Sir Ferron had come into the yard behind the boys. He had obviously been looking for them and was out of patience. When he saw me he saluted; the greeting was upon his lips when I shook my head, and he went silent.
“Sir?” I said to Gawaine. “Who is it who speaks to me so rudely? Before I answer your accusations, give me your name and family.”
Gawaine threw his chest out and shouldered Mordred aside. His speech was British, but with a thick, guttural accent and hard to follow.
“I am Gawaine, Prince of Orkney. Firstborn of King Lot and his queen Morgause. The High King is my uncle. And what business is it of yours, I should like to know?”
Ferron gasped, but saw my signal and was still. Beneath me the stallion, grown bored, began to paw the ground. I corrected him gently and he stood quiet.
“Is this the way you are taught to greet strangers, my lord? Here in Camelot, we are polite to those we do not know.”
Mordred nudged him ever so slightly. “It’s a stallion, Gawaine. Use your head.”
But the hint was lost on Gawaine.
“I respect my betters, wench, and when you are one, you shall have it.”
“That’s enough!” Ferron cried, unable to bear silence any longer. He grabbed Gawaine by the collar and shook him, lifting the boy completely from the ground. “You’ll be whipped for this, my lad! King’s nephew or no! No one speaks to the—”
“Ferron!” I cut him off in time. “Spare him this once. For me. I should have told him. But I wanted to see his nature first.”
“Well, my lady, you have seen it,” he said angrily. Gawaine stared at me in bewilderment, and then at Mordred, who had already bent his knee to the ground. I beckoned to the twins; they came forward, surly and uncertain.
“Are you princes of Orkney, as well?”
One of them nodded, glancing quickly at Ferron. “Agravaine, my lady, and this is Gaheris.”
“Have you no manners?” Ferron growled. “Has no one taught you how to bow?”
I slid off Rajid’s back and beckoned to a groom to come and take the reins. Gawaine’s eyes widened as I approached him. He came no higher than my shoulder. I knelt down to look the youngest in the face.
“And who are you, my wise little man?” He went suddenly shy and reached for Mordred’s hand.
“His name is Gareth, my lady,” Mordred answered quietly.
I stood. The top of Mordred’s head came to eye level. I looked gently into the face of Arthur’s son. “And you, sir? You are the eldest, surely?”
It was as good as asking him his parentage, but he did not blush or hesitate. “My name is Mordred, lady,” he replied. “I am half brother to the princes, a bastard of the queen Morgause.” He paused. I was not going to press him further, but he gave me the rest without my asking, baring his shame without a tremor. “I do not know my father’s name.”
I could not read his expression; he was so self-contained. I could see nothing there but bright intelligence, the flash of a mind working.
“Your father’s name is none of my concern.” I looked at them all. “You are nephews to the High King Arthur. On his behalf, I welcome you to Camelot.”
I made them a reverence, and Ferron made them kneel. I walked past them and unfastened the scarf, letting my hair fall down my back. Gawaine and his brothers made the sign against bewitchment.
“Tell them, Ferron, after I am gone.”
I left through the archway that led back to the palace. But before I had slipped into its shadows, I heard Ferron’s angry hiss: “Now you’ve done it, you pagan scoundrels! Cooked your goose your first day here! Can’t you tell breeding when you see it? That was the Queen!”
I had no sleep that night. My restless pacing awakened Ailsa, and she came into my chamber with a sleeping draught. But I refused it. “Thank you for the thought, dear Ailsa. I’m sorry that I woke you. Return to your rest, and I will walk in the garden.”
“At this time of year, my lady? You’ll catch your death of cold! I will not hear of it! Come to me, child, and tell me what disturbs you so.” She sat me on the bed and held me, as she had done ever since I could remember. “Now, what is it, Gwen? Share it, make it easier to bear.”
“It is Mordred,” I whispered.
“Prince Mordred?” She looked puzzled. “He is the eldest of that wild bunch from Orkney, is he not? Why ever do you bother your pretty head about him?”
