The mob bunched as we came to the gates, waving and weeping as the men marched away, and Bedivere helped me climb to the parapet. We stood at the top of the sheer chalk wall, poised between earth and sky, triumph and despair. Arthur was clearly visible as he led the men across the causeway, riding straight and proud and elegant in his new cape while the Red Dragon leapt and whipped above him in the twilight.
The men along the Road saluted as he passed, then fell into line behind him. New banners joined the cavalcade as the different kings brought up their forces until it looked as though the land itself were moving, funneling into the future. It was only when Urien’s Raven Banner streamed out in the dusk that I remembered Morgan le Fey. I had neither seen nor thought of her since the morning, and the realization that she must still be at Sarum filled me with apprehension.
I shivered and Bedivere slung his cape around my shoulder, steadying me in the crook of his arm. I leaned back against him, suddenly too tired to think about anything. The tears began to course down my face, and now that Arthur was safely off, I let them all pour out.
Chapter XXXXIII
Accolon
Cathbad appeared on my doorstep bright and early next morning with an invitation from Morgan suggesting that we meet in her quarters that afternoon. His manner was unexpectedly pleasant, and I stared at him in astonishment.
“Is she very angry about yesterday?” I asked cautiously.
“The Lady is a woman with a deep commitment to reestablishing the rights of Paganism,” the druid replied, his rich voice swelling up out of my childhood. For a moment I was back in Rheged, preparing to hear some fabulous new legend. “She is also a woman with a very quick temper, and sometimes her zeal gets the better of her patience. If you are willing to overlook her outburst yesterday, I’m sure you’ll find her one of Arthur’s most devoted, and influential, subjects.”
A gentle stress on the word “influential” brought me back to the present, and I reminded myself of her importance to Arthur while Brigit helped me dress for the afternoon meeting.
“Don’t forget, Morgan has no other choice than to befriend you, now that you are Britain’s High Queen,” Brigit said pointedly. “It’s up to her to make peace with you.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way, for although I now carried the highest title in the land, I didn’t feel any different inside and had little notion of the power my position gave me over others. When, I wondered, would I begin to feel like a High Queen? At the moment all I could think of was healing the rift between Morgan and myself before Arthur returned, so that he could come home to find wife and sister well in accord.
Morgan had moved into Agricola’s room, with a bright, sunny exposure and remnants of painted plaster decorating the walls. Silk pillows and rich tapestries were spread across the bed, and her servants had put fur rugs upon the floor. Compared with the surroundings I was used to, it was royally sumptuous.
“My dear,” she cried, breaking away from the flock of young women that surrounded her. Coming forward, she greeted me with a kinsman’s embrace. “I’m afraid you must think me a terrible boor. I do apologize for that scene in the grove yesterday…it was just a shock. If I’d had any idea that matters were so tense and time so short…ah, well, I only hope you’ll understand.”
Her voice was honey-smooth, her manner all open friendliness. I made some comment about the pressures of the moment, and she laughed gaily.
“The Queen Mother said she was sure you wouldn’t hold a grudge. But come now, let’s put all that behind us. What with the men going off to their war, we’ll finally have a chance to get acquainted as sisters should. I’ve been trying to meet you for months now, but something always seemed to get in the way.”
Morgan made some signal to the white-robed girls, who melted out of the room, and slipping her arm into mine, guided me toward the window where an embroidery frame stood. A blank piece of linen was stretched within the hoop, and she gestured toward a sewing basket that contained a jumble of bright-colored thread.
“If I’d known I’d be trapped here at Sarum indefinitely, I would have brought the work I have at home. As it is, I’ve sent messengers around to the markets to get whatever flosses they can find. Embroidery is the one domestic activity that I really do find soothing.”
I thought of the scabbard she had made for Excalibur, and nodded appreciatively. Certainly her touch was magical.
“You must have a talent with the bodkin as well,” she went on. “That cape Arthur was wearing when he left was hardly the product of the usual sewing room.”
It pleased me that she had noticed and I smiled, glad we had a common ground of communication.
We sat where she could continue her stitchery, and I studied her surreptitiously. The same intensity that made her such a formidable opponent also made her a charming companion, and she seemed genuinely eager to put the tensions of the past behind us.
The conversation turned on stitches and designs, yarns and colors, and recipes for dyes while her sleek bodkin poked into and out of the fabric.
“My stock of dyes at home is quite complete,” she confided. “I’ve even learned how to extract the Royal Purple from Northumbrian whelks; the color is quite rare and hard to come by, you know. Most people don’t associate the Sanctuary with dyer’s arts,” she added casually. “We’re too well known as a healing and spiritual center.”
I shied at her reference to the Black Lake, afraid it would lead to the subject of our first meeting.
“And of course, the school that Vivian established is justly famous,” Morgan went on, deftly twisting a piece of blue thread between her fingers. “Our first students are reaching an age when they are ready to go out into the world. Fine young men, all of them.”
I smiled nervously when she glanced over at me. Nothing in her manner betrayed any anger over my parents’ refusal to let me attend that school; maybe Cathbad had not told her.
