And again, if she did, it would not be Uther. Why, he would be worse than Gorlois, a great clumsy oaf, even if his eyes were grey as the sea and his hands strong and unwrinkled ... . Igraine swore under her breath, took her distaff from the pack of her belongings, and sat down to spin. What was she doing daydreaming of Uther, as if she were seriously considering what Viviane had asked of her? Would Uther really be the next High King? She had seen the way he looked at her. But Gorlois said he was a lecher; might he look that way at any woman? If she must lose herself in daydreams, she might as well wonder something sensible, such as how Morgaine was faring without her mother, and if the housekeeper was keeping a watchful eye on Morgause so that she did not cast sheep's eyes at the soldiers guarding the castle. Morgause, now, she might run about and lose her maidenhood to some handsome man without thought of honor and propriety; she hoped Father Columba would give the girl a good lecture.
My own mother chose what lovers she would, to father her children, and she was a great priestess of the Holy Isle. Viviane has done the same. Igraine let her spindle drop into her lap, frowning a little, thinking of Viviane's prophecy that her child by Uther could be the great king that would heal the land and bring the warring peoples together in peace. What she had heard this morning at the King's table convinced her that such a king was far to seek. She took up her spindle, in exasperation. They needed such a king now, not when some child not yet even conceived should grow to manhood. The Merlin was obsessed with old legends about kings-what was it one of the kings, was it Ectorius, had said, about Magnus the Great, the great war leader who had deserted Britain in quest of an emperor's crown? Nonsense, to think a son of Uther could be this Magnus returned.
LATE THAT DAY a bell began to toll, and shortly after, Gorlois came into the house, looking sad and discouraged.
"Ambrosius died a few minutes ago," he said. "The bell tolls for his passing."
She saw the grief in his face and spoke to it.
"He was old," she said, "and he was much loved. I met him only this day, but I can see he was the kind of man whom all those around him would love and follow."
Gorlois sighed heavily. "True. And we have none such to come after him; he has gone and left us leaderless. I loved the man, Igraine, and I hated to see him suffer. If there were any successor worthy the name, I would rejoice that he has gone to his rest. But what will become of us now?"
A little later he asked her to set out his best clothing. "At sunset they will say a requiem mass for him, and I must be there. So should you, Igraine. Can you dress yourself with no woman to robe you, or shall I ask our host to send you a maid?"
"I can dress myself." Igraine set about putting on her other gown, finely spun wool with embroidery at hem and sleeve, and braiding her silk ribbon into her hair. She ate a little bread and cheese; Gorlois would eat nothing, saying that with his king before the throne of God where his soul would be judged, he would fast and pray till he was buried.
Igraine, who had been taught in the Holy Isle that death was no more than the gateway to new birth, could not understand this; how could a Christian have such fear and trembling at going to his eternal peace? She remembered Father Columba chanting some of his doleful psalms. Yes, their God was supposed to be a God of fear and punishment as well. She could understand how a king, for the good of his people, might have to do some things which would lie heavy on his conscience. If even she could understand and forgive that, how could a merciful God be more bigoted and vengeful than the least of his mortals? She supposed it was one of their Mysteries.
She was still pondering these things when she went at Gorlois's side to the mass, and listened to the priest singing dolefully about the judgment of God and the day of wrath when the soul should face eternal damnation. Halfway through this hymn she saw that Uther Pendragon, kneeling at the far end of the church, his face white above his pale tunic, lifted his hands to cover his face and conceal sobs; a few minutes later he got up and went out of the church. She realized that Gorlois was looking sharply at her, and lowered her eyes again to listen piously to the endless hymns.
