by Mary Stewart
Beyond was a square chamber, which acted apparently as an anteroom to the queen's private apartments. It was unfurnished. To the right a slit window showed a narrow strip of sky, and let in the noise of the sea. Opposite, on the landward side, was another door, at which Mordred looked with interest, and then with awe.
This doorway was curiously low and squat — the same primitive shape as the door of his parents' cottage. It was set deep under a massive stone lintel, and flanked by jambs almost as thick. He had seen such entrance-ways before; they led down to the ancient underground chambers that could be found here and there through the islands. Some said they had been built, like the tall brochs, by the Old People, who had housed their dead there in stone chambers beneath the ground. But the simpler folk regarded them as magical places, thesidhe or hollow hills that guarded the gates of the Otherworld; and the skeletons that were found there, of men and beasts, were the remains of unwary creatures who had ventured too far within those dark precincts. When mist shrouded the islands — which was rare in those windy seas — it was said that gods and spirits could be seen riding out on their gold-decked horses, with the sad ghosts of the dead drifting round them. Whatever the truth, the islanders avoided the mounds that hid these underground chambers, but it seemed that the queen's house had been built beside one of them, perhaps only discovering it when the foundations were dug. Now the entrance was sealed off by a heavy door of oak, with big iron hasps, and a massive lock to keep it fast against whatever lurked behind it in the dark.
Then Mordred forgot it, as the tall door ahead of them opened between its two armed guards, and beyond was a blaze of sunlight, and the warmth and scent and colour of the queen's house.
The room they entered was a copy of Morgause's chamber at Dunpeldyr; a smaller copy, but still, to Mordred's eyes, magnificent. The sun streamed in through a big square window, under which a bench made a window-seat, gay with blue cushions. Near it, full in the sunlight, stood a gilded chair with its footstool and a cross-legged table nearby. Morgause sat down, and pointed to the window-seat. Mordred took his place obediently, and sat waiting in silence, with thumping heart, while the women, at a word from the queen, betook themselves with their stitchery to the far end of the room, in the light from another window. A servant came hurrying to the queen's side with wine in a silver goblet, and then, at her command, brought a cup of the sweet honey drink for Mordred. He took a sip of it, then set the cup down on the window sill. Though his mouth and throat were dry, he could not drink.
The queen finished her wine, then handed the goblet to Gabran, who must already have had his orders. He took it straight to the servant at the door, shut the door behind the man, then went to join the women at the other end of the room. He lifted a small knee harp from its shroud in the corner, and, settling himself on a stool, began to play.
Only then did the queen speak again, and she spoke softly, so that only Mordred, close beside her, would be able to hear.
"Well, Mordred, so now let us talk. How old are you? No, don't answer, let me see.… You will soon pass your eleventh birthday. Am I not right?"
"Y—yes," stammered the boy, amazed. "How did — oh, of course, Gawain told you."
She smiled. "I would have known without being told. I know more about your birth than you do yourself, Mordred. Can you guess how?"
"Why, no, madam. About my birth? That's before you came to live here, isn't it?"
"Yes. I and the king my husband still held Dunpeldyr in Lothian. Have you never heard what happened in Dunpeldyr, the year before Prince Gawain was born?"
He shook his head. He could not have spoken. He still had no inkling of why the queen had brought him here and was speaking to him like this, secretly, in her private chamber, but every instinct pricked him to the alert. It was coming now, surely, the future he had dreaded, and yet longed for, with the strange, restless and sometimes violent feelings of rebellion he had had against the life to which he had been born, and to which he had believed himself sentenced till death, like all his parents' kin.
Morgause, still watching him closely, smiled again. "Then listen now. It is time you knew. You will soon see why.…"
She settled a fold of her gown, and spoke lightly, as if talking of some trifling matter far back in the past, some story to tell a child at lamp-lighting.