My hands twisted together in my lap, and I looked away. “He is more than that, Ailsa. He is Arthur’s son.”
She gasped and clutched her amulets, mumbling her ancient protections.
“I bind you to secrecy, Ailsa. You must not tell a soul. No one may know, until the King makes himself known to the boy.”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “I swear by the ancient oak of Bilis, and by the black stone of Eroth, and by Shaitan, the beheader.”
I smiled faintly. “It’s not as dark a secret as all that. Be easy.”
She glanced swiftly toward the King’s empty chamber. “I am surprised, my lady, that he would bring him here without your consent,” she said nervously. “Is all not well between you?”
I took her hand, amused, for it was she who had come to comfort me. “All is very well between us. Arthur would never have done that. I asked him to send for the boy. Only—now I am beginning to have second thoughts.”
“You knew he had a child?” She gasped. “Who told you?”
I shook my head. “I have known for years,” I said slowly. “I heard it from a soldier.”
“Eavesdropping!” Ailsa cried. “Listening at doors with Elaine! I knew it would land you in hot water one day!”
I nearly laughed and was surprised to feel tears spring to my eyes. “I hope I am not in hot water now,” I cried, rising. “It’s just that—he is so like his father!” I took a turn around the room, brushing the tears away.
“You have seen him, then,” she said firmly, “and he upset you.”
“No,” I whispered, clasping my hands tight together, “he was perfectly behaved. He—it is the fact of him that upsets me. That he exists.”
Ailsa knew me and said nothing, waiting.
“Knowing that he existed was one thing—and hard to bear— when he was in Orkney. But now that he is here—Oh, Ailsa! How I wish he had never been born! No, no, I don’t mean that—I want nothing more than for Arthur to have an heir of his body— but I cannot look at Mordred and not resent it! It is unfair to him, and to Arthur, I know, but—but there he stands, flesh of Arthur’s flesh, with the face to prove it, and I cannot—it fills me with jealousy and—and loathing for my rage—but I cannot stand the thought of it!”
Even to my own ears, my words sounded like ravings. I took a deep breath.
“Is is not jealousy of Arthur, exactly,” I said slowly. “The King has a right to share his bed with anyone he chooses. Although,” I added with some spirit, “I do not like it, and I think it is unfair that I am not allowed the same—and I have told him so.”
“Gwen!” Ailsa cried, scandalized. “You never did!”
“I did. What’s more, he agrees with me.” I managed a small smile. “So you see, Ailsa, not even Arthur is perfect.”
“May the saints preserve you! You always were a headstrong child! To say such a thing to the King!”
I sighed and drew aside the long curtain that covered the terrace doors. But the night was black with clouds; not even the stars were out. “He was not angry,” I said, half to myself, “or even annoyed. He saw the justice of my complaint. But he said men were creatures less perfect than women; they were given greater strength, but less control.”
“What a tongue he has in his head!” Ailsa laughed, relieved.
“Yes. That is what I said, too.” I pulled the curtain shut and closed my eyes. “Oh, how I wish he was here! I need his strength now.”
“Have you talked to the King about the boy, my lady?”
“Of course,” I replied. “How not? And he is always careful of his sp
eech, not wanting to hurt me.” I turned to her then, as the tears splashed down. “But, Ailsa, how it does hurt! To see the boy here, to know he is Arthur’s and not mine—it is a knife in my heart, truly it is!”
I fell at her feet, buried my face in her skirts, and wept. She stroked my hair and crooned in her gravelly voice, but the wound was deep and I had not yet shared it all.
“I am jealous of his mother,” I went on, between sobs, “not of who she is, or of her night with the King, but—but simply that she bore him to Arthur. That is all. Only that. She bore him a son, and I did not!” I wept bitterly. Ailsa said nothing. When I looked up at last, I saw tear tracks on her face, and her sturdy body shook. It was easier for me then, and I kissed her rough hands in gratitude.
