Morgause was here, but not Arthur’s mother, the old queen. She had set out from Cornwall, and Arthur’s scouts had escorted her to the borders of the Summer Country. There she had been reunited with her younger daughter Morgan, and there they had rested a good while. Then they made their way to the Severn Water to cross over to the Middle Kingdom. And there the scouts had lost all trace of them.
“Lost them?”
Guenevere shuddered to recall Arthur’s fury then. How could a royal party be lost, a queen and princess escorted by a guard of honor from the King, either on the far side of the Severn Water, or on this?
The chief scout shook his head in blank despair. “It is as if they vanished, sire. We can’t explain it. We have no excuse.”
“Lost?” Arthur was in torment.
“Arthur, they can’t be lost!” Guenevere remonstrated. “There’s no magic about this; there cannot be. It’s just that they don’t know the country, and they must have wandered out of their way. Your mother is coming to comfort her widowed daughter and to meet again her long lost son. She has every reason in the world to be here. What on earth would stop her now?”
What indeed?
But something had.
For King Lot’s funeral was about to take place, and she was not here.
“LISTEN, MY LOVE!”
Beside her Arthur sat bolt upright in the pew. From outside the church came a high wailing cry, like that of a spirit in hell. It was the saddest sound in all the world. Guenevere clutched Arthur’s hand. “Dear Gods, what’s that?”
On guard behind Arthur, Gawain gave a watery smile. “It is the sound of the pipes, the music of our land. They are playing the pibroch, the lament for the fallen, mourning the death of the King.”
Arthur squeezed Guenevere’s hand. “Then Queen Morgause and her sons are here!”
He leaped to his feet and handed her into the aisle. The church doors opened to the world outside. Silhouetted against the late September sun was a tall figure dressed in black. Securing her high black headdress and long veil was a crown of gold. Like a pillar of cloud she stood silent and unmoving, staring into the church.
Tall, regal, all in black …
Guenevere’s heart shook. Had she known this woman from another world? Was she one of the shapes who had come to her at the start of the Battle of the Kings?
“Your Majesty!” Gawain fell to his knees.
“Gawain, my son!” The queen moved forward to fold him in her arms. Behind her came three others, all built like Gawain, all with his look.
Gawain leaped up. “Agravain! Gaheris! Gareth!”
“Brother Gawain!”
The four brothers greeted one another with a mixture of manly restraint and boyish glee. Morgause and Arthur looked at them, then at each other, as if they could never tear their eyes away.
And now Guenevere could see her without fear. Tall and well built, Arthur’s newfound sister carried herself with a commanding air. But she had none of the menace Guenevere had felt in the spirit shapes who came in her moment of sickness in the chariot. Morgause was queenly but not divine, a woman nearing forty, whose ample body showed every sign of having borne four great sons. Yet she still had the ripe fullness of a woman in her prime. An undeniable beauty lingered in the full face with its arched eyebrows, strong jaw, and red mouth, and her every feature was overcast with the haunting shadow of unsatisfied desire. Her pale eyes searched Guenevere calmly, without threat.
Outside the church the pipes of the Highlands were still sounding their lament. Guenevere’s sight clouded, and another took its place. King Uther needed strong allies, Merlin had said. Morgause was fourteen and ripe for marriage when he gave her to King Lot.
She saw a girl’s slim white body, and a huge coarse male form covered in black hairs. She saw a scarred brown hand fumbling at a tender breast, twisting a pale rose nipple till it brought a cry of pain, then with a laugh, tweaking and twisting again. She saw long white thighs forced apart, and the weight of a monstrous male body burrowing into soft female flesh. She saw black hairs writhing on its shoulders, down its back, and all over its bulging, rutting loins.
Morgause was a virgin, and she had borne Lot four sons. And it came to Guenevere strongly: She did not love her lord. How could she, when love to him was the painful use of her body for his passing pleasure, when he was hot for her after the hunt, or lecherous in his cups, or hungry for a woman again, returning from war?
“Guenevere!”
