by Joan Wolf
It was the demonstration she had once seen Bedwyr give to the cavalry recruits, only the horse was no longer Sluan, but another big black stallion, this one called Sugyn, and the movements were even more impressive than she recalled.
Bedwyr wore the blue tunic of the cavalry, with no armor or helmet. The sun reflected off the gilt of his hair and the polished ebony of his horse’s coat and the two of them held the audience’s riveted attention as Sugyn went through his smoothly planned program.
They were both so big and powerful, Gwenhwyfar thought, so perfectly matched. The stallion was glistening all over with sweat. There was an audible intake of breath from around the amphitheater as Sugyn left the ground and then kicked out strongly with his hind legs. There was the flash of silver in the sun from the iron shoes and Gwenhwyfar realized that what she was watching was a weapon in action. Those hooves were as deadly as any sword.
Man and horse were cantering around the field now, the horse looking as if he would leap into the seats at the slightest provocation. The crowd roared its approval and the stallion leapt higher with each canter stride. Bedwyr looked perfectly unruffled.
“He is magnificent,” said Agravaine with obvious sincerity, and Mordred turned to his brother with some surprise. Agravaine was not given to compliments.
Arthur leaned a little forward to answer his cousin. “He’s worth more than an entire regiment when he’s in battle,” he said. “I doubt Bedwyr’s ever been equaled as a leader of cavalry.”
Gwenhwyfar looked at Arthur’s face. His gray eyes were full of uncomplicated pride and admiration as he watched his cavalry commander coming down the field toward him. Bedwyr and Sugyn came to a halt just below the king’s party. Bedwyr gestured for silence and it was a measure of his power that the crowd quieted almost immediately. From the entrance to the field Gwenhwyfar could see Ruadh being ridden toward them.
Next to her, Arthur said, “What in Hades . . . ?”
Then Bedwyr was speaking. “The calvary would like to invite the king to give a demonstration to the audience,” he announced in a booming voice that was designed to reach even the spectators on the hillside.
The crowd roared its approval. Gwenhwyfar heard Arthur say something under his breath. She leaned toward him. “I did not know you were planning to ride.”
“Neither did I,” he replied with exasperation. “Damn Bedwyr.”
Below them, Bedwyr was laughing. “I had Gareth warm him up, Arthur,” he called over the noise of the crowd. “He’s ready to go.”
Arthur rose reluctantly to his feet. The crowd was shouting and clapping; there was no way he could get out of this. He put his hand on the front of the stand, looked at Bedwyr before him, and said without heat, “You bastard.”
Bedwyr grinned. Arthur vaulted lightly over the barrier, landed easily, and walked to where Gareth, now dismounted, was holding Ruadh. “You were in on this too, I see,” he remarked as he took the chestnut’s reins into his left hand.
Gareth laughed, as obviously pleased with their ploy as Bedwyr. “It was the prince’s idea, my lord.”
“I’m sure it was,” Arthur returned, put his foot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle.
“It isn’t fair!” Mordred said to Gwenhwyfar. “It isn’t fair to make him follow Bedwyr like this. You saw how surprised he was. He isn’t ready.”
“Bedwyr would never do anything to discredit the king,” Gwenhwyfar replied. The noise in the amphitheater had quieted and Bedwyr backed his horse to stand just before Arthur’s empty seat. He glanced around once, and met Gwenhwyfar’s eyes. His own were full of blue laughter. Then he turned back to the field and Gwenhwyfar said to Mordred, “Don’t worry.”
It was a very different ride from Bedwyr’s. If the impression conveyed by Bedwyr and Sugyn was of strength and power, the impression produced by Arthur and Ruadh was of lightness and elegance. The copper-colored horse seemed to float above the ground, turning, moving laterally, changing gaits, without any sign of a cue from his rider. Arthur himself seemed less a rider than an extension of the horse, and the two of them together more a creature of air than of earth. It was so beautiful that Gwenhwyfar felt tears come into her eyes.