“Tell me, Gwen,” she said at last, “why did you ask the King to send for the boy? What made you do it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, really. It came suddenly, one night. I thought it came straight from God. But I did not know, then, how hard it would be.” I relaxed against her and closed my eyes as she stroked my hair. “It was the night of the solstice—you remember, don’t you? There was something special in the very air. Arthur was so loving, and he—we both—” I sighed, and started over. “He gave me great pleasure that night, and I wished to please him in return.”
“Ahhhh,” Ailsa said softly. “I remember. I remember his face when he saw you in that gown. Stirred his soul, you did.”
“I remember you compared him to King Uther, your girlhood hero.”
“Aye. And with reason. They say King Uther had the gift of giving women pleasure. Wherever he went, young girls would flock to his tent. He was known for it. Why, there was a maid in Northgallis, when I was your age, spent a night with him as he passed through Wales. And when she married, her husband prized her for the joy she took in the marriage bed. Like you.”
“Ailsa! How you talk!”
“Would you care to hear the story?”
“Certainly not!”
Ailsa chuckled. “Very well, my lady, but Uther was as skilled in love as in war, they used to say.”
I grinned at her. “Like father, like son.”
“Well, then, Gwen,” she breathed, “you are a lucky woman indeed.”
I patted her hand. “How you have diverted my thoughts! Now you have made me lonely. I shall make you stay with me the night and keep me company.”
“That I will do with pleasure, my lady. And I will tell you a true tale, by your leave, of something that happened in my village when I was a girl.”
“Does King Uther come into it?”
“Not once,” she said, smiling. “Not King Uther, but the Saxons. They burned our village when I was small, and we all took to the hills. One woman lost her husband and all her children. Another family was murdered as they sat eating round the fire, all but the baby in the cradle. The woman was wild with grief, I can tell you. She tore her hair and blackened her face with soot until you would have taken her for a hill witch. The orphaned babe was taken in by a family with seven children, and wailed all day, never getting the attention he deserved. One day a Druid priest came by. Everyone in the village came out to do him reverence, for it is as much as your life is worth to pass a Druid by. He took this woman by the hand, gave the babe into her arms, and bade her raise and tend it. He sang an incantation and blessed her, and her grief was healed. It is a fact that she raised that boy to manhood, and all his life he honored her and called her ‘Mother’ and cared for her in her old age, and buried her with tears when she died.”
I took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t believe a single word—Saxons in Northgallis! But I take your point.”
“Take him under your wing,” she whispered. “No one else will have time for him. Make him your own, Gwen. It will bring you joy.”
25 THE WITCH’S SONS
The King did not return within the fortnight, but sent a courier to say he would stay at Caerleon with Merlin and we should join him there for Christmas. It really was Merlin the Enchanter, the courier said, returned in solid flesh, with nothing much worse to show for suffering entombment than a haunted look about his eyes. This news caused great rejoicing throughout the city. The people were proud of their Enchanter and revered his powers; over the bishop’s objections we gave public thanks for his escape from death.
As for the Orkney boys, they were chagrined to miss the King, but the soldier’s life at Camelot was exactly what they had always wanted. Indeed, their response to kind, even-handed treatment led me to believe they had not seen much of it before. They were given good horses to ride, only to discover that they could not ride them. They must have had only ponies on their island home, for handling a horse was beyond them. Lyonel himself took them in charge, but it was slow work, except for Mordred. The others had got into the habit of hauling their mounts around by the mouth; but the King’s horses had never been handled so, and when the boys tried it they usually ended on their backsides in the dust. Only Mordred watched quietly and learned new ways. He even practiced his speaking and so slowly lost his accent. He was determined, he let fall to Ferron in a rare confidence, never to go back. All his life he had dreamed of the mainland and now he was here, he meant to stay.
They came to me in the King’s library every day for lessons. The King had sent instructions only for Gareth, on account of his age. But I had them all brought, the first day, and questioned them on what they knew. None of them could write or read or figure; yet Gawaine hoped to be King of Lothian one day, and the others were not without ambition. Bedwyr was there, and a Roman scholar named Valerius who had gone adventuring in his middle years, ended up in Britain, and had recognized in Arthur the sort of man he said had vanished now from Rome. He shook his head in distress at such lack of refinement and learning in kings’ sons.
