Nimue lifted a small yellow apple and began tossing it absently in her hand. “So I made a tour of Arthur’s realm, and eventually came to Pelleas’s holdings. I had heard how devastated he was over the matter of Ettard, but even so was surprised to find the poor fellow had lost all will to live. I stayed with him a while, and together we began to put our pasts behind us in favor of the present…and here we are.”
“But isn’t he a Christian?” I queried.
Niume nodded and lifting the golden fruit, sniffed it reflectively. “He doesn’t want to renounce it, nor would I ask it. Somehow, when we are together we are just who we are—partners with a world of difference in our individual ways of doing things, who each hold sacred the haven we have made. He gives me a balance, and a wholeness I never knew was possible.”
“Like Lance,” I murmured, and the doire looked up sharply.
“So it is true?”
I nodded and put down the mat I was holding. “I suppose there are all sorts of rumors?”
It was her turn to nod. “Morgan seems to have started them, after your summer at Joyous Gard. Is that why he’s left the Court?”
“Yes. And he’s asked me to come away with him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know…what should I do?”
The doire stared into some unfathomable distance before speaking. “For the love of Britain, I would say stay here, for you are the Queen and the people need you. For the love of Arthur, I would say stay with him, for whether he knows it or not, he needs you. For the love of life…for that, I would say go with Lance. You will never have a better chance, a deeper love, a richer future. And for the love of you, my dearest friend, I would counsel that you are the only one who can make the decision. It cannot be to please anyone else, but must come truly from what you need to do.”
There was a long pause during which she searched my face, after which she shrugged. “Not much help, is it?”
“No,” I admitted miserably. “Sometimes I think it will all be decided on the day Lance comes for his answer…that I won’t know what I’m going to say until he’s standing in front of me and the words simply come out of my mouth.”
***
But, in fact, the future was decided not in the summer, but in the month of tears, when Morgause came to the Hall at Camelot.
Chapter XXXV
Morgause
She’s standing in the rain, Your Highness, soaked clean through,” the Gate Keeper said urgently. “Knowing the King’s feelings about his sisters, I dared not let her in, but since he’s not here…” Lucan’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Take me to her,” I answered, rising immediately and signaling for Lamorak to come with me. I had no idea what I expected to find—half ogre, half woman, wronged by a brother’s anger for which I saw no justification. At least now I would have a chance to judge Morgause for myself.
She stood in the middle of the cobbled court, making no effort to hide from the storm. Cloak and clothes, shoes and luggage ran with rivulets of water; her own hair and that of the boy she sheltered under one arm was plastered flat by the rain, and her skin had the clammy, cold look of one who is chilled to the bone. Yet she had not crept to the protection of the threshold when Lucan came to fetch me; Celtic pride forbade that she go where she was not wanted.
“You must be my brother’s wife,” Morgause announced as I came through the doorway. “We in the north have heard much about his Cumbrian bride.”
Her tone was pleasant, as though she were greatly pleased to meet me, and her voice sounded remarkably like Igraine’s. A playful smile lit her features while she looked Lamorak up and down. “But you are certainly not Arthur.”
The big warrior flushed as I hastened to explain that the High King had left on a hunting expedition that morning and was not expected back for several days. “What has brought you here, and on such a night as this?” I asked. April is a chancy month for traveling, with the weather being so changeable, and I was puzzled that she had not waited for milder conditions.
“Why, I had to keep my word to Mordred,” she answered, her eyes shifting for a moment to the boy. “When the older children went off to join their uncle at his Court, both Gareth and Mordred felt terribly left out. I promised each of them that when they were old enough to become pages I would bring them to Arthur so they might serve him as well as Gawain and Gaheris and Agravain have. Mordred will turn eleven next week, on May Day—and one doesn’t break a promise to a child, not for weather or politics or any other reason,” she added firmly.
I smiled at her reasoning, sure that if I had been a mother, I would have felt the same.
The rain was pelting down, driven by a cruel wind, and remembering the stew in our pots and the warmth by our fire, I invited her inside. In spite of Arthur’s edict, I could not bring myself to leave the woman and child shivering in the cold.
“But only for one night,” I cautioned. I didn’t know how to explain that my husband had left orders to drive her from his gates, but since she would be gone long before he returned, I decided not to worry about it. Under the circumstances it was the only humane thing to do.
They followed me into the kitchen, steam rising from their clothes like druid’s mist. It wreathed them in mystery, reminding me that Gawain had once boasted his mother was every bit as powerful as Morgan le Fey. But when they’d changed into the dry garments Lynette fetched from my wardrobe, they looked like any other travelers stranded on a wretched night.
Lamorak brought in their baggage, then waited around hoping to be useful. He beamed with pleasure as Morgause thanked him for his help, and the Orcadian Queen cast him a coquettish look while she toweled her hair.
Bigger and much fleshier than Morgan, she must once have borne the mark of Igraine’s beauty. Now she was overblown and voluptuous, and both her lips and eyes were painted. She made no effort to hide the strawberry mark on her cheek, but it didn’t detract from her looks. Certainly Lamorak found her attractive.
