by Joan Wolf
“And so I lived at Avalon from the time I was nine until I was sixteen.”
Arthur’s eyes were on his hands. He unclasped them and then clasped them again. “There was another child growing up at Avalon at that time. Merlin’s daughter, Morgan.” The king paused. The room was so quiet that Mordred could hear the sound of his own breathing. “Morgan and I loved each other from the time I was nine and she was eight. We loved as children, and then, as we grew older, we loved as man and woman. We thought we would be able to marry. We neither of us, remember, knew who I was.”
The king glanced up from his hands, and gray eyes looked into gray eyes. “Then I found out, found out that I was Prince of Britain and the next high king. I found out also that I could not marry Morgan.”
“Why not?” Mordred was so held by the story that he did not feel it presumptuous to question the king. Nor did Arthur appear to mind.
“Merlin and Uther said we were too closely related,” he answered. “At that time the king of Lothian was one of the most powerful of the regional kings and he was not pleased to discover that Uther had a son. He had hopes of the high kingship for himself, you see, and he would be bound to raise the cry of incest to discredit me.”
“The King of Lothian,” Mordred repeated. “Do you mean my father?”
“I mean Lot.” A pinched look had suddenly appeared around Arthur’s nostrils. “To continue, I wanted to marry Morgan in spite of my father and my grandfather. I begged her to come away with me to Armorica. She would not. My duty was to Britain and not to her, she said and sent me away.” A muscle flickered along Arthur’s jaw. “She gave me to Britain and never told me she was carrying my child.”
The boy made a sudden movement and then was still again. To give him privacy, Arthur got to his feet and walked to the long table that held his correspondence and reports. He picked up a scroll and regarded it thoughtfully. “She knew if I found out, nothing would stop my claiming her. But Morgan is, above all, Merlin’s daughter. Duty to her country is bred into her bones, Mordred. She would not step between me and the kingship she believed I was born to hold. So she went secretly into Wales, had the child, and gave it to another woman to raise as her own.” He put the scroll down and looked at his son. “I think you must know now who that woman was.”
The boy was so pale he looked as if he might faint. He said, his voice an almost undistinguishable croak, “Morgause?”
“Morgause,” the king confirmed gently. “Morgause was her sister. Morgause was a warm and loving mother. And Morgan would be able to see her son, to assure herself of his welfare. So you went home with Morgause and were presented to all as the posthumous son of Lot.”
Two brilliant spots of color appeared in Mordred’s cheeks at Arthur’s use of the word “you.”
“Between them, Morgan and Morgause kept the secret of your birth for fifteen years,” Arthur continued. “I never knew of your existence until last night, when you walked into my banquet hall. I realized the moment I saw you who you were. You know, of course, how much you resemble me.”
“So I am your son?”
“You are my son.”
The color came back to the boy’s face. “They all stared at me so. First the men at the gate.” He looked a little dazed. “I even asked Agravaine if I had dirt on my face!”
Arthur was watching him gravely.
“Have . . . have you talked to my mother?”
“I went last night to Avalon. Morgan told me the whole.”
Mordred’s eyes flickered and Arthur realized he had not been talking of Morgan. “I spoke to Morgause as well,” he went on easily. “So you see, Mordred, there can be no doubt.”
Mordred drew a deep breath. “It does not seem possible. If you only knew, my lord, how we have admired and loved you. It seems impossibly wonderful to me that I am actually your son.”
Arthur’s eyes were very bright. “It seems impossibly wonderful to me too,” he said.
The words were not extravagant, the voice not dramatic, but suddenly Mordred’s heart was slamming and his breath was short. Before he realized what he was doing, he was on his knees at his father’s feet, his lips pressed to the king’s fingers. Arthur’s other hand touched the thick silky black hair. “I was not so forgiving to Uther,” he said.
Mordred looked up. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. How could you have claimed me sooner? You said yourself you knew nothing of my existence. Besides”—his young face was suddenly blazing—“there is not a boy in Britain who would not rejoice to learn that he was your son.”
Arthur laughed a little unsteadily and moved his hand to Mordred’s shoulder to raise him to his feet. “I don’t think you have understood the full implication of what this means for you, Mordred,” he said more composedly when the boy was once more standing in front of him. The king was the taller by a few inches. “You are not just my son, you are my only son. You are the heir to Britain, Mordred.”
The young face looked bewildered. “But you are married, my lord. Surely your lawful sons would come before me in the line of succession?”
“I do not think I will have lawful sons,” Arthur replied very quietly. “The queen is barren.” There was a moment of startled silence; then Arthur put a hand on his son’s shoulder and steered him back to the chairs. “I understand how you must feel, Mordred,” he said as the boy collapsed gratefully into his seat. “The same thing happened to me. But I am good for a number of years yet. When I was told I would be high king, Uther gave himself only six months.”
Mordred looked rather dazedly at his father. “Six months!”
Arthur nodded and resumed his own chair. “And let me tell you, that was daunting.”
Mordred managed a laugh. “Yes, I can see that it must have been.”
“Let me explain to you what I propose to do,” Arthur said matter-offactly. “Then you tell me what you think.”