She came to herself. Arthur was gripping her hand, pale with distress. Gently he urged her forward to meet Morgause, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Madam, I hardly know how to greet you here. For the death of your husband, I can only grieve. He sought this war, and rebuffed my offer of peace. But if my life could bring him back, it would.”
Morgause inclined her head. “You are gracious, sire,” she said huskily.
Arthur shook his head. “You and I are close kin, my lady—indeed the closest, through our mother, who I hope will soon be here. Your sister, too—I have sought Morgan’s release so that she could be with us now.” Tears were standing in his eyes. “We have all been strangers for over twenty years. But we are young enough, I pray, to bridge that dark gap of time.”
Morgause too was close to weeping now. “You cannot know—forgive me, my lord, but I never dared to hope—how dearly I wished to know you—and to see my mother and my sister again before we met at last in the Otherworld.”
“So now, your wish is granted!” Arthur cried hoarsely. “And believe me, madam, you are truly welcome here, you and your fine sons.” Arthur bowed and took Morgause by the hand. “Will you permit me to lead you to your place? Gawain, will you escort Queen Guenevere?”
All four moved down the aisle, the three sons of Orkney towering behind. As they took their seats, Arthur gave a signal, and the choir of monks soared into a new chant. A small man in the gold-embroidered tabard of a priest stepped forth, attended by two boys swinging incense burners to and fro. The smoke of the frankincense and the death scent of myrrh breathed from the hissing coals. The voice of the little priest rose above the moaning of the choir.
“Domine, domine, miserere—O Lord our God, have mercy upon us miserable sinners …”
Misery and sin, sin and misery, the eternal song of the Christians, Guenevere thought bitterly. Truly the burial of King Lot had begun.
“I AM HE that liveth and was dead, for behold, I hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Believe ye in the Lord Jesus Christ our God, who was crucified dead and buried. He descended into hell. The third day He rose again from the dead …”
Oh, these simple Christians, with their one word, one way, one truth! Do they think they have the only God who hung for three days on a tree—who passed unharmed through the world between the worlds—who was born again to save us all? Why do they insist that their Jesus is the only one who can rise and live again, when every single soul rises again, when we are all reborn from the Great Mother when our time is due?
Guenevere sat in her place, her soul on fire. She dared not look at Arthur. Would they be able to smile at this later on, in their chamber? She did not know. Arthur had reverence for all true believers and took them at their word. He did not seem to think that a faith could be wrong—that men could be sincerely misguided in their belief.
The priest was beginning his prayers. “Misery surrounds us, O Lord …”
Misery, misery, always misery—
A high-pitched wailing howl rent the air. From nowhere a black cat hurtled down the aisle and leaped onto Lot’s coffin where it lay in the shadow of the high altar, decked with sputtering candles and faded velvet cloths. Arching her back, she crouched hissing and spitting above Lot’s head. Then she spread her back legs and voided the contents of her body on the lid of the coffin, precisely above the dead man’s face below. For a moment she hovered, her black eyes flashing fire. Then with another bloodcurdling screech, she leaped away and vanished as she had come.
“Domin
e, domine, salvum me fac—Lord God, save me, make me safe! Save us, save us, from the Evil One, from all the devils and demidevils, from all the imps of Satan and the four-footed creatures that do his will—”
Already the little priest was on his knees, bleating out a terrified prayer against the visitant. Arthur sprang to his feet. “Open the doors!” he called. “Let the beast out, however it got in.”
Those at the back rushed to obey his command. Outside the doors stood two women, tall and queenly, dressed from head to foot in black, with gold crowns around their brows.
The older woman had hair as white as snow, large, liquid eyes full of joy and grief, and a noble face made stronger by the passage of time. Yet she was ageless rather than old, and her beauty was still luminous to all eyes. Guenevere looked at her in wonder. “Elf-shining” she knew this look was called in the olden days. The younger woman with her had it, too.