Watching their flirtation, I began to wonder if this proud, passionate woman who ruled alone in the cold northern islands was starved for male attention. Or perhaps, like her sister, she simply had a taste for younger men.
Mordred was a quiet, shy boy and looked, as Igraine had once told me, far more like Morgan than Morgause. Like his aunt, he was slight of build and his eyes moved quickly and restlessly everywhere. But at least they were brown in color and not the eerie green of the Lady’s.
“He’s such a good lad,” Morgause said fondly as we went into the Hall. “Learned everything I ever tried to teach him. Children are such a treasure in one’s older years, don’t you think?”
When I nodded silently she gave me a puzzled look and putting her hand on my arm, stared into my face.
“Oh, my dear, is it possible you don’t have any?” Pity and compassion flooded her voice, and I looked away hastily. I would have thought everyone in Britain knew I was barren, but perhaps the Orkney Isles were so remote, not even Court gossip reached them. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I had no idea…Well, there’s bound to be other pleasures in your life, if not offspring.” Her gaze slid over to Lamorak.
***
Seated next to me at the table, Morgause and her son ate as eagerly as young foxes.
“Did Gareth decide to stay home with you?” I asked, for he had never come to Court to be a page.
“Gareth?” The Orkney Queen’s voice quavered slightly. “Gareth was lost to me two years ago…drowned in the killing sea near the Old Man of Hoy. I thought Gawain would have told you. You know Gawain came to visit for the first time in more than a decade,” she confided, pushing away her empty bowl and brushing the crumbs from her lap. “Such a flamboyant fellow; like his father, one never knows what he’ll be up to next.”
I laughed, beginning to enjoy our visit. She had none of her siste
r’s tautness of spirit but exuded the comfort and blowsy good nature of a tavern-maid. One would never guess her husband had been a powerful king who had opposed mine, or that her bitterness had been so strong, she had disowned her firstborn because he espoused Arthur’s cause.
So far I had found nothing to account for Arthur’s hatred of the woman and wondered how to make amends for his rudeness.
But there was no time for conciliatory gestures. Just as she was finishing the third course of the meal the High King burst into the Hall and we all froze on the spot.
Lucan must have warned him of Morgause’s presence, for Arthur strode immediately to the center of the Hall, glowering like the Master of the Wild Hunt. Stopping to gather himself to his full height, he extended one arm and pointed directly at his sister’s forehead.
“Were you not told to stay away from my Court, on pain of banishment?”
The Queen of Orkney stared at her brother without blinking, then slowly reached over and ruffled Mordred’s hair.
“I have brought you a gift, M’lord,” she said, her voice going every bit as silky as Morgan’s did when she was pleased. “I shall leave by tomorrow’s first light, as long as I know he has been delivered safely into your hands.”
Arthur let out a string of profanity that was shocking in its virulence, then clamped his mouth shut as he wrestled with his anger.
“You will leave now, this very moment, and take your child with you,” he ordered finally, his voice shaking.
“Oh, Arthur, it’s so wretched out there,” I burst out, only to have my husband turn on me with equal wrath.
“Stay out of this, Gwen. You know nothing of what has happened here.” Turning back to Morgause, he clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. “You will leave now, I say!”
The rejected Queen gathered her skirts together and rose with as much dignity as possible, but it was the boy who caught my attention. He stared at Arthur with a combination of wistfulness and fear, and I wondered what was going on behind those large, liquid eyes. Only when Morgause tugged on his sleeve did the child leave off watching the High King and follow his mother toward the kitchen.
“Out,” Arthur bellowed. “Out of this Hall, out of Camelot—out of my life, forever!”
“At least let me give her something for shelter,” I pleaded, scrambling to my feet.
My husband turned and glared at me but didn’t forbid it, so I ran after them, calling for Lamorak to fetch one of the leather tents from the soldiers’ supplies.
“Find a sheltered meadow on the other side of the hills,” I ordered, wanting to get her out of Arthur’s sight. “Make sure she’s safe, and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.”
“That’s very dear of you.” Morgause gave me a look of bemused resignation, as though we were fellow conspirators against the unreasonableness of men. “I understand Uther was hotheaded as well. But it is a pity we had no chance to get better acquainted. Perhaps you can join me at the tent tomorrow? I’ll give you back these clothes, and we can have a talk…there’s so much I would like to catch up on. They say you were with my mother at the end?”
I nodded and against my better judgment, agreed to visit her the next afternoon, provided that the rain had stopped.
“If not, then the next nice day,” she suggested with a touch of gaiety as she and the boy followed Lamorak out the door.
Sighing deeply, I turned back to the Hall, suddenly very tired of the strange conflicts and convoluted hatreds within Igraine’s family.
By tacit agreement Arthur and I stayed in different rooms that night; he was enraged at my going against his dictum, and I was chagrined that we, the most civilized Court in the West, should refuse shelter to a woman and child during a torrential storm.
It was the first time we had gone to bed with ill will between us since we’d married, and I lay awake a long while, listening to the blustering wind pound against the shutters.
