The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Marion Bradley

  She supposed that he would be more vulnerable when he began to care what the maidens thought of him. Fairy-born he was and dark, like Morgaine, but handsome enough, even as Lancelet was handsome. And it might be that his outward indifference to the maidens would be the same as Lancelet's. She thought about that for a moment, knowing the sting of humiliation. Lancelet ... there was the handsomest man she had seen in many a long year, and she had made it clear to him that even the queen was not beyond his reach ... but Lancelet had professed not to understand, had meticulously called her "Aunt" early and late-one would have thought from Lancelet's manner that she was elderly indeed, Viviane's twin, not young enough to be Viviane's daughter!

  She had begun taking her breakfast in bed while she talked with her women about what must be done that day. While she lingered, propped up on the cushions-they had brought her some of the fresh hot bannock, and there was, at this time of year, plenty of butter from the dairy-Gwydion came into the room.

  "Good morning, foster-mother," he said. "I have been out and brought you some berries. And there is cream in the pantry. If you want it, I will run down and fetch it for you."

  She looked at the berries, dew-fresh in a wooden bowl. "That was thoughtful of you, foster-son," she said, and sat up in bed to take him close in a great hug. When he was only a little younger he had crawled in beside her into the blankets at such occasions, while she fed him hot bannock and honey, and in winter snuggled him into her furs, like any pampered youngest; she missed the feel of the small warm body burrowing against her, but she supposed he was really too old now.

  He straightened himself, smoothing his hair into place-he hated to be mussed. Like Morgaine, who had always been a tidy little thing.

  "You are out early, my love," she said, "and you did all this just for your old foster-mother? No, I do not want any cream. You do not want me fat as the old sow, do you?"

  He tilted his head to one side like a small precise bird and looked, considering, at Morgause. "It wouldn't matter," he said. "You would still be beautiful even if you were fat. There are women at this court-Mara, for instance-she is no bigger than you, but all the other women, and the men, call her Fat Mara. But somehow you do not look as big as you are, because when anyone looks at you, all they see is that you are beautiful. So have the cream if you want it, foster-mother."

  So precise an answer for a child! But after all he was beginning to grow into a man. Though he would be like Agravaine, never very tall-one of the Old People, a throwback. And of course, next to the giant Gareth he would always look like a child, even when he was twenty! He had washed his face and brushed his hair very carefully; yes, and it had been trimmed freshly too.

  "How nice you look, my love," she said, as his small fingers swooped precisely to appropriate a berry from the dish. "Did you cut your hair yourself?"

  "No," he said, "I made the steward do it; I said I was tired of looking like the house dog. Lot was always clean-trimmed and clean-shaven, and so was Lancelet all the time he stayed here. I like to look like a gentleman."

  "And so you always do, my dear," she said, looking at the small dark hand holding the berry. It was bramble-scratched and the knuckles grimed and grubby like any active boy's hand, but she noted, too, that he had scrubbed it long and hard and that the nails were not dirty and broken but carefully pared short. "But why have you put on your holiday tunic this morning?"

  "Did I put on my holiday tunic?" he asked, his small dark face innocent. "Yes, I suppose I did. Well-" He paused, and she knew that whatever his reason, and of course he would have a good one, she would never know it. At last he said calmly, "I soaked my other one in the dew picking your berries, madam." Then, suddenly, he said, "I thought I should hate sir Lancelet, Mother. Gareth talked of him early and late as if he were a God," and Morgause remembered that, though he would not weep before her, Gwydion had been heartbroken when Gareth had gone south to King Arthur's court. Morgause had missed him too-Gareth had been the only person alive who had real influence with Gwydion and could make him do as he would with only a light word. Since Gareth had gone there was no one alive to whose counsel Gwydion would listen.