But when the mass was over, the men clustered outside the church and Gorlois introduced her to the wife of King Uriens of North Wales, a plump, solemn matron, and to the wife of Ectorius, whose name was Flavilla, a smiling woman not a great deal older than Igraine. She chatted with the women for a moment, but their minds were all on what the death of Ambrosius would mean to the soldiers and to their husbands, and her mind wandered; she had little interest in women's chatter, and their pious demeanor wearied her. Flavilla was about six moons pregnant, her belly beginning to bulge under her Roman-style tunics, and after a time their talk drifted to their families. Flavilla had borne two daughters who had died of the summer flux last year and she was hoping, this year, for a son. Uriens' wife, Gwyneth, had a son about Morgaine's age. They asked about Igraine's child, and talked about the efficiency of bronze amulets against winter fevers, and the charm of laying a priest's mass book in the cradle against the rickets.
"It is bad food which causes rickets," Igraine said. "My sister, who is a healer-priestess, told me that no child who is suckled for two full years by a healthy mother ever suffers from rickets, but only if it is given to an ill-nourished wet nurse or weaned too soon and fed on gruel."
"I call that foolish superstition," Gwyneth said. "The mass book is holy and efficient against all illnesses, but particularly those of little children, who have been baptized against the sins of their fathers and have committed no sins of their own."
Igraine shrugged impatiently, unwilling to argue such nonsense. The women went on talking about charms against childhood sicknesses, while she stood casting her eyes this way and that, waiting for an opportunity to leave them. After a time another woman joined them, whose name Igraine never knew; she too was bulging in late pregnancy, and the women immediately drew the newcomer into their talk, ignoring Igraine. After a time she slipped quietly away, saying (unheard) that she was going in search of Gorlois, and walked toward the back of the church.
There was a little graveyard there, and behind it an apple orchard, the branches whitened with blossom, pale in the twilight. The scent of the apple trees was fresh and welcome to Igraine, who found the smells of the city intrusive; dogs, and men too, relieved themselves in the stone streets. Behind every door was a smelly kitchen midden with everything from dirty rushes smelling of urine and rotting meat, to the contents of night pots. At Tintagel there was kitchen refuse and night soil too, but she had it buried every few weeks, and the clean smell of the sea washed away everything.
She walked slowly through the orchard. Some of the trees were very old, gnarled, with low-bending boughs. Then she heard a slight sound, and saw that on one of the low branches a man was sitting. He did not see Igraine; his head was bent, and his face was covered with his hands. But she knew, by the pale hair, that it was Uther Pendragon. She was about to turn and steal quietly away, knowing he would not want her to see his grief, but he had heard her light step and raised his head.
"Is it you, my lady of Cornwall?" His face twisted and looked wry. "Now you may run to tell the brave Gorlois that the war duke of Britain has hidden away to weep like a woman!"
She went swiftly to him, troubled by his angry, defensive face. She said, "Do you think Gorlois does not grieve, my lord? How cold and heartless any man should be, not to weep for the king he has loved all his days! If I were a man, I would not wish to follow any leader into war who would not weep for the dead whom he had loved, for fallen comrades or even for brave enemies."
Uther drew a long breath, wiping his face with the embroidered sleeve of his tunic. He said, "Why, that's true; when I was a young man, I slew the Saxon chief Horsa in the field, after many battles where he had challenged me and then escaped, and I wept for his death, because he was a gallant man. Even though he was a Saxon, I felt sorrow that we must be foemen instead of brothers and friends. But in the years between I have come to feel that I am too old
to weep for what cannot be mended. And yet-when I heard the holy father in there, prating of judgment and eternal damnation before the throne of God, and I remembered how good and how pious a man Ambrosius was, and how he loved and feared God, and never skimped to do a kind or an honorable thing-sometimes I find this God of theirs too much to endure, and I almost wish I could listen without damnation to the wise Druids, who talk of no judgment but what a man brings on himself by the way he lives. If the holy bishop speaks sooth, Ambrosius now lies in the fires of Hell, not to be redeemed until the end of the world. I know little of Heaven, but I could wish to think my king there."