“All right.”
“First, I have spoken to the queen and she has agreed to accept you as my son and heir. You will like her; she is a very lovely lady. Next, there is a festival planned, as I’m sure you are aware. I am expecting a great number of the regional kings and princes to be in Camelot very shortly, and I will present you to them as the future heir to Britain. There can be few doubts raised as to your paternity. You wear your heritage on your face.”
Now came the difficult part. “Last, I have spoken to Morgause, and she has agreed to continue the fiction that she is your natural mother. We will tell the world that you are my son and hers.” Arthur’s voice was cooler now, more commanding. It did not invite discussion. “It will be less complicated that way.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Mordred with the faintest of stammers.
Arthur’s eyes warmed and he gave his son a smile. “Would you like to see Morgause now?”
“Yes, please,” said Mordred faintly.
“Come with me and I’ll take you to her,” said Arthur, and Mordred rose obediently and followed his father out of the room.
The Queen of Lothian had been given a large sunny room in the queen’s part of the house and it was to its comfortable privacy that Arthur brought Mordred and then left him. Mordred paused at the door, suddenly uncertain. For fifteen years he had thought Morgause was his mother. Now she was not.
He opened the door and she was there sitting by the window, basking in the sun like a cat. She smiled when she saw him. “My poor love. You look as if you have been hit over the head.”
He smiled back, a little uncertainly. “I feel as if someone has hit me over the head. It is a little . . . disturbing to discover suddenly that the people whom all your life you thought were your parents really were not.”
The room was decorated in rich reds and blues, a fitting background for Morgause’s own vivid coloring. She stood up. “You should not have found out this way, I know. But I did not realize how closely you resembled Arthur, Mordred. I see now why Pellinore was so careful to keep you apart.”
“Did Pelli
nore know, then?” He felt strangely disoriented in her familiar presence. He did not know what he should call her.
“Yes. Pellinore guessed when you were only a small child. He knew Arthur and of course he saw the resemblance.”
They were talking so calmly and rationally. Mordred looked around the room, as if trying to convince himself of where he was. Then: “The King says that Morgan is my real mother.”
“Morgan certainly gave birth to you,” she said, “but I am your mother.” She held out her arms.
Her ample breast was soft and sheltering, the smell of her so familiar, so comforting. He closed his eyes for a minute. “It is all so confusing.”
“My poor little lamb,” said Morgause, and patted his back.
He straightened and looked into her face. Their eyes were almost on a level. “If you hadn’t brought me here this way, would Morgan ever have told him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. She would have had to eventually, I suppose. You are his only son.”
“She should have told him.”
“Perhaps.” Morgause’s blue eyes were speculative. “Arthur wants us to pretend that I am your natural mother. Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand why.”
“He wants to protect Morgan, of course.”
Mordred’s straight black brows drew together. “But he is protecting Morgan’s reputation at the expense of yours.” He still had not called her “Mother.”
Morgause decided to say no more. “I don’t mind,” she replied placidly. “It puts him under an obligation to me, and it is not a bad thing to have the high king under an obligation to one. So we will go along with him.”
Mordred’s frown had not eased. “What will we tell Gawain and Agravaine?”
“The fewer people who know the truth, the better. Let them continue to believe you are their brother.”
The gray eyes were unhappy. “I wish the king would let us tell the truth. I don’t like living with a lie.”
“Nonsense,” said Morgause with the brisk good sense of one who has never suffered overly from a troubled conscience. “In your heart you must feel that I am your mother and that Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravaine are your brothers. You will be living by the truth of your heart.”
“I suppose that is so.” The worry had not lifted from his face. “What will they think when they hear I am the son of the high king?”
“They will be delighted.” Morgause picked up his hand and squeezed it. “Why don’t we go now and tell Agravaine?”
“All right,” Mordred agreed—and they neither of them found it odd that they thought of the younger brother first.
Chapter 34
CAMELOT was filled to the bursting point. The great hall bustled with activity. Every bedroom in the palace held a king or a prince. One could hardly move in the family part of the house for the crush of wives and daughters accommodated there. The palace grounds were covered with tents housing the crowd not considered important enough to be lodged in the palace itself. In the barracks they were sleeping two to a bed. As Arthur had once jestingly remarked, it didn’t seem as if anyone in Britain had stayed at home.
Feeding all of these people was a herculean task, and Gwenhwyfar divided her time between smiling graciously at her guests and supervising in the kitchens. Sanitation was the other main problem, but this she gratefully left to Cai. The meetings and entertainment were Arthur’s responsibility.
It was the first time in years that all the regional kings were gathered together, and Arthur had planned a council meeting even before Mordred arrived on the scene. The meeting in fact was the first item on his agenda, and it occurred on the afternoon of the first day of the festival. Gwenhwyfar’s father, Maelgwyn, was there, as was Bedwyr’s father, Ban. Cador of Dumnonia and the kings of Elmet and Rheged and Manau Guotodin were also present. The only missing council member was the King of Lothian, and Arthur informed the rest of them first of Pellinore’s demise. Then he told them about Mordred.