Of them all, only Mordred noticed he was lacking something others around him possessed. He asked if he might have lessons with Gareth and learn to read and write and sum. This pleased Valerius, and it pleased me. Bedwyr, when he could take his eyes from the boy’s face, noted my pleasure and marked it. The other boys sniggered at Mordred. They called him “baby-tender” and “nursemaid,” and I guessed that he and Gareth stuck together, either from liking or for the child’s protection.
“Prince Gawaine,” I said firmly, and saw his chin go up. “Let us say you are a grown man of twenty, and King of Lothian.” His eyes glowed, and he smiled contentedly. “You are out hunting with a troop of thirty men. You have made your kill and set up camp. Suddenly you find you are surrounded by your enemy, one hundred twenty strong. By how much are you outnumbered?”
Gawaine’s mouth dropped open. Mordred grinned. It lit his face, and he looked so exactly like his father that I drew in my breath sharply. Bedwyr glanced sideways at me, smiling.
“However many they were, I should attack!” Gawaine exclaimed, embarrassed and therefore angry. “I would beat them back!”
“Hmmm.” I did not laugh at him, but answered gravely. “When you learn the art of war from Sir Lancelot, or from my lord Bedwyr, you will learn what are the odds on winning such an attack, if it is two to one, or three to one, or four to one. You will learn what strategies are best employed. But how can you know what to do, if you cannot tell by how many you are outnumbered?”
I turned next to his brother. “Prince Agravaine, tell me, if your ship is charged fifteen silver pieces in harbor dues, and you pay the customs collector three gold coins, how much should you receive in return?”
He colored deeply, resenting it. “I don’t know . . . my lady.” This last after a sharp look from Bedwyr.
“Then you cannot know if you are cheated or dealt with fairly. For your sake, I hope the King employs honest men as tax collectors.”
I looked at Gaheris, who was already blushing, and decided enough was enough.
“It is not my wish to advise you,” I said calmly, watching them bridle at the very thought, “and your uncle the High King has left no orders regarding yo
ur instruction, although I am sure he assumed these were things you knew already . . . Be that as it may, you are free to attend lessons with Valerius. Prince Gareth and Prince Mordred and I will be here every afternoon after the midday meal. You are welcome to join us.”
Valerius bowed low, and the boys shifted from foot to foot.
“When does war training begin?” Gawaine wanted to know.
“In the spring,” Bedwyr said. “And with any luck, Sir Lancelot will be here to teach you. There is no one better.”
“Where is he when he’s wanted, and why did he go away?” Gawaine was petulant. Bedwyr sprang forward and cuffed him on the side of the head. The boy whirled and his hand flew to his dagger, but recognizing Bedwyr as his superior in rank as well as age and strength, he gave way.
“You will address the Queen as ‘my lady’ in every sentence you utter,” muttered Bedwyr in a flat voice, “or I myself will send you back to Orkney and answer to the King for it. See you behave yourself.”
To save Gawaine embarrassment, I answered quickly. “He is gone to take charge of his lands across the Narrow Sea. He is newly married and is settling his wife there. When the seas open, we hope he will return to us, and then your training will begin in earnest. Meanwhile, learn to ride and not abuse his horses, for he loves them dearly, and if he sees you haul at their mouths he will mount you on something that can take such abuse.”
When they were gone, I turned to Bedwyr. “Well, Bedwyr, your conclusions must be drawn. The evidence is clear enough, I think.”
He smiled. “Wonderfully clear, my lady.”
“Have you ever seen such a likeness? It is disconcerting. On the surface, he is so like.”
“But underneath, different, I think.” His voice was thoughtful.
“What is it? What do you see?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I like the boy. He’s quick, and respectful. I don’t think he carries hate in him. He’s just not . . . open.”
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