Ruadh came to a perfect halt in the center of the field, and Arthur patted his neck and looked at Bedwyr. The crowd watched in breathless silence as the rider on the big black stallion cantered out to face the king. They spoke to each other briefly; then both horses, side by side, began a final canter of the field. The crowd went wild.
“Very neatly done.” It was Agravaine’s voice, barely audible above the noise around them. “One could almost swear they hadn’t planned it.”
“It wasn’t planned,” Gwenhwyfar replied, and leaned a little forward so she could see Agravaine around Mordred and Morgause. “The king did not know Bedwyr was going to do that.”
The expression in Agravaine’s dark blue eyes was unreadable. “Then the prince is either incredibly generous or a fool.”
“Bedwyr is no fool,” Gwenhwyfar replied.
Mordred, who had been listening to this exchange, said now, “I think they both were wonderful!”
Gwenhwyfar looked at his shining face and felt a sudden surge of affection. “Yes,” she said. “So do I.”
There were going to be races next, and as the field was being set up, Gwenhwyfar’s mind went back to her exchange with Agravaine. Bedwyr had known exactly what he was doing when he had forced Arthur into that demonstration, she thought. She understood perfectly what must have happened. Arthur had refused to perform, and so Bedwyr had made him. She understood also Bedwyr’s motive. He wanted the country’s leaders to see their king the way his men saw him.
Incredibly generous, Agravaine had said. It was true, she thought. Bedwyr’s love was incredibly generous. He had not minded at all sharing his moment in the sun with Arthur.
And Arthur too. “I doubt Bedwyr’s ever been equaled as a leader of cavalry,” he had said to them with honest admiration.
How small and petty all her own feminine jealousies and hurts seemed, compared with the feeling between Arthur and Bedwyr. She would do better in the future, Gwenhwyfar promised herself. She would strive for Bedwyr’s generosity of heart.
She remained fully committed to this noble goal through the remainder of the afternoon’s exhibitions. Then, as she entered the palace with Arthur, a servant said, “The Lady of Avalon has arrived, my lord.”
Gwenhwyfar looked at Arthur. “I thought she was attending to a sick servant,” she said, and even to herself her voice sounded hard.
“It was an excuse,” he returned. “Morgan thought it would be more comfortable for everyone if she stayed away. I sent Cai to fetch her this afternoon.”
Morgan had been right, Gwenhwyfar thought. She struggled to keep her face expressionless in front of the servants. “Where shall I seat her at dinner?” she asked.
Arthur’s eyes met hers. “Next to me. Put Cai on her other side.”
Gwenhwyfar’s hands curled into fists. “Very well,” she said, and turned away.
Morgan had not wanted to come. “Arthur says you must,” Cai told her patiently. “It isn’t like you to act the coward, Morgan.”
“It isn’t that. It’s just that my presence will be so awkward.”
“For whom?” he asked. Then, as she refused to look at him: “You have to face Mordred sooner or later, my dear.”
Her eyes flew to his face.
“Arthur has said nothing to me,” he assured her, “but I know you both too well to believe that Morgause is that boy’s mother.”
The apprehensive look was still on her face. “What does everyone else think?”
“They have no reason to doubt the king’s word.” He looked at her still-worried face and asked bluntly, “Does Mordred know who you are?”
“Yes, Arthur told him.” She gave Cai a wry smile. “You’re right. I am being a coward.”
“You have to face him sooner or later,” Cai repeated. “And if you don’t come to Camelo
t with me, Arthur is very likely to drag you there himself, personally.”
She sighed. “All right. I’ll come. Wait while I go and pack some clothes.”
The cavalry demonstration was still in progress when Morgan and Cai arrived at the palace. Morgan had seen Camelot only once, before Gwenhwyfar had come to live there. The beauty of the finished house almost took her mind off the reason for her visit. Almost.
