"Look, lady Morgaine," she said, "you have a fine son-" then she bent over him, breathing into the little mouth. There was a sharp, outraged sound, the cry of a newborn shrieking with fury at the cold world into which he had come.
But Morgaine lay collapsed in Morgause's arms, utterly exhausted, and could not even open her eyes to look at her child.
THE BABE HAD BEEN washed and swaddled; Morgaine had swallowed a cup of hot milk with honey in it, and herbs against the bleeding, and now she lay drowsing, weary, not even stirring as Morgause bent to kiss her lightly on the brow.
She would live and heal, though Morgause had never seen a woman struggle so hard, and yet live, with a living child. And the midwife said that after all they had had to do to deliver this one alive, it was unlikely Morgaine would ever bear another. Which, Morgause thought, was just as well. She realized now that her own birthings, which had not been easy, had been nothing to this.
She picked up the swaddled child, looking down at the small features. He seemed to be breathing well enough, though sometimes, when a child did not cry at once and it was necessary to breathe into his mouth, the breathing would fail again later and he would die. But he was a healthy pink, even the tiny nails rosy. Dark hair, perfectly straight, dark, fine down on the small arms and legs-yes, this one was fairy-born, like Morgaine herself. It might indeed be Lancelet's son, and so doubly near to Arthur's throne.
The child should be given to a wet nurse at once ... and then Morgause hesitated. No doubt, when she was a little rested, Morgaine would want to hold and suckle her child; it always happened that way, no matter how difficult the birth. And the harder the birth, the more joy the mother seemed to have in nursing her babe; the worse the struggle, the more was the love and delight when the babe was actually put to her breast.
And then she thought, against her will, of Lot's words. If I want to see Gawaine on the throne, this child stands in his way. She had not wanted to listen when Lot said it, but with the child actually in her hands, she could not help thinking it would not be so evil a thing if this child were overlaid by his nurse, or too weak to take suck. And if Morgaine had never held him or suckled him, she would not feel as much grief; if it was the will of the Goddess that he should not live ...
I want only to spare her sorrow ... .
Morgaine's child, probably by Lancelet, both of the old royal line of Avalon ... should harm come to Arthur, the people would accept this child for his throne.
But she was not even sure it was Lancelet's child.
And although Morgause had borne four sons, Morgaine was the little girl she had petted and cared for like a doll, carried in her arms; she had brushed her hair and washed her and brought her gifts. Could she do this to Morgaine's own child? Who was to say Arthur would not have a dozen sons by his queen, whoever she was?
But Lancelet's son ... yes, Lancelet's son she could abandon to death without a qualm. Lancelet was no closer kin to Arthur than Gawaine, yet Arthur preferred him, turned to Lancelet in everything. Just as she herself had always stood in Viviane's shadow, the unregarded sister, passed over for High Queen-she had never forgiven Viviane that she had chosen Igraine for Uther-just so, the loyal Gawaine would always stand in the shadow of the more flamboyant Lancelet. If Lancelet had played with Morgaine or dishonored her, all the more reason to hate him.
For there was no reason Morgaine should bear Lancelet's bastard child in secrecy and sorrow. Did Viviane think her precious son too good for Morgaine, perhaps? Morgause had seen that the girl wept in secret all during these long months; was she sick with love and abandonment?
Viviane, damn her, uses lives like knucklebones to be cast in play! She flung Igraine into Uther's arms without thought for Gorlois, she claimed Morgaine for Avalon; will she make wreck of Morgaine's life too?
If she could only be sure it was Lancelet's child!
As she had regretted, when Morgaine was in labor, that she had not enough magic to ease the birth, so now she regretted how little she knew of magic. She had not, when she dwelt in Avalon, had the interest nor the persistence to study the Druid lore. But still, as Viviane's fosterling, she had learned one thing and another from the priestesses, who had petted and spoilt her; offhand and good-naturedly, as one indulges a child, they had shown her certain simple spells and magics.