"You know that the High King Arthur is my half-brother by the same father, King Uther Pendragon. Long ago King Uther planned my marriage to King Lot, and though he died before it could take place, and though my brother Arthur was never Lot's friend, we were married. We hoped that through the marriage a friendship, or at least an alliance, might be formed. But, whether through jealousy of Lot's prowess as a soldier, or (as I am persuaded) because of lies told to him by Merlin, the enchanter, who hates all women, and who fancies himself wronged by me. King Arthur has always acted more as an enemy than as a brother and a just lord."
She paused. The boy's eyes were fixed, enormous, his lips slightly parted. She smoothed her gown again, and her voice took on a deeper, graver note.
"Soon after King Arthur had assumed the throne of Britain, he was told, by the evil man Merlin, that a child had been born somewhere in Dunpeldyr, a son of its king, who would prove to be Arthur's bane. The High King never hesitated. He sent men north to Dunpeldyr to seek out and kill the king's sons. "Oh, no" — a smile of great sweetness — "not mine. Mine were not yet born. But to make sure that any bastard, perhaps unknown, of King Lot's should die, he ordered that all the children in the town, under a certain age, should die." Sorrow throbbed in her voice. "So, Mordred, on that dreadful night some score of children were taken by the soldiers. They were put out to sea in a small boat, which was driven by wind and waves until at last it drove onto rock and foundered, and the children were all drowned. All but one."
He was as still as if held by a spell. "Me?"
It was a whisper, barely audible.
"Yes, you. The boy from the sea. Now do you understand why you were given that name? It was true."
She seemed to be waiting for an answer. He said, huskily: "I thought it was because of being a fisherman, like my father. A lot of the boys that help with the nets are called Mordred, or Medraut. I thought it was a sort of charm to keep me safe from the sea-goddess. She used to sing a song about it. My mother, I mean."
The green-gilt eyes opened a little wider. "So? A song? What sort of song?"
Mordred, meeting that look, recollected himself. He had forgotten Sula's warning. Now it came back to him, but there was no harm, surely, in the truth? "A sleeping song. When I was small. I don't really remember it, except the tune."
Morgause, with a flick of her fingers, dismissed the tune. "But you never heard this tale before? Did your parents ever speak of Dunpeldyr?"
"No, never. That is" — he spoke with patent honesty — "only as all the folk speak of it. I knew that it
was part of your kingdom once, and that you had dwelt there with the king, and that the three oldest princes were born there. My — my father gets news from the ships that come in, of all the kingdoms beyond the sea, the wonderful lands. He has told me so much that I—" He bit his lip, then burst out irresistibly with the question that burned him. "Madam, how did my father and mother save me from that boat and bring me here?"
"They did not save you from the boat. You were saved by the King of Lothian. When he knew what had happened to the children he sent a ship to save them, but it came too late for all but you. The captain saw some wreckage floating still, the boat's ribs, with what looked like a bundle of cloth still there. It was you. An end of your shawl had caught on a splintered spar, and held you safe. The captain took you up. By the garment you wore, and the shawl that saved your life, he knew which of the children you were. So he sailed with you to Orkney, where you might be reared in safety." She paused. "Have you guessed why, Mordred?"
She could see, from the boy's eyes, that he had guessed why long since. But he lowered his lids and answered, as meekly as a girl:
"No, madam."
The voice, the folded mouth, the maiden-like demureness, was so much Morgause's own that she laughed aloud, and Gabran, who had been her lover now for more than a year, looked up from his harp and allowed himself to smile with her. "Then I will tell you. Two of the bastards of the King of Lothian were killed in that massacre. But there were known to be three in the boat. The third was saved by the mercy of the sea-goddess, who kept him afloat in the wreckage. You are a king's bastard, Mordred, my boy from the sea."
He had seen it coming, of course. She looked to see some spark of joy, or pride, or even speculation. There was none. He was biting his lip, fighting with some trouble that he wanted to, but dared not, express.
"Well?" she asked at length.
"Madam—" Another pause.