***
The dawn was gray and soggy, but no actual rain fell, and by midday I was trying to convince Bedivere to escort me out to the place where Morgause’s tent had been raised.
“Lamorak came back this morning with the directions,” I noted. He’d spent the night with the Queen of Orkney, who was, he said, a lady of many talents, but I didn’t think the lieutenant needed to know that. Lamorak was Pellinore’s son, after all, so no one was surprised that he found his way into so many warm beds.
“Just because you know where she is doesn’t mean you should be going out to meet her,” Bedivere responded gruffly.
“What’s this?” I fumed. “Does Arthur now forbid anyone to have contact with her, even outside of Camelot’s walls?”
My longtime friend was looking at me gravely. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and his words emphatic. “Guinevere, I have never told you what I thought you should do, but if I were to do so, I would say stay away from Morgause.”
“Well,” I temporized, ashamed at having snapped at him, “I realize your loyalty lies with Arthur. But the woman was treated very rudely last night, and I promised I’d visit today. It doesn’t have to be you who comes with me—I can get someone else.”
The lieutenant sighed heavily and rose to his feet.
“No…if you’re intent on doing this, I’ll escort you.” He reached for the rain cape that hung on the peg by the door. “I’ll get the horses ready.”
***
Even though she hosted me in a military tent, Lot’s widow had dressed in her finest clothes and was made up as though for a grand occasion. She gave me an extravagant welcome, elaborately shooing her servant out of the tent, and asking that Bedivere look after Mordred while we visited. The boy declined the lieutenant’s company, however, preferring instead to explore a nearby creek.
“I am so glad you came,” Morgause assured me, her tone just on the edge of gushing. “I haven’t had a good chat over tea for simply ages. You do take tea in the afternoon, don’t you?”
I grinned and told her that Igraine had introduced me to the custom when I first came to Court.
“Ah, yes.” My hostess nodded, carefully pouring out two cups of blackberry tea. Her hand shook slightly, and she added a dollop of brown liquor to her own from a flask like the one that Bedivere keeps handy for when the stump of his arm hurts. “Mother used to say there’s nothing that couldn’t be settled over a nice cup of tea,” the Queen of Orkney commented. “You know, I lost contact with her after Uther’s death. I’d like you to tell me what happened to her.”
So we sat together quietly at the folding table while I recounted the convent years of the great Queen’s life. Morgause drained and refilled her cup several times.
“And Morgan?” I asked. “Have you been out of touch with her also?”
“Oh, no, Morgan and I have always been close,” she said quickly. “She’s my little sister…the one I looked after until the Pendragon came. It was the two of us who were banished, once Uther entered Mother’s bed.”
Her voice had turned nasty, with a cruel, cutting edge, and she leered at me knowingly before taking a swig directly from her flask.
“You know, it’s a wonder I speak to Arthur at all,” she went on, her manner shifting abruptly to a half-jocular vein. “His father killed mine, and then he killed my husband…” Her voice deepened, and she studied the flask, whisky and self-pity thickening her words. “Lot was a good husband, and now that he is dead, I am widowed and bereft…and the youngest of the boys soon to be gone. Arthur is going to accept his son at Court, isn’t he?”
Like a drunken warrior who has reached the maudlin stage, Morgause was unable to focus clearly but was very intent on trying. She peered at me closely, obviously expecting some sort of answer.
“Arthur has never held the fact that they were Lot’s children against your other sons,” I pointed out. “There’s no reason to think he�
�ll treat Mordred any differently.”
Morgause’s face went blank, and she let out a short bark of laughter.
“You think Mordred is Lot’s son?”
“But of course,” I responded, remembering Igraine’s comment that the boy had a difficult moira, having been conceived so close to his father’s death. “Who else’s would he be?”
Slack-jawed, the woman across the table stared at me in astonishment. It was becoming clear that this whole visit had been a mistake, and I was sorry I had come.
“So Arthur never told you?”
Having no idea what she was referring to, I shook my head.
The painted mouth snapped shut as a spasm of giggles overtook her. They started from her toes and rippled upward in riotous bursts of glee so strong that her whole body shook. But she kept her jaws firmly locked, as if guarding a delicious secret. Her eyes were scrunched shut with the effort.
I drew back in alarm, thinking she was going into a fit. I glanced at the tent flap, wondering if I should call for help, but a strangled sound brought my gaze back to my hostess.
She was slumped in her chair, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Squeals of delight squirted out from between her clenched teeth like piglets escaping a sty. At last she opened her mouth and spewed out a raucous, tent-filling bellow.
“What a sly one he is, not to tell his own wife,” she guffawed, fighting to catch her breath.
I was beginning to think she was deranged as well as drunk. Gathering my skirts, I prepared to rise.
Guessing my intent, my sister-in-law drew herself together. Hastily composing her features, she looked me full in the face.
“There’s never been a question of Lot being Mordred’s father. That boy is Arthur’s son.”
The words registered slowly, and I shook my head in disbelief. Obviously the woman was mad.
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