The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Marion Bradley

  Gwydion wore a strangely colored cloak, coarse and with a clasp of bone such as she had never seen, and when she would have wrapped him in her arms, he shrank away, wincing.

  "No, Mother-" He put his free arm around her and explained, "I caught a sword cut there in Brittany-no, it is not serious," he reassured her. "It did not fester and perhaps I shall not even have a scar, but when it is touched it cries out to me!"

  "You have been fighting in Brittany, then? I thought you safe in Avalon," she remonstrated, as she led him within and set him by the fire. "I have no southern wine for you-"

  He laughed. "I am weary of it-barley beer is enough for me, or some of the firewater if you have it... with hot water and honey if there is any. I am stiff with riding." He let one of the women draw off his boots and hang his cloak to dry, leaning back at ease.

  "So good it is to be here, Mother-" He set the steaming cup to his lips and drank with pleasure.

  "And you came so far, riding in the cold with a wound? Was there some great tidings that needed to tell?"

  He shook his head. "None-I was homesick, no more," he said. "It's all so green and lush and damp there, with fog and church bells ... I longed for the clean air of the fells, and the gulls' cry, and your face, Mother ... " He reached out for the cup he had set down, and she saw the serpents about his wrists. She was not greatly versed in the lore of Avalon, but she knew they were the sign of the highest rank of the priesthood. He saw her glance and nodded, but said nothing.

  "Was it in Brittany you got you that ugly cloak, so coarse-woven and low, fit only for a serving-man?"

  He chuckled. "It kept the rain from me. I took it from a great chief of the foreign lands, who fought under the legions of that man who called himself Emperor Lucius. Arthur's men made short work of that one, believe me, and there was plunder for all-I have a silver cup and a golden ring in my packs for you, Mother."

  "You fought in the armies of Arthur?" Morgause asked. She had never thought he would do this; he saw the surprise in her face and laughed again.

  "Yes, I fought under that great King who fathered me," he said, with a grin of contempt. "Oh, fear not, I had my orders from Avalon. I took care to fight among the warriors of Ceardig, the Saxon chief of the treaty men who loves me well, and to come not under Arthur's eyes. Gawaine knew me not, and I was careful not to let Gareth see me except when I was shrouded in a cloak like that-I lost my own cloak in battle, and feared if I was wearing a cloak of Lothian, Gareth would come to look on a wounded countryman, so I got this one ... ."

  "Gareth would have known you anywhere," said Morgause, "and I hope you do not think your foster-brother would ever betray you."

  Gwydion smiled, and Morgause thought that he looked very like the little boy who had once sat in her lap. He said, "I longed to make myself known to Gareth, and when I lay wounded and weak, I came near to doing so. But Gareth is Arthur's man, and he loves his king, I could see that, and I would not put that burden on my best of brothers," he said. "Gareth- Gareth is the only one-"

  He did not finish the sentence, but Morgause knew what he would have said; stranger as he was everywhere, Gareth was his brother and his beloved friend. Abruptly he grinned, chasing away the remote smile that made him look so young. "All through the Saxon armies, Mother, I was asked again and again if I was Lancelet's son! I cannot see the resemblance so much myself, but then I am not really familiar with my own face ... I look into a mirror only when I shave myself!"

  "Still," said Morgause, "anyone who had seen Lancelet, especially anyone who knew him in youth, could not look on you without knowing you his kinsman."

  "Some such thing as that I said-I put on a Breton accent, sometimes, and said I too was kinsman to old King Ban," Gwydion said. "Yet I would think our Lancelet, with the face which makes him a magnet to all maids, would have fathered enough bastards that it would not be such a marvel to all men that one should go about wearing his face! Not so? I wondered," he said, "but all I heard of Lancelet was that it might be that he had fathered a son on the Queen and the child was spirited away somewhere to be fostered by that kinswoman of hers whom they married off to Lancelet ... . Tales of Lancelet and the Queen are many, each wilder than the next, but all agree that for every other woman the Gods made, he has nothing but courtesy and fair words. There were even women who flung themselves at me, saying that if they could not have Lancelet, they would have his son...." He grinned again. "It must have been hard for the gallant Lancelet. I have eye enough for a fair woman, but when they push themselves on me so, well ... " He shrugged, comically. Morgause laughed.

  "Then the Druids have not robbed you of that, my son?"

  "By no means," he said. "But most women are fools, so that I prefer not to trouble myself making play with those who expect me to treat them as something very special, or to pay heed to what they say. You have spoilt me for foolish women, Mother."