“The palace is crowded as a fairgrounds,” Cai said to her. “Arthur has saved you one of the bedrooms off the little court, though.”
“Where is Mordred staying?” she asked.
“Arthur has given him a room in his own suite. I think the plan is for him to move down to cavalry headquarters after the festival, though.” He looked into her face. “He is doing very well, Morgan. He’s a nice lad. Everyone likes him.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
She had been in the comfortable guest bedroom less than an hour when Arthur arrived. She stared at him from the wardrobe where she was arranging her clothes and said crossly, “You knew I didn’t want to come. Why did you insist?”
“Because you ought to be here,” he returned. “Everyone else in Britain is.”
She pressed her lips together and did not reply. He was right and they both knew it. “I suppose I shall have to talk to him,” she said after a minute.
“I know how you feel,” he returned comfortingly. “I had to face him too. But he’s a warmhearted boy, Morgan. It will be all right.”
Finally she smiled at him. “I’m glad you are getting along.”
“Shall I send him to you? Better meet him now, before dinner.”
She drew a deep breath. “Yes.”
After he had gone, she went to the comfortable wicker chair by the window and sat down. It was a very large chair, and when she leaned back she was almost lost in it. She clasped her hands in her lap. The minutes went by slowly.
How did you face a child you had given away at birth? What did you say to him?
Igraine had done it, but Igraine had not cared about her son. Morgan cared, cared desperately. How could she tell him that she had yearned for him all these years? That her arms had ached for him? That leaving him to Morgause each year had been like a little death to her? How could she tell him all that, and expect him to believe her? He would want an accounting from her, not sentimental protestations.
She did not think he would be as warmhearted toward her as he had been toward Arthur. Arthur had done nothing that needed forgiveness.
There was a light knock upon the door. “Come in,” she said, and watched as the door slowly opened and her son came into the room.
Mordred’s emotions were in a turmoil. He had known Morgan all his life, had looked forward eagerly every summer to her visits. He had shared things with her he had never shared with anyone else. There was a kind of closeness between them that there had never been with anyone else. They understood each other.
And for all those years, she had been lying to him.
He came into the room and closed the door. She was sitting in a big wicker chair, looking at him out of those well-remembered brown eyes. “Hello, Mordred,” she said.
“Hello.” He hesitated. “My lady.”
He saw her flinch and felt a flicker of satisfaction. “I suppose I deserved that,” she said. He did not reply, only stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, the width of the room between them. His heart was hammering. He had not realized, until he saw her, how very angry at her he was.
The brown eyes, as always, seemed to know how he was feeling. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she said. “I shall just tell you that I felt I had to do it, and that it was very hard.”
For a long moment he did not answer. Then, bitterly: “I understand why you could not keep me. But I cannot understand why you never told my father about me. Not during all these years! He never knew!”
That was the sin he would never forgive. She said, without expecting him to understand, “I thought you were better off in Lothian. You were safe there. You were happy. If the queen had had a son, your position here would have been precarious. And very unhappy, I think.”
“You should have told him. You should have told me. I could have stayed in Lothian. I would never have wanted to come between the crown and his trueborn sons.”
“Arthur would never have left you in Lothian, Mordred. I knew that, and that is why I did not tell him.” She sighed. “I would have had to tell him eventually, however. As I am sure you have discovered, Arthur has no other heir.”
“He . . . he has named me as his heir. I am to be high king after him.” His expression was half-proud, half-uncertain.
“I know. It seems the queen cannot have children.”
“But what if she does?” It was a question that had been on his mind for days, and he had been afraid to ask it.
“Would you mind that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Arthur will do what is best for Britain. That is all I can tell you.” Her brown eyes were steady on his face. “That is what it means to be a king.”
He felt better and then he was angry with himself for feeling better. He did not want her to comfort him. He looked at her suspiciously. “Why doesn’t my father want anyone to know you are my real mother?” he asked abruptly. He was breathing rapidly now, the tunic over his chest rising and falling with his agitation. The chest was narrow, the arms still childishly thin. He was not nearly as muscular as Arthur had been at his age.