Uneasiness was making my palms clammy, and I cast about for a way to find out how much she knew without a direct confrontation.
“Are there no girls there?” I queried, wondering for a moment which of us was cat and which was mouse.
“No, and I gather there never have been. Originally Vivian planned to have more students, but I have chosen to concentrate on quality rather than quantity.”
There was an edge of defensiveness in her voice, as though she found it difficult to follow in Vivian’s wake. Perhaps that accounted for her appalling single-mindedness as High Priestess.
“Occasionally one or another of the local farm children blunders in on us,” she went on, plucking fiercely at a snarl in the embroidery thread.
The breath stuck in my lungs and I sat very still, sure she was leading up to our encounter at the Lake.
“But it’s easy enough to scare them off.” She shrugged. “After all, they can’t be allowed to wander around the Sanctuary at will…it would be bad for the discipline among our students, and who knows what sort of misunderstood notions and tales they would take home with them?”
With a sharp tug she got the knot out of her floss, and the tension inside me snapped. It was suddenly clear that I had lived for years in terror of an event that was so common to the Lady, she didn’t even realize that I had been one of those children. It seemed unbelievably funny, and a riotous giggle welled up inside me, and I had to fight to keep from breaking into peals of laughter.
For a moment I wanted to share the story with her, but the memory of her anger the day before stopped me; that had certainly not been the guilty imaginings of an adolescent girl. So I curbed the gleeful giggle, and let the conversation go wherever Morgan chose to lead it, convinced that nothing stood in the way of friendship with my sister-in-law.
Returning to the house in a light and buoyant mood, I found bags and baskets and hampers all being carted out the door.
“Bedivere’s orders,” Vinnie said tersely, martyrdom written all over her face.
“He says it will be easier
to provide for all three queens under the one roof of the Hall,” Brigit explained. I nodded, thinking it a logical safety precaution, if somewhat chancy, given the different personalities involved.
Vinnie came round to liking the new arrangement in spite of herself, for it approximated the kind of “women’s quarters” she expected in a proper court. It allowed us to eat separately or together, depending on our inclination at the time, and made it easier for me to drop in on Igraine whenever the Queen Mother felt like having company.
Nimue moved with us, as did the dogs, though Bedivere said one of the local girls who worked in the kitchen had volunteered to look after the pups. That turned out to be Frieda, and I teased the Saxon wench about keeping up her contact with Griflet.
“Well,” she allowed in her slow, rough accent, “the dogs are used to me from all the playing and romping we did together, and I’m fond of them as well. Besides,” she added earnestly, “if Griflet’s going to become a warrior, I’d better show I’m able to be something more than a scullery girl.”
I suspected the Goddess was weaving some kind of moira between these two, much as She had with Merlin and Nimue.
Life at Sarum settled into a quiet, mindless routine with everyone trying to keep from unsettling anyone else. Morgan and Nimue avoided each other entirely, and though I visited Igraine every day, the two priestesses seemed to alternate the afternoons spent in our company. Igraine’s companion Ettard was always there, watching and listening, but never saying a word. I began to wonder what, if anything, went on inside her head.
After a fortnight news arrived that the invasion was much bigger than even Arthur had expected, and a major battle had been fought near Caerleon, beside the River Usk. This was the city where Arthur had received the Christian crown, and it seemed a pity that he must reestablish his right to rule from that same center these four years later.
The High King himself had not been hurt, though many on both sides had been killed or injured. It appeared that those who had gone over to the Irish cause would have to be chased from kingdom to kingdom, so we were to stay at Sarum for the rest of the summer.
I sighed, saddened that Arthur was busy hunting the Irish when we should be getting acquainted and starting a family, for it was evident that I was not pregnant from our bedding following the marriage rite.
Morgan reacted vehemently to the war news, throwing her hands in the air and proclaiming she’d die of boredom if she must stay here until harvest. It took Igraine and Bedivere both to convince her that it would be foolhardy to attempt the trip back to the Lakes with only her dwarf and the cadre of adoring acolytes for protection. In the end the High Priestess agreed to stay with us, though not without strain and irritation on her part. More and more she retreated into the company of her followers.
By the beginning of June the soft, lazy afternoons had begun to run together in a continuous scroll of sameness, with little to mark one day as different from another. So bland was our existence that the day Ettard actually said something at teatime stood out as vividly as though it were a feast day.
Nimue had been commenting on Merlin’s generosity in sharing his knowledge with her, a subject that she returned to often, when Ettard suddenly leaned forward, a small frown of concentration on her pretty face.
“Aren’t you frightened, being with Merlin?” she asked with a mixture of awe and curiosity.
“Frightened?” inquired the doire.
“He’s so…important. He’s the second-most-powerful man in the kingdom, after all,” Ettard pointed out. “Why, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to say to him, even.”
Nimue laughed gently—a rich, knowledgeable sound that contrasted notably with the virginal timidity of the convent girl.
“No matter what kind of power a man has, he’s still a male animal, and the Goddess never forgets that,” Nimue said. “But I don’t love Merlin for his power…I love him for his humanness.”