She said, reaching out her hand to him, "I do not think the priests of Christ know any more of what comes after death than do any other mortal men. Only the Gods know. They tell us, in the Holy Isle where I was reared, that death is always the gateway to new life and further wisdom, and although I did not know Ambrosius well, I like to think he is now learning, at the feet of his God, what true wisdom can be. What wise God would consign a man to Hell for ignorance, instead of teaching him better in the afterlife?"
She felt Uther's hand touch hers, and he said into the darkness, "Why, it is so. What is it their Apostle said-'Now I see as in a glass, darkly, but then I shall see face to face.' Perhaps we do not know, not even the priests, what will befall beyond death. If God is all-wise, why should we imagine he will be less merciful than men? Christ, they say, was sent to us to show God's love, not his judgment."
They sat in silence for some time. Then Uther said, "Where did you learn such wisdom, Igraine? We have holy ladies in our church, but they are not married, nor do they move among us sinners."
"I was born in the Isle of Avalon; and my mother was a priestess in the Great Temple there."
"Avalon," he said. "It lies in the Summer Sea, does it not? You were at the Council this morning; you know we are to go there. The Merlin has promised me that he will take me to King Leodegranz and introduce me to his court, although if Lot of Orkney has his way, Uriens and I will go back to Wales like dogs howling, with our tails between our legs; or we will fight in his train and pay him homage, which I will do when the sun rises over the western coast of Ireland."
"Gorlois said you are sure to be the next High King," Igraine said, and it struck her with sudden wonder that she was sitting here on a tree branch with the next High King of Britain, talking about religion and matters of state. He felt it too, she could sense it in the tone of his voice, when he said, "I never thought to discuss such matters with the wife of the Duke of Cornwall."
"Do you truly think that women know nothing of state matters?" she asked. "My sister Viviane, like my mother before her, is the Lady of Avalon. King Leodegranz, and other kings, came often to consult with her about the fate of Britain-"
Uther said, smiling, "Perhaps I should consult with her on the best way to bring Leodegranz, and Ban of Less Britain, into my fellowship. For if they listen to her bidding, then all I must do is win her confidence. Tell me, is the Lady married, and is she handsome?"
Igraine giggled. "She is priestess, and priestesses of the Great Mother may not marry, nor make alliance with any mortal man. They belong to the Gods alone." And then she remembered what Viviane had told her, and that this man sitting on the tree branch beside her was part of the prophecy; she stiffened, frightened of what she had done-was she walking on her own feet into the trap Viviane and the Merlin had set for her?
"What is it, Igraine? Are you cold? Are you frightened of war?" Uther asked.
She said, grasping at the first thing she could think of to say, "I have been talking to the wives of Uriens and sir Ectorius-they do not seem much concerned with matters of state. I think perhaps that is why Gorlois does not believe that I can know anything of them, either."
Uther laughed. He said, "I know the ladies Flavilla and Gwyneth- they do indeed leave all things to their husbands, save those dealing with spinning and weaving and childbearing and such women's things. Have you no interest in those things, or are you as young as you look, too young almost to be wedded, let alone have children to worry about?"
"I have been married four years," Igraine said, "and I have a daughter who is three years old."
"I could envy Gorlois that; every man wants children to succeed him. If Ambrosius had a son, we would not now be in this turmoil. Now-" Uther sighed. "I do not like to think of what will befall Britain if that toad of Orkney should come to be High King, nor Uriens, who thinks everything can be solved by sending a messenger to Rome." Again his voice broke in a sob. "Men say I am ambitious to be High King, but I would give all my ambitions for Ambrosius to be sitting here on this tree branch beside us, or even a son of his, to be crowned in that church tonight! Ambrosius was frightened of what would befall when he was gone. He might have died last winter, but he hoped to make us agree on who should follow him-"
"How was it that he had no sons?"
"Oh, he had sons, two of them. One was slain by a Saxon; Constantine was his name, like to the king who converted this island. The other died of a wasting fever when he was but twelve years old. He said, often and often, that I had become the son he wanted." He buried his face in his hands again, weeping. "He would have made me his heir as well, but that the other kings would not have it. They followed me as war duke, but others were jealous of my influence-Lot, damn him, was the worst. Not for ambition, Igraine, I swear it, but to finish what Ambrosius left undone!"