“Why don’t you ask him?” she returned.
He drew in his breath and let it out in a great gust. “Will you be at the dinner tonight?”
“Yes.” Her face was very grave. “I realize all this is quite difficult for you, Mordred. I don’t expect you to feel toward me as you feel toward Morgause. She has earned your love. I have not.” For some reason he felt tears sting behind his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to chase them away. “If you can bring yourself to behave toward me as you would to your mother’s sister, that will be enough,” she said.
“I . . .” He made a gesture, turned away, and said over his shoulder, “I will see you at dinner.” Then he was gone.
As soon as the door had closed Morgan pressed her clenched fists to her temples and shut her eyes. Careful, she thought. Push back the pain. Don’t feel it. Don’t think about it. Careful, or you will have Arthur here in a minute, before you can get control.
She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, she made her mind a blank, forbidding the picture of her son’s face to rise to her inner vision. Think of something else. Think of the apple trees at Avalon. Don’t think of Mordred, don’t think of him. . ..
She was still sitting motionless in the big wicker chair five minutes later when the door opened and Arthur came in. She turned her head as he came toward her; he was wearing the blue tunic she had seen him in earlier, but it looked rumpled and creased, as if it had lain on the floor and then been put back on in a hurry. His hair was wet. She sighed resignedly. “Where were you? In the bath?”
“Never mind. What happened? Why are you so distressed?”
“Is there no such thing as privacy?” she asked, her eyebrows fine aloof arches over her inquiring brown eyes.
“Not from me.” He sank on his heels in front of her wicker chair, so that his face was just below the level of hers. “What happened?” he asked again.
She leaned toward him and put her hands on either side of his face. He looked so like his son, and they were so different. “Arthur,” she asked softly, “how did you feel about Igraine?”
His eyes searched hers. “It is not the same thing.”
She smoothed her thumbs along the beautiful cheekbones. “In the most important way, it is the same. I gave him away. The why does not matter, not to a child. I gave him away and, what is perhaps worse in his eyes, I did not tell you. He finds it hard to forgive me.”
He put his hands up to encircle her wrists. “I will talk to him.”
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br /> “You will say nothing.” She stared forbiddingly into his eyes. “Do you hear me? This is between Mordred and me. I do not want you to interfere. The poor boy has enough to contend with without you bullying him to be nice to his mother.”
There was a long moment’s silence as they looked at each other. “I never bully people,” he said, and Morgan knew she had won. She leaned forward and lightly kissed the top of his wet black head. “Go finish getting washed for dinner. I shall be all right.”
He released her wrists and she dropped her hands from his face. He straightened with the ease of a boy. “Do you want to come to the dinner?”
“Yes. I shall be fine.”
“I told Gwenhwyfar to seat you between me and Cai.”
“Thank you. I am not much in the mood for making brilliant conversation.”
“Cai and I don’t care what you say.” He was standing and she was still sitting and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. “He will come around, Morgan,” he said.
“I’m sure he will. He has a much sweeter nature than you.”
He grinned. “He must take after his mother.” He touched the top of her head gently and turned toward the door. “Cai will come to escort you to dinner.”
“Will you go away so I can get dressed?”
“I’m going,” he said and, having reached the door, suited action to words.
Chapter 35
THE tables in the dining room had been arranged along the walls for the evening meal in order to leave the center of the floor free for entertainment. Seated around the room, in an order that carefully designated their rank, were the kings and princes of Celtic Britain together with their sons and wives and daughters. The high king, with his family beside him, presided over the meal from the front of the room.
Cador, King of Dumnonia, was, as befitted his rank, seated at one of the tables nearest to the king. As his son and heir, Constantine, ate hungrily beside him, Cador watched the king’s table out of his deepset dark eyes. He was considering once again the possibility of persuading the king to take another wife.