The meeting was held in the new council chamber, one of the palace’s most important public rooms. Its main piece of furniture was a large round table made of beech that Arthur had commissioned from the palace carpenters. Always sensitive to Celtic fears that he might be setting himself up as a new emperor, Arthur had made it a point to avoid any trappings that might point to imperial aspirations on his part. They would sit around the table as equals and discuss whatever had to be discussed with a comfortable lack of ceremony. Arthur did not feel the need of a throne or a dais to establish his authority.
After the initial surprise, and after they had met Mordred for themselves, the main reaction of the kings seemed to be relief. They none of them relished the prospect of the inevitable fight for power that would ensue should the high king leave no heir. Besides, as Ban said humorously, they were growing quite accustomed to having high kings produce sons from out of nowhere.
It was Maelgwyn who asked, “What if Gwenhwyfar should bear a son?”
Arthur looked at him from under half-lifted brows. “I do not think she will,” he said softly.
Patchy color mottled Maelgwyn’s face under his beard. It was very easy to tell the visitors from the regular inhabitants of Camelot: the Celts were all bearded, while the capital followed the high king’s Roman style and went clean-shaven. Just now, Maelgwyn’s face was almost as red as his beard. He felt his daughter’s barrenness to be a personal reproach, and was not yet ready to concede that she would never present Britain with an heir. “But if she should?” he persisted.
There was the briefest of pauses. “The queen’s child would be legitimate, and so take precedence, of course.”
Ban and Cador exchanged glances. They had both at one time or another suggested to Arthur that he set Gwenhwyfar aside and take another queen. They were still of that mind, particularly now, when it had been proven that the king was perfectly capable of getting a child. It was clearly Gwenhwyfar who was barren, and a barren queen was of little use to anyone. They refrained from voicing this opinion in the presence of Maelgwyn, however, and the council closed on an amicable note.
There was a great banquet that night, with entertainment by a famous harper, and both hosts and guests went to bed tired but satisfied that the festival had got off to an auspicious start.
The second day started promisingly as well, with bright sunshine and a pleasant breeze, just strong enough to carry the flags that bedecked the walls and the palace and the tents. This day belonged to the cavalry. A small amphitheater of wooden seats had been constructed around the large field on which the foot drilled, and this was to be the venue for all of the military demonstrations. As Gwenhwyfar had feared, there were not enough seats for everyone, and the overflow crowd was posted on the hill above the leveled-out field and surrounding amphitheater. The mood of the crowd in both the stands and on the hill was distinctly jovial.
Gwenhwyfar sat in the front row of seats, precisely in the center of the field, with Arthur on one side of her and Mordred on the other. Bedwyr, of course, was with the cavalry, as was Gawain. Morgause was seated beside Mordred, and on Morgause’s other side was her son Agravaine.
A friendly family group, Gwenhwyfar thought sardonically. Thank God that Morgan had not come. She had been expected but had sent word earlier that she had to attend to a sick servant at Avalon. Gwenhwyfar had been greatly relieved.
Mordred was speaking to her. “Where will they come in, my lady?”
“Over there.” She pointed and then turned to look at him. He smiled at her and tossed the black hair back from his brow in a gesture that was Arthur’s own. Gwenhwyfar’s heart skipped a beat.
“I have never seen anything so splendid,” he confided.
She smiled back. “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.”
She had thought she would hate this son of Arthur’s, but she did not. Quite the opposite, in fact; she found herself liking him very much. He, for his part, was obviously dazzled by her. It was rather pleasant,
Gwenhwyfar was finding, to have a young Arthur at her feet.
Morgause leaned a little forward and said something to her across Mordred. Gwenhwyfar replied easily. She rather liked Morgause as well. In fact, her cynical thought was well-nigh close to being the truth. However oddly they might be linked, they were a friendly family group.
As long as Morgan stayed away.
“What is first?” Mordred was asking.
Agravaine replied, “First is a parade of heavy horse, in full armor. Then demonstrations by the medium and the light horse. Then there will be a precision drill. That is the morning’s program.”
Gwenhwyfar looked toward Mordred’s brother and saw only the top of his smooth golden head on the far side of his mother. Agravaine had moved in with Gawain down at cavalry headquarters and she had seen little of him since his arrival at Camelot. He was very different from both Gawain and Mordred. It was odd how three brothers could be so different. But of course, she corrected herself, Mordred was not their brother at all.
Thank God, Morgan had not come.
A horn sounded and a line of horses began to trot onto the field. Gwenhwyfar, like the rest of the audience, leaned a little forward in anticipation.
The morning demonstrations were very successful, with the precision drill the obvious crowd favorite. As the audience resumed their places for the afternoon program, Gwenhwyfar noticed that Cai, who had been on Arthur’s other side that morning, was missing.
“Where is Cai?” she asked her husband.
His profile remained untroubled. “I asked him to see to something for me.”
“Nothing has gone wrong?”
“No. Nothing like that.” A horn sounded and a solitary rider came out onto the field. Gwenhwyfar recognized Bedwyr instantly. So did almost everyone else in the audience. The crowd roared and Arthur turned to his wife and grinned. “This will pop their eyes out,” he said boyishly. “Watch.”