Looking at the priestess, I realized that somehow she had changed. This girl, younger even than I was, had blossomed in a way I didn’t understand, and the promise of a fine, wise woman hovered over her like an aura. It was unclear whether it resulted from being loved by Merlin or was simply a manifestation of her own inner nature, but either way, it was clearly noticeable. I smiled at her, wondering if I would ever be as confident a queen as she was a priestess.
Later that evening the two of us went strolling along the parapet, looking out at the pearly sunset and wishing the heat would break. The summer lushness cloyed the senses after a while, and I longed for the high, crisp blue of a northern sky instead of the dreamy opal mirage of Sarum’s clouds.
“Do you hear directly from Merlin these days?” I asked restlessly.
“Only through the messages Bedivere gets,” the priestess answered. She turned and looked at me, and for a moment I wondered if she could read my thoughts.
“I’m sure they are both all right,” she assured me, laying her hand over mine. “It’s just going to take longer than they expected.”
Soon after that the first groups of wounded began to arrive at Sarum, those strong enough to travel but too severely hurt to be of any use in camp. They came by cart or litter or holding each other up with cane and crutch and camaraderie. They reported that the enemy had fragmented and Arthur had split our men into different groups to pursue them across South Wales.
The organizing of a temporary hospital gave Morgan an outlet for some of her energy. Brigit volunteered to help, quite willing to overlook religious beliefs when it came to saving lives, and the two of them made an odd but effective pair as the days wore on and a working routine was established.
By midsummer, Morgan had finished the third pillow cover in a row. Even the hospital wasn’t enough to keep her occupied, and her nerves were strung taut and sharp. I remembered the question of whether a fox kit could be tamed, and concluded that Kevin had been right: you can’t tame something that doesn’t want to be tamed. The Lady hadn’t wanted to stay with us, and even though she tried to accept it gracefully, her very nature was at odds with the situation.
And then Accolon rode up to our gates, arriving during a long dusk that lasted well past the sunset. The guard routed Bedivere out of bed to come identify the young man, and by morning every girl and woman in town knew we had a visitor from the Continent.
Morgan focused her attention on him like a kestrel hovering above a promising tuft of grass.
“All the way from Gaul to help my brother?” she marveled over dinner the next night. “My goodness, what a fine show of commitment.”
Accolon was an elegant young fellow, lean and well muscled, and he flushed now under the stroking of Morgan’s attention. He wasn’t much past Gawain’s age, and the Lady was rather turning his head.
“Arthur will be sorry not to have had you on the battlefield with him,” I said, “but you are certainly welcome to stay here with us until he and the Companions return.”
“Or,” Morgan suggested silkily, “perhaps you could come up to the Lakes with me. The men who normally accompany me are off with the High King, but I’d feel quite safe with you as an escort.”
Our visitor was suddenly beyond his depth, and he glanced around the table to get his bearings.
“I believe,” Bedivere said, turning pleasantly to Morgan, “that your brother expects you to stay here and continue to treat the wounded as they come home. M’lady Morgan is the finest healer in all of Britain,” he added in explanation to our guest.
“How very fortunate for the King,” Accolon responded, and Morgan took the compliment graciously.
“Well, at least you can accompany me in gathering herbs and such from the plain. I’ll even take you to Stonehenge,” she suggested, her eyes full of invitation.
I had never seen such a smooth seduction before, and it both fascinated and repelled me. Infinitely older and wiser than the young warrior, the High Priestess played with him adroitly. Perhaps if they had been nearer in age, or if there ha
d been some aspect of play and mutual flirtation, it wouldn’t have seemed so sinister. As it was, all I could do was smile at our guest and hope he realized what he was getting into.
They took to riding out together at all hours of the day and night; as Morgan pointed out, some plants must be gathered before dawn while others need the spell of a new moon to be effective. At first they were accompanied by her ladies, but as time went by they more often rode alone. Bedivere worried about ensuring their safety, but decided it was better to let her have her way in this and avert a major explosion than to tether her too close and see her break all constraints.
Then one day in August I was having tea with Igraine when the Queen Mother collapsed suddenly, her skin going pale and clammy and one hand tightening into a fist.
Ettard jumped to her feet and began chafing the Queen’s hands while I ran out of the room in frantic search of Morgan. Brigit said she hadn’t been at the hospital for several hours, and after sending a page to see if her horse was still in the stable, I raced down the corridor toward her room.
“Morgan, Morgan…” I called, pushing aside the curtains without knocking. “Morgan, are you here?”
The movement on the bed stopped abruptly and Accolon rolled to one side as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.
“Must you be so crude in your spying?” the Priestess sighed, languidly pulling the sheet up to her hips.
“It’s Igraine,” I panted, reaching out to steady myself against one of the high-backed chairs. “She’s having some sort of an attack and needs you…”
“I’ll be there shortly” came the terse reply, so I took a quick breath and ran back down the hall.
By the time I returned to the Queen Mother she was looking better, though Nimue insisted she stay bundled up and warm. When Morgan arrived a few minutes later, she banished the rest of us from the room and set about working her arts on her mother. Whatever she did, Igraine responded well and soon was resting comfortably.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 46