But the younger had none of the old queen’s stillness and poise. Tall, lean, and tense, her black-clad body was arched toward her mother half in protectiveness, half in fear and need. Her ivory skin had never seen the sun, and her deep-set eyes were burning with anger at some grief or offense. There was something nunlike about her gown and its severe midnight folds, and her head was covered by a stiff headdress held in place by a simple crown of gold.
Arthur turned to Guenevere. “The Queen of Cornwall and her daughter Morgan!” he breathed ecstatically. “My mother and my sister, here at last!” As he moved forward to greet them, Guenevere’s senses swam.
For these were the shapes who had brushed past her in the mist. These were the women who had come to the hillside with her, to fight for Arthur at the Battle of the Kings.
CHAPTER 27
“Not sick again, madam?” breathed Ina’s voice in her ear.
Guenevere came to herself with a start. The afternoon sun was pouring into the Audience Chamber, gilding the massive bronze throne where she sat under a royal canopy of red silk and cloth of gold. The walls were bright with tapestries, fresh rushes covered the floor, and a low fire burned on the hearth, scenting the air with juniper and pine. In the body of the hall, the courtiers hummed with excitement as they awaited the three queens. Lords and ladies were blooming like flowers in their colorful array, and all the knights were glittering in silver mail. Yes, Guenevere thought, they would welcome the visitors warmly enough.
She had almost no memory of the burial of King Lot. The sight of Queen Igraine and her daughters had wiped her mind clean of all thoughts except one: These women love Arthur just as I do! They have yearned to know him for over twenty years, and their love has been strong enough to transcend time and place. This is a love stronger than time itself, a bond of love from the time before time.
The funeral had taken place, and King Lot was laid to rest. Afterward they rode out into the sun, through the cheering crowds and up the winding hill back to the palace again. And now the whole court was waiting to welcome Queen Igraine and her daughters with all the ceremony they deserved. Guenevere passed her hand over her forehead. If only she did not feel so sick—so cold—
“So, madam?” Ina’s low voice broke in on her thoughts. “You were faint again there in the church, just as you were on the day of the battle? How do you feel now?”
Guenevere smiled up at the small figure hanging over her. “It was nothing. I don’t know what it was.”
There was a pause. Ina’s face took on its Otherworldly air. “When a woman feels sick to her stomach, and pale and fainty, it often means a surprise for her husband. And when she’s Queen, it spells good news for us all!”
“Ina, for Gods’ sake!” Guenevere sat up in a frenzy, her face hot. “What are you thinking of? Don’t say another word!”
Ina dropped her eyes demurely and fell back, leaving Guenevere to a riot of wild thoughts.
Good news for her husband?
What is Ina saying?
Surely not—?
No, it’s impossible in a few short months!
Guenevere blushed again. Oh, it was true that she and Arthur never tired of the love the Goddess gave. And she knew that wives became mothers by treading the Mother’s path. But it was far too soon to think about such things! She was faint from the seeings she had had, that was all.
In the center of the chamber Arthur was restlessly pacing the floor with old Sir Baudwin, King Uther’s loyal knight. His face was pinched and pale.
Sir Baudwin was speaking uneasily, one eye on the door. “Queen Igraine and her daughters will be here any moment now. All that has passed is old history, sire. Are you sure you want to know?”
Arthur laughed harshly. “Know what happened to my mother when I was born? Yes, I am sure. What is the mystery?”
Baudwin took a deep breath. “At the time of your birth, all the world knew that the Queen was with child. So when the child disappeared, all the world wondered why.” He was watching Arthur carefully as he spoke. “Forgive me, sire. There were rumors that your father had cast you out, or had you put to death—”
Arthur stiffened. “What for?”
“Because you were not of Pendragon blood.”
“A bastard?” Arthur threw back his head, breathing heavily. “And do they say that now?”
Sir Baudwin grinned triumphantly. “Why, sire, they know you are the High King come again. Anyone who knew Uther can see that.”
“Yes, Baudwin,” Arthur said intensely, “but—”
A royal fanfare sounded in the hall.
“The Queen of Cornwall!” came a cry at the door.