"Well?" A touch of impatience. Having laid a royal gift in the boy's hand, albeit a false one, the lady looked for worship, not for doubts which she could not understand. Never having herself been moved by love, it did not occur to her that her son's feelings for his foster parents needed to be weighed against pleasure and ambition.
He blurted it out then. "Madam, was my mother ever in Dunpeldyr?"
Morgause, who liked to play with people as if they were creatures caged for her whims, smiled at him and told, for the first time in the interview, the simple truth. "Of course. Where else? You were born there. Did I not say so?"
"But she said she had lived in Orkney all her life!" Mordred's voice rose, so that the chatter at the room's other end hushed for a moment before a glance from the queen sent the women back, heads bent, to their work. The boy added, more softly, looking wretched: "And my father. He can't know, surely, that she — that I… ?"
"Foolish boy, you have not understood me." Her voice was indulgent. "Brude and Sula are your foster
parents, who took you at the king's behest, and kept the secret for him. Sula had lost a son, and she took you to nurse. No doubt she has given you the love and care she would have given her own child. As for your real mother" — quickly, she forestalled the question that in fact he was too dazed to ask — "I cannot tell you that. For very fear she said nothing, nor made any claim, and for fear of the High King, nothing has ever been said. She may have been only too thankful to forget the matter herself. I asked no questions, though I knew one of the boys had been saved from the boat. Then when King Lot died, and I came to Orkney to bear my youngest son and care for the other three in safety, I was content to let the matter rest. As you must, Mordred."
Not knowing what to say, he was silent.
"For all I know your own mother may be dead. To dream of some day seeking her out would be folly — and what would be the profit? A girl of the town, the pleasure of a night?" She studied his down-dropped lids, his expressionless face. "Now Dunpeldyr is in the hands of a king who is Arthur's creature. There would be no profit in such a search, Mordred, and there might well be much danger. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, madam."
"What you do when you are a man grown is your affair, but you will do well to remember that King Arthur is your enemy."
"Then — I am the one? I am to be — his bane?"
"Who knows? That is with the gods. But he is a hard man, and his adviser Merlin is both clever and cruel. Do you think they would take any chances? But while you remain in these islands—and while you keep silent—you are safe."
Another pause. He asked, almost whispering it: "But why have you told me, then? I will be secret, yes, I promise, but why did you want me to know?"
"Because of the debt I owe you for Gawain. Had you not helped him, he might have tried to climb himself, and fallen to his death. I was curious to see you, so I sent for you on that excuse. It might have been better to leave you there all your life, knowing nothing. Your foster parents would never have dared to speak. But after what happened yesterday—" A pretty, half-deprecating gesture. "Not every woman wishes to nurture her husband's bastards, but I and my family owe you something, and I pay my debts. And now that I have seen you, and spoken with you, I have decided how to make that payment."
The boy said nothing. He seemed to have stopped breathing. From the far end of the room came the murmur of music, and the soft voices of the women.
"You are ten years old," said Morgause. "You are well grown and healthy, and I think that you could do me some service. There are not so many in these islands with the blood and the promise that might make a leader. In you I think I see that promise. It is time you left your foster home, and took your place here with the other princes. Well, what do you say?"
"I — I will do as you wish, madam," stammered the boy. It was all he could say, above the words that went on and on in his brain, like the music of the harp. The other princes. It is time you took your place here with the other princes.… Later, perhaps, he would think of his foster parents with affection and with regret, but now all he had room for was the vague but dazzling vision of such a future as he had barely dared even to dream of. And this woman, this lovely royal lady, would in her graciousness offer him, her husband's bastard, a place beside her own true-born sons. Mordred, moved by an impulse he had never felt before, slipped from the window-seat and knelt at Morgause's feet. With a gesture at once graceful and touchingly unpracticed, he lifted a fold of the copper-coloured velvet and kissed it. He sent a look of worship up at her and whispered: "I will serve you with my life, madam. Only ask me. It is yours."