  "I thought he would be a fool full of his own importance," Gwydion said, "but he is nothing of the sort. He told me more about lighthouses than even Lot knew, I think. And he said when I was older I should come to Arthur's court and be made a knight, if I was good and honorable." His deep-set dark eyes considered that. "All the women said I look like him- and they asked, and I was angry that I did not know how to answer them. Foster-mother"-he leaned forward, his dark, soft hair falling loose over his forehead, lending the composed small face an unusual vulnerability- "tell me true-is Lancelet my father? I thought that might be why Gareth was so fond of him ... ."

  And you are not the first to ask that question, my love, she thought, stroking the boy's soft hair. The unusual childishness in his face as he asked made her voice gentler than usual.

  "No, my little one. Of all the men in the kingdom, Lancelet could not be your father-I made it my business to ask. All that year you were begotten, Lancelet was in Less Britain, fighting at the side of his father, King Ban. I thought so too, but you look like him because Lancelet is your mother's nephew, as he is mine."

  Gwydion surveyed her skeptically, and Morgause could almost read his thoughts; that she had told him exactly what she would have told him if she had known Lancelet was his father. He said at last, "Perhaps one day I shall go to Avalon, rather than to Arthur's court. Does my mother dwell now in Avalon, foster-mother?"

  "I know not." Morgause frowned ... once again, this oddly adult foster-son of hers had led her on to speak to him as if he were a grown man; he did that so often. It came to her that now Lot was gone, Gwydion was the only person in this household with whom she spoke from time to time as one adult to another! Oh, yes, Lochlann was man enough in bed at night, but he never had much more to say than one of the shepherds or even the housemaids!

  "Go out now, Gwydion my love, I am going to be dressed-"

  "Why should I go?" he asked. "I have known well enough what you look like, ever since I was five years old."

  "But you are older now," she said, with that old sense of helplessness. "It is not fitting you should be here while I dress,"

  "Do you care that much what is fitting, foster-mother?" he said ingenuously, his eyes resting on the depression in the cushion where Lochlann had lain, and Morgause felt the sudden upward rush of frustration and wrath-he could entangle her in these arguments as if he were a grown man and a Druid! She said sharply, "I need not account to you for my doings, Gwydion!"

  "Did I say you must?" His eyes were all injured innocence. "But if I am older, then I will need to know more about women than I did when I was a baby, will I not? I want to stay and talk."

  "Oh, stay, stay if you want to," she said, "but turn your back, I'll not have you staring at me, sir Impudence!" Obediently he turned away, but as she rose and signalled her woman to bring her gown, he said, "No, put on your blue gown, foster-mother, the new one from the looms, and your saffron cloak."

  "And now you will be giving me advice on what I should wear? What's this, what's this?"

  "I like to see you dressed like a fine lady and a queen," he said, persuasively. "And tell them to dress your hair high with your gold coil, will you not, foster-mother? To please me?"

  "Why, you would have me fine as a Midsummer feast, so that I should sit and card wool in all my best gear-my women would laugh, child!"

  "Let them laugh," Gwydion coaxed. "Will you not dress in your finest to please me? And who knows what may happen before the day is done? You might be glad of it."

  Morgause, laughing, gave way. "Oh, as you wish-if you will have it that I dress myself for a festival, let it be so ... we will have our own festival here, then! And now I suppose the kitchen must bake honey cakes for this imaginary festival-"

  A child, after all, she thought, he thinks in this way to tease for sweets. But then, he brought
me berries, why not? "Well, Gwydion, shall I have them bake a honey cake for supper?"

  He turned around. Her gown was still unlaced, and she saw his eyes linger for a moment on her white breasts. Not such a child, then. But he said, "I am always happy to have a honey cake, but perhaps there will be some fish to bake, too, for dinner."

  "If we are to have fish," she said, "you will have to change your tunic again and go fishing for it yourself. The men are busy with the sowing."

  He answered quickly, "I will ask Lochlann to go-it will be like a holiday for him. He deserves one, doesn't he, foster-mother, you are pleased with him, aren't you?"

  Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! "If you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today, I suppose."

  And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in Gwydion's mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and said, "Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it."