"I think everyone knows that," she said, stroking his hand. She felt immobilized by his grief.
"I do not think Ambrosius could be happy, even in Heaven, if he looks down and sees the sorrow and confusion here, the kings already plotting, each one seeking to seize power for himself! I wonder if it would have been his will that I should murder Lot to take power? Once he made us swear the oath of blood brothers; I would not violate that," Uther said. His face was wet with tears. Igraine, as she would have done with her child, took the light veil around her face and dried them.
"I know you will do what you must do in honor, Uther. No man Ambrosius trusted so much could do otherwise."
The flare of a lighted torch suddenly struck across their eyes; she froze on the tree branch, her veil still at Uther's face. Gorlois said sharply, "Is it you, my lord Pendragon? Have you seen-ah, madam, are you there?"
Igraine, feeling abashed and suddenly guilty at the sharpness of Gorlois's voice, slipped off the tree branch. Her skirt caught on a projecting limb, hauled up above her knee so that she was bare to her linen drawers; she twitched it hastily down, and heard the fabric rip.
"I thought you lost-you were not in our lodging," Gorlois said harshly. "What do you here, in Heaven's name?"
Uther slipped off the tree branch. The man she had seen revealed, weeping for his lost king and foster-father, dismayed at the burden laid on him, had vanished in a moment; his voice was loud and hearty. "Why, Gorlois, I grew impatient at all the gabbling of that priest, and came out to find clear air with no pious mumblings; and your lady, who had found the blitherings of the good ladies not much more to her taste, happened upon me here. Madam, I thank you," he said, with a distant bow, and strode away. She noticed he was careful to keep his face out of the torchlight.
Gorlois, alone with Igraine, looked at her with angry suspicion. He said, gesturing her to walk before him, "My lady, you should be more careful to avoid gossip; I told you to keep away from Uther. His reputation is such that no chaste woman should be seen in private conversation with him."
Igraine turned and said angrily, "Is that what you think of me, that I am the sort of woman who will slip away to couple with a strange man like a beast in the field? Do you think I was lying with him on the branch of that tree, like some bird of the bough? Would you like to inspect my gown to see whether it is rumpled from lying with him on the ground?"
Gorlois lifted his hand and struck her, not very hard, across the mouth. "You will not play the shrew with me, madam! I told you to avoid him; obey me! I think you honest and ch
aste, but I would not trust you to that man, nor hear you made the subject of the tongues of women!"
"Surely there is no more evil mind than that of a good woman-unless perhaps it is the mind of a priest," said Igraine wrathfully. She rubbed her mouth where Gorlois's blow had knocked her lip against her teeth. "How dare you lay hands upon me? When I betray you, you may beat the flesh from off my bones, but I won't be beaten for talk! Do you think, in the name of all the Gods, that we were talking of love?"
"And what were you talking about with that man, at this hour, in God's name?"
"We talked of many things," Igraine said, "and mostly of Ambrosius in Heaven, and-yes, of Heaven and what one could hope to find in the afterlife."
Gorlois regarded her with a skeptical glare. "That I find unlikely, when he could not show respect for the dead by staying through the holy mass."
"He was sickened-as I was-by all those doleful psalms, as if they were mourning the worst of men instead of the best of kings!"
"Before God all men are miserable sinners, Igraine, and in the eyes of Christ a king is no better than other mortals."
"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "I have heard your priests say so, and also they spend much time and labor to tell us all that God is love and our goodly father in Heaven. Yet I notice they are very careful not to fall into his hands, and they mourn for those who go to their eternal peace, exactly as for those who go to be sacrificed on the blood altar of the Great Raven herself. I tell you, Uther and I were talking of what the priests know of Heaven, which I think is not very much!"
The Mists of Avalon Page 7