  "Pity the same could not have been said of Lancelet," said Morgause, "for never did anyone think Gwenhwyfar had more wits than she needed to keep her girdle tied, and where Lancelet was concerned, I doubt she had that much," and she thought, You have Lancelet's face, my boy, but you have your mother's wit!

  As if he had heard her thoughts, he set down the empty cup, and waved away a serving-girl who would have scurried to refill it. "No more, I am so weary that I will be drunk at another taste! Supper I would have. I have had enough of hunter's fortune, I am sick of meat, and long for home food -porridge and bannock ... . Mother, I looked on the lady Morgaine at Avalon before I left for Brittany."

  Now why, Morgause wondered, does he say this to me? It could not be looked for that he should have much love for his mother, and then she felt sudden guilt. I made sure he should not love any but me. Well, she had done what she must, and she did not regret it.

  "How looks my kinswoman?"

  "She looks not young," said Gwydion, "it seemed to me that she was older than you, Mother."

  "No," Morgause said, "Morgaine is younger than I by ten years."

  "Still, she looks worn and old, and you ... " He smiled at her, and Morgause felt the flood of sudden happiness. She thought, None of my own sons have I loved as this one. Morgaine did well to leave him to my care.

  "Oh," she said, "I grow old too, my lad ... I had a grown son when you were born!"

  "Then you are twice the sorceress she is," said Gwydion, "for one could swear you had dwelt long in the fairy country with time never touching you ... you look to me as you did the day I rode away for Avalon, Mother mine." He reached out his hand to hers and brought it to his lips and kissed it, and she came and put her arm round him, careful to avoid his wound. She stroked the dark hair. "So Morgaine is queen now in Wales."

  "True," Gwydion said, "and high, I hear, in favor with the King ... Arthur has made her stepson Uwaine a member of his own personal bodyguard, next to Gawaine, and he and Gawaine are close friends. Uwaine's not a bad fellow-not unlike Gawaine, I'd say-tough and staunch, both of them, and devoted to Arthur as if the sun rose and set where he pissed ..." and Morgause noted the wry smile. "But then it's a fault many men have-and I came here to speak of this to you, Mother," he said. "Know you anything of Avalon's plan?"

  "I know what Niniane said, and the Merlin, when they came to take you thither," said Morgause. "I know you are to be Arthur's heir, even though he believes he will leave the kingdom to that son of Lancelet's. I know you are the young stag who will bring down the King Stag ... " she said in the old language, and Gwydion raised his brow.

  "Then you know it all," he said. "But this, perhaps, you do not know ... it cannot be done now. Since Arthur brought down this Roman who would be emperor, this Lucius, his star has never flamed higher than now. Anyone who raised a hand against Arthur would be torn in pieces by the mob, or by his Companions-never have I seen a man so loved. This, I think, is why I needed to look from afar on his face, to see what is it in a king which makes him so loved ... ."

  His voice fell away into silence and Morgause fel
t ill at ease. "And did you so?"

  Gwydion nodded slowly. "He is a king indeed ... even I who have no cause to love him felt that spell he creates around him. You cannot imagine how he is worshipped."

  "Strange," said Morgause, "I for one never thought him so remarkable."

  "No, be fair," said Gwydion. "There are not many-perhaps there is no other within this land who could have rallied all factions as he did! Romans, Welsh, Cornish, West-countrymen, East Anglians, men of Brittany, the Old People, the men of Lothian ... all through this kingdom, Mother, all men swear by Arthur's star. Even those Saxons who once fought Uther to the death, stand and swear that Arthur shall be their king. He is a great warrior ... no, not in himself, he fights no better than any other warrior, not half so well as Lancelet or even Gareth, but he is a great general. And it is something ... something in himself," Gwydion said. "It is easy to love him. And while all worship him thus, I have no possible task."

  "Then," said Morgause, "their love of him must somehow be made less. He must be discredited. He is no better than any other man, the Gods know that. He fathered you on his own sister, and it is well known here and abroad that he plays no very noble part with his queen. There is a name for a man who sits complacent while another man pays court to his queen, and not so pretty a name, after all."

  "Something, I am sure, can be made of that," said Gwydion. "Though in these late years, it is said, Lancelet has stayed far from court and taken care never to be alone with the Queen, so that no shadow of scandal shall fall on her name. Yet they say she wept like a child, and so did Lancelet, when he took leave of her to go and fight at Arthur's side against this Lucius, and never did I see man fight as did Lancelet. One would think he longed to fling himself headlong into death. But he took never even a wound, as if his life was charmed. I wonder ... he is the son of a High Priestess of Avalon," he mused. "It