  "He shall have his cake," said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. "Look at his sweet face, like one of those angels, he is."

  Angel. That is the last thing I would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion's mind.

  The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs, and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she would have caught him bragging of it.

  Ah, well. For some obscure child's reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt, with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time-he had little in common with Lot's other sons. Nor did he have Gareth's passion for arms and knightly things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine's gift for music, though his voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy all day at her harp if she could.

  Still, he had a quick and retentive mind. For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine-nor Morgause herself, for that matter-could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or the mysterious tongue of those old Romans. Agravaine was quick enough-he kept all the tallies and accounts of the estate, he had a gift for numbering things; but Gwydion soaked up every bit of learning, it seemed, as quickly as it was put before him. Within a year he could read as well as the priest himself and speak in Latin as if he were one of those old Caesars reborn, so that for the first time Morgause wondered might there not be something, after all, in what the Druids said-that we were reborn again and again, learning more and more in each life.

  He is such a son as should make his father proud, Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day-yes, one day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King's conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur-she could have forced him to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could have had jewels, or power ... but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause, would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand.

  She sat in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak-he grew so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she, perhaps, give him Agravaine's cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few months ago. At midday he said, "Mother, I will have a piece of bread and cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries -Agravaine said I should go and see if all the fences are in good order."

  "Not in your holiday shoes," said Morgause.

  "Certainly not. I will go barefoot," Gwydion said, unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him-this was not a task Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with the lad this day?

  Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so heavy Morgause could not lift if, she surveyed it with pleasure-it would feed everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.

  "Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival," he said with satisfaction.

  "Have you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?" Agravaine asked, coming in from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony.

  "I have, and they are mostly in good order," said Gwydion, "but at the very top of the north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they'd be away before you could speak to them!"

  "You went all the way up there alone?" Morgause frowned at him in dismay. "You are not a goat-you could have fallen and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd lads with you!"

  "I had my reasons for going alone," retorted Gwydion, with that stubborn set of his mouth, "and I saw what I wanted to see."

  "What could you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all alone for days?" demanded Agravaine crossly.

  "I have never fallen yet," Gwydion said, "and if I did, it is I who would suffer for it. What is it to you, if I take my own risks?"

  "I am your elder brother and ruler in this house," said Agravaine, "and you will show me some respect or I will knock it into you!"

  "Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense inside it," Gwydion said pertly, "for sure, it will never grow there on its own-"

  "You wretched little-"

  "Aye, say it," Gwydion shouted, "mock me with my birth, you-I do not know my father's name, but I know who fathered you, and between the two I would rather be in my situation!"

  Agravaine took a heavy step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her. "Don't tease the boy, Agravaine."

  "If he always runs to hide behind your skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?" demanded Agravaine.

  "It would take a better man than you to teach me that," Gwydion said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice.

  "Hush, hush, child-don't speak so to your brother," she admonished, and Gwydion said, "I am sorry, Agravaine-I should not have been rude to you."

  He smiled up, his eyes big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine grumbled, "I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal-do you think I want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your head to climb the fells alone?"

  "Well," said Gwydion, "otherwise you would not have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep th
ere or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes-do I, Mother?"

  Morgause chuckled, for it was true-Gwydion was easy on his clothes. There were some boys like that. Gareth had only to put on a tunic and it was crumpled, stained, and dirty before he had worn it an hour, while Gwydion had climbed the high fells in his saffron holiday tunic and it looked as if he had that moment taken it from the washing-woman. Gwydion looked at Agravaine in his working smock and said, "But you are not fit to sit at table with Mother in her fine clothes. Go and put on your fine tunic, brother. Would you sit down to dinner in your old smock like a farmer?"

  "I won't be ruled by a young knave like you," Agravaine growled, but he did go off toward his chamber, and Gwydion smiled with secret satisfaction. He said, "Agravaine should have a wife, Mother. He is bad-tempered as a bull in spring, and besides, you should not have to weave his clothes and mend them."