Queen Igraine had changed her black gown for a robe of blue-green silk that ebbed and flowed like the sea round Tintagel rock. A heavy antique crown encircled her tall pointed headdress, and her veil cascaded from beneath it like the foam of breaking waves.
Arthur moved forward like a man in a dream. “Your Majesty …”
They faced each other, speaking without words, each hungry for the other’s lingering gaze. Queen Igraine turned her luminous face up to his. “My son!” she said. “My son.”
Her eyes were wells of sorrow and delight. Arthur could not speak. To Guenevere, holding her breath for him, he had never looked more like a great bear in pain.
Queen Igraine fixed her large dark eyes on him. “They called you Arthur?” she said wonderingly. She smiled, her eyes bright with tears. “I never knew your name.”
“Why?” The hollow moan finally tore from Arthur’s throat. “Why did they take you from me? Why was I not acknowledged at my birth?”
“Hush, my son,” Igraine said huskily, raising her proud head. “Do not ask. Let us give thanks to the Mother, who has given you back to me.”
She held out her arms. The tears were pouring down Arthur’s face as he stumbled forward into her embrace.
At the foot of the dais Gawain was weeping openly, and others were furiously blinking away tears. Queen Igraine collected herself and stretched out a hand, reaching toward the throne. “Ah, Guenevere!” she said warmly. “The Mother has blessed my son in his wife!”
Guenevere hastened to clasp the offered hand. “You are most welcome here, Your Majesty,” she said fervently. “And your daughters too.”
“My daughters, yes.” The joy faded from Igraine’s face. “Alas, they both have fearful griefs to bear. My poor Morgan finds it hard to be outside the walls that have imprisoned her for so long. She cannot be left alone. Her sister Morgause shares her suffering, and tries to bear her own.” She looked at Arthur with smiles and tears again. “I lost them both, my lord, when I had you. All my children were taken from me one by one. And unlike her sister, Morgan could not find within the convent a second family to love. I must go back to them now.”
Goddess, Mother, what these women have suffered in their lives! Guenevere gestured toward the door. “I will escort you to them, madam. Let us go.”
IN THE GUEST apartments, a cherry-wood fire glowed on the hearth. Stuffed sheepskin couches offered visitors a plump embrace, and great bowls of
Michaelmas daisies made purple splashes on tables of polished wood. The afternoon sun made the paneled room a warm and welcoming place. But the sounds from within were anything but happy now.
“No! No! No!”
Queen Igraine came out of the inner chamber looking pale. Peals of wild sobbing came with her through the door. “Forgive my daughter Morgan,” she said with a small distracted wave of her hand. “I hoped she would be able to see you now. But it is hard for her to get used to being free. From childhood she was forced to live as a nun. She has not been out in the world for over twenty years.”
Twenty years.
Guenevere’s stomach turned. She saw a thin child, pale and terrified, surrounded by a flapping horde of nuns, as a flock of crows falls upon a lamb. “How did it come about? Of course, if you were a widow, perhaps your girls—”
“I was not a widow.” Igraine’s mellow voice, tinged with the soft sound of the west, was now as bleak as the north wind. “Let us sit down,” she said. “There is much that you should know.”
In the courtyard below, men-at-arms, servants, horses, and dogs were going about the tasks of daily life. Igraine seated herself in the window, straightened her back, and folded her hands in her lap. “I was not a widow,” she repeated. “King Uther made me so.”
“He killed your husband?”
Igraine gave a faint nod. There was a lifetime’s sadness in her eyes. “I was the last sovereign queen in all the south. Uther needed to subdue every kingdom to make himself High King. But more than that, he lusted after me.” Her voice was iced with pain. “It meant nothing to him that I already had a king. A lord of my own choosing, my own knight and chosen one.”
She gazed at Guenevere. “Like you, our queens make the sacred marriage with the land. Less and less in recent years have we changed our champions every seven years, as our mothers used to do. I made one choice, and I lived by it.” Her eyes grew opaque. “Duke Gorlois was my champion and my love. Uther made war on us to kill him, and take me.”
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