gaped at me and then flung himself to his knees.
“My lady!” he cried. “Then it was you!”
“Come, Mordred.” I raised him and hugged him like a son. “Calm yourself. You must stay with us in Camelot. It is where you belong.”
He kissed my hand. “I should have known,” he breathed in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it. “I should have known a gift this wonderful could only have come from you!”
And while I stood blushing at his fervor, Mordred bowed low, turned on his heel, and left.
28 THE RETURN
The court moved back to Camelot at the equinox, while the ground was still hard before the spring rains. Then for weeks we suffered through cold, cloudy weather, downpours, storms, and chills. By the end of April the land was green; trees brought forth new leaves, wildflowers filled the meadows, and the horses bucked for joy to be free in their pastures again.
Arthur had been gone eight weeks to visit Cornwall, to pay homage to his mother’s deathplace and lay flowers on her grave. And also to meet with Duke Constantine, Cador’s son, his official heir. Everyone with a head could guess what he meant to talk about, but nothing was publicly announced.
Once the weather turned fair, I hardly saw the boys. They were all day with the soldiers learning the skills of war. As they improved, they grew more disciplined and began to take pride in their accomplishments, and to see themselves as King’s men. This was a relief to me. Arthur had not left it too late, after all. By treating them with honor and courtesy, he had engendered their affection and respect.
Gawaine, especially, had grown more civilized. Part of this was due, I think, to his feeling at last secure in his status as King Lot’s heir. Orkney was his, and Lothian if he earned the right to hold it; this was his pride, and it meant so much to him that he held it in, manlike, and did not boas
t. Part was due to his recognition of Mordred’s status. For the King had told him the truth about Mordred. He believed Gawaine had the right to know. Just what Arthur said to him to make him hold his tongue, I do not know, but he kept silent. He and Mordred had a cautious respect for one another and acted more like brothers than ever they had before.
Once spring came, only Mordred and Gareth came to lessons, and not always Mordred. He was quick and learned everything fast. The only place I found him lacking was in his reverence for gods. All the boys took instruction from Bishop Landrum; Gareth was easily converted, Gawaine and the twins preferred the worship of the Goddess they had grown up with; Mordred remained his own man. He was respectful and willing to bow his head to whatever god was sacred in a place, but never gave his heart. Indeed, the only worship he gave, he gave to Arthur. I did not press him; the King himself paid public homage to whatever deity served his purpose. He told me once he believed all gods were one God in the end. Perhaps, I thought, Mordred would come to this in time. One had to make allowances for the lonely life he had led and the things that had been done to him.
Of Merlin we saw nothing. Niniane returned to Camelot with the court, but when Arthur left for Cornwall, she took herself off to Ynys Witrin and to her role as Lady of the Lake. She had kept away from me of late. At first I put it down to being newly wed; her husband Pelleas was a handsome king in Arthur’s service, level-headed and strong-willed, as a man must be to marry an enchantress. Then I wondered if perhaps she knew of my doubts of her I had expressed to Arthur. But Mordred told me it was because I spent so much time with him, and that Niniane could not bear the sight of him.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked him.
“Just that, my lady. She will not meet my eyes, but whenever she comes across me, looks the other way. A great cold comes from her; it makes me shiver.”
“Well,” I said to comfort him, “she never used to like me, either, before we got to know one another. I used to think her hostile. She is a powerful magician and not like other women. It is just her way.”