His mother smiled down at him, well satisfied with the conquest she had made. She touched his hair, a gesture that brought the blood up under his skin, then sat back against the cushions, a pretty, fragile queen looking for strong arms and ready swords to protect her. "It may be a hard service, Mordred. A lonely queen needs all the love and protection that her fighting men can give her. For that you will be trained alongside your brothers, and live with them here in my palace. Now you will go down to Seals' Bay to take leave of your parents, then bring your things back here."
"Today? Now?"
"Why not? When decisions are taken they should be acted upon. Gabran will go with you, and a slave to carry your goods. Go now."
Mordred, still too awed and confused to point out that he could carry all his worldly goods himself, and in one hand, got to his feet, then stooped to kiss the hand she held out to him. It was noticeable that this time the courtly move came almost naturally. Then the queen turned away, dismissing him, and Gabran was at his elbow, hurrying him from the room, along the corridor, and out into the courtyard where the coloured sky of sunset was already fading into dusk, and the air smelled of the smoke of fires where suppers were being cooked.
A man, a groom by his dress, came up with a horse ready bridled. It was one of the sturdy island ponies, cream-coloured and as shaggy as a sheep.
"Come," said Gabran, "we'll be late for supper as it is. You don't ride, I suppose? No? Well, get up behind me. The man can follow."
Mordred hung back. "There's no need, I've nothing to carry, really. And you don't need to come either, sir. If you stay and get your supper now, I can run home and—"
"You'll soon learn that when the queen says I have to go with you, then I have to go." Gabran did not trouble to explain that his orders had been even more explicit. "He is not to have speech alone with Sula," Morgause had said. "Whatever she has guessed, she has told him nothing yet, it seems. But now that she is going to lose him, who knows what she may come out with? The man does not matter: He is too stupid to guess at the truth, but even he may give the boy the true tale of how he was brought, by arrangement, from Dunpeldyr. So take him, and stay with them, and bring him back quickly. I shall see to it that he does not go back there again."
So Gabran said, crisply: "Come, your hand," and with Mordred behind him on the cob, and clinging to him like a young peregrine to its ball of fleece, he cantered off along the track that led to Seals' Bay.
Sula had been sitting outside the cottage door in the last of the daylight, gutting and splitting a catch of fish r
eady for drying. When the horse appeared at the head of the cliff path she had just carried the bucket of offal down to throw it onto the shingle, where the hens wrangled with the seabirds for their share of the stinking pile. The noise was deafening as the big gulls swooped and fought and chased one another, and the smell rose sickeningly on the wind.
Mordred slipped off the cob's rump as Gabran drew rein. "If you wait here, sir, I'll run down with this, and get my things. I'll be back in just a moment. It — it won't take long. I think my mother was expecting this, or something like it. I'll be as quick as I can. Maybe I can come back tomorrow, if they want me to? Just for a talk?"
Gabran, without even troubling to reply, slid off the horse's back and looped the rein over his wrist. When Mordred, holding the box carefully, started down the slope, the man followed.
Sula, turning back towards the cottage, saw them. She had been watching the cliff top for Mordred's return, and now, seeing how he was accompanied, she stood for a few moments very still, unconsciously clutching the slimy bucket close to her body. Then, coming to herself, she threw the bucket down by the doorway, and went quickly into the cottage. A dim yellow glow showed round the curtain's edge as she lighted the lamp.
The boy pushed the curtain aside and went in eagerly, carrying the box.
For once the room was free of smoke. On good summer days Sula cooked their food in the clay oven outside, over a fire built up of dried kelp and dung. But the stink of fish pervaded the whole cove, and inside the cottage the smell of the fish-oil in the lamp caught at the throat. Though he had been used to it all his life, Mordred — with the scents and colours of the queen's room bright in his memory — noticed it now, with a mixture of pity, shame and what he was too young to recognize as self-dislike; shame because Gabran so obviously intended to come in with him, and guilt because he was ashamed for him to do so.