Well, now she would use them. She shut the doors of the chamber and lighted a new fire; she clipped three hairs from the silky down on the child's head, and bending over the sleeping Morgaine, cut a few of her hairs too. She pricked the child's finger with her bodkin, rocking him after to hush the fitful squalling; then, casting secret herbs on the fire with the hairs and blood, she whispered a word she had been taught, and stared into the flames. And caught her breath in silence as the flames swirled, died, and for a moment a face looked out at her-a young face, crowned with fair hair and shadowed by antlers casting a darkness over the blue eyes that were like Uther's ... .
Morgaine had spoken truth when she said he had come to her as the Horned God; yet she had lied. ....orgause should have known; they had made the Great Marriage for Arthur, then, before his crowning. Had Viviane planned this too, a child that should be born of the two royal lines? There was a small sound behind her and she looked up, to see that Morgaine had struggled to her feet and was standing there, clinging to the bed frame, her face white as death.
Her lips hardly moved; only her dark eyes, sunken deep in her head with suffering, flickered from the fire to the sorcerous things on the floor before the hearth. "Morgause," she said, "swear to me-if you love me, swear to me-that you will speak nothing of this to Lot or to any other! Swear it, or I will curse you with all the curses I know!"
Morgause laid the child in the cradle and turned to Morgaine, taking her arm and leading her back to the bed.
"Come, lie down, rest, little one-we must talk about this. Arthur! Why? Was it Viviane's doing?"
Morgaine repeated, even more agitated, "Swear to say nothing! Swear never to speak of it again! Swear it! Swear it!" Her eyes glittered wildly. Morgause, looking at her, was afraid she would work herself into a fever. "Morgaine, child-"
"Swear! Or I curse you by wind and fire, sea and stone-" "No!" Morgause interrupted her, taking her hands to try to calm her. "See, I swear it, I swear."
She had not wanted to swear. She thought, I should have refused, I should talk of this with Lot ... but it was too late, now she had sworn ... and Morgause had no wish to be cursed by a priestess of Avalon.
"Lie still, now," she said quietly. "You must sleep, Morgaine." The younger woman closed her eyes, and Morgause sat petting her hand and thinking. Gawaine is Arthur's man, whatever happens. Lot would get no good from Gawaine on the throne. This-no matter how many sons Arthur may have, this is his first Arthur was reared Christian and makes much of being king over Christians; he would think this child of incest his shame. It is just as well to know some evil secret of a king. Even of Lot, though I love him well, I have made it my business to know certain details of his sins and lecheries.
The cradled child woke and squalled. Morgaine, as all mothers when a child cries, opened her eyes at the sound. She was almost too weak to move, but she whispered, "My baby-is that my baby? Morgause, I want to hold my baby."
Morgause bent and started to put the swaddled bundle into her arms. Then she hesitated; if Morgaine once held the child, she would wish to suckle him, she would love him, she would concern herself about his welfare. But if he was put to a wet nurse before she ever looked on his face ... well, then, she would not feel anything much for him, and he would be truly the child of his foster-parents. It was just as well to have Arthur's firstborn son, the son he dared not acknowledge, feel the highest loyalty to Lot and Morgause as his truest parents; that Lot's sons should be his brothers, rather than any sons Arthur might have when he should marry.
Tears were sliding weakly down Morgaine's face. She begged, "Give me my baby, Morgause, let me hold my baby, I want him-"
Morgause sai
d tenderly but relentlessly, "No, Morgaine; you are not strong enough to hold him and suckle him, and"-she groped quickly for a lie which the girl, unskilled in midwifery, would believe-"if you hold him even once, he will not suck from his wet nurse's breasts, so he must be given to her right away. You can hold him when you are a little stronger and he is feeding well." And, though Morgaine began to cry and held out her arms, sobbing, Morgause carried the child out of the room. Now, she thought, this will be Lot's fosterling, and we will always have a weapon against the High King. And now I have made certain that Morgaine, when she is well enough, will care little for him and be content to leave him to me.
2
Gwenhwyfar, daughter of King Leodegranz, sat on the high wall of the enclosed garden, clinging to the stones with both hands and watching the horses in the paddock below.
Behind her was the sweet smell of kitchen herbs and pot herbs, the still-room herbs her father's wife used to make medicines and simples. The garden was one of her favorite places, perhaps the only outdoor place Gwenhwyfar really liked. She felt safer indoors, as a rule, or when securely enclosed-the walls around the kitchen garden made it nearly as safe as inside the castle. Up here, on top of the wall, she could see out over the valley, and there was so much of it, stretching farther than the eye could see ... . Gwenhwyfar turned her look back to the safety of the garden for a moment, for her hands were beginning to tingle with the numbness again, and her breath felt tight in her throat. Here, right on the very wall which enclosed her own garden, here it was safe; if she began to feel the strangling panic again she could turn and slide down the wall arid be safe again inside the garden.
Her father's wife, Alienor, had asked her once in exasperation, when she said something like this, "Safe from what, child? The Saxons never come so far west as this. Where we are on the hill, we could see them three leagues off if they should come-it's the long view we have here that makes us safe, in heaven's name!"
Gwenhwyfar could never explain. Put like that it sounded sensible. How could she tell the sensible, practical Alienor that it was the very weight of all that sky and the wide lands which frightened her? There was nothing to be frightened of, and it was foolish to be frightened.
But that did not stop her from gasping and breathing hard and feeling the numbness rising up from her belly into her throat, her sweating hands losing all feeling. They were all exasperated with her-the house priest telling her that there was nothing out there but God's good green lands, her father shouting that he'd have none of that womanish nonsense in his house -and so she had learned never to whisper it aloud. Only in the convent had anyone understood. Oh, the dear convent where she had felt as snug as a mouse in her hole, and never, never having to go out of doors at all, except into the enclosed cloister garden. She would like to be back there, but now she was a woman grown, and her stepmother had little children and needed Gwenhwyfar.
The thought of marrying made her afraid, too. But then she should have her own house where she could do as she would and she would be the mistress; no one would dare to make fun of her!
Down below, the horses were running, but Gwenhwyfar's eyes were focused on the slender man in red, with dark curls shading his tanned brow, who moved among them. As swift he was as the horses themselves; she could well understand the name his Saxon foes gave him: Elf-arrow. Someone had whispered to her that he himself had fairy blood. Lancelet of the Lake, he called himself, and she had seen him in the magical Lake, that dreadful day when she had been lost, in the company of the terrible fairy woman.
Lancelet had caught the horse he wanted; one or two of her father's men shouted a warning, and Gwenhwyfar drew a breath of terror, herself wanting to cry out in dismay; that horse not even the king rode, only one or two of his best trainers. Lancelet, laughing, gestured disdain of their warning; he let the trainer come and hold the horse while he strapped the saddle on it. She could just hear his laughing voice.
"What good would it do to ride a lady's palfrey, which anyone could ride with a bridle of plaited straw? I want you to see-with leathers fitted like this, I can control the fiercest horse you have, and make him into a battle steed! Here, this way-" He gave a tug to a buckle somewhere under the horse, then swung himself up one-handed. The horse reared up; Gwenhwyfar watched with her mouth open as he leaned into it, forcing the horse down and under control, making it walk sedately. The spirited animal fidgeted, stepping sideways, and Lancelet gestured for one of the king's foot soldiers to give him a long pike.
"Now see-" he shouted. "Supposing that bale of straw there is a Saxon coming at me with one of those great blunt swords of theirs ... " and he let the horse go, pounding hard across the paddock; the other horses scattered as he came sweeping down on the straw bale and impaling it on the long pike, then snatching his sword from its scabbard as he whirled, checking the horse in mid gallop, swinging the sword about him in great circles. Even the king stepped back as he thundered toward them. He brought the animal to a full stop before the king, slid off and bowed.
"My lord! I ask for leave to train horses and men, so that you may lead them into battle when the Saxons come again, to defeat them as he did at Celidon Wood last summer. We have had victories, but one day there will be a mighty battle which will decide for all time whether Saxon or Roman will rule this land. We are training all the horses we can get, but yours are better than those we can buy or breed."
"I have not sworn allegiance to Arthur," her father said. "Uther was another matter; he was a tried soldier and Ambrosius' man. Arthur is little more than a boy-"
"You still believe that, after the battles he has won?" Lancelet asked. "He has held his throne now for more than a year, he is your High King, sir. Whether you have sworn or not, every battle he fights against the Saxons protects you, too. Horses and men-that is little enough to ask."
Leodegranz nodded. "This is no place to discuss the strategy of a kingdom, sir Lancelet. I have seen what you can do with the horse. He is yours, my guest."
Lancelet bowed low and thanked King Leodegranz formally, but Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes shine like those of a delighted boy. Gwenhwyfar wondered how old he was.
"Come within my hall," her father said, "we will drink together, and I will make you an offer."
Gwenhwyfar slid down from the wall and ran through the garden to the kitchens, where her father's wife was supervising the baking women. "Madam, my father will be coming in with the High King's emissary, Lancelet; they will want food and drink."
Alienor gave her a startled glance. "Thank you, Gwenhwyfar. Go and make yourself tidy and you may serve the wine. I am far too busy."
Gwenhwyfar ran to her room, pulled her best gown on over the simple kirtle she wore, and hung a string of coral beads about her neck. She unbraided her fair hair and let it fall, rippled from the tight braiding. Then she put on the little gold maiden's circlet she wore, and went down, composing her steps and moving lightly; she knew the blue gown became her as no other color, no matter how costly, could do.
She fetched a bronze basin, filled it with warmed water from the kettle hanging near the fire, and strewed rose leaves in it; she came into the hall as her father and Lancelet were entering. She set down her basin, took their cloaks and hung them on the peg, then came and offered them the warmed, scented water to wash their hands. Lancelet smiled, and she knew he had recognized her.
"Did we not meet on the Isle of the Priests, lady?"
"You have met my daughter, sir?"
Lancelet nodded, and Gwenhwyfar said, in her shyest little voice-she had found, long ago, that it displeased her father if she spoke out boldly ' -"Father, he showed me the way to my convent door when I was lost."
Leodegranz smiled at her indulgently. "My little featherhead, if she goes three steps from her own doorway, she is lost. Well, sir Lancelet, what do you think of my horses?"
"I have told you-they are better than any we can buy or breed," he said. "We have some from the Moorish realms down in Spain, and we have bred them with
the highland ponies, so we have horses that are sturdy and can endure our climate, but are swift and brave. But we need more. We can breed only so many. You have more than enough, and I can show you how to train them so you can lead them into battle-"
"No," the king interrupted, "I am an old man. I have no desire to learn new battle methods. I have been four times married, but all my former wives bore only sickly girls who die before they are weaned, sometimes before they are baptized. I have daughters; when the eldest marries, her husband will lead my men into battle, and can train them as he will. Tell your High King to come here, and we will discuss the matter."
Lancelet said, a little stiffly, "I am my lord Arthur's cousin and his captain, sire, but even I do not tell him to come and go."
"Beseech him, then, to come to an old man who does not want to ride out from his own fireside," the king said, a little wryly. "If he will not come for me, perhaps he will come to know how I will dispose of my horses and the armed men to ride them."
Lancelet bowed. "No doubt he will."
"Enough of this, then; pour us some wine, daughter," the king said, and Gwenhwyfar came shyly and poured wine into their cups. "Now run along, my girl, so that my guest and I may talk together."
Gwenhwyfar, dismissed, waited in the garden until a servant came out and called for the lord Lancelet's horse and armor. The horse he had ridden here and the horse her father had given him were brought to the door, and she watched from the shadow of the wall until she saw him ride away; then she stepped out and stood waiting. Her heart pounded-would he think her too bold? But he saw her and smiled, and the smile seized her very heart.
The Mists of Avalon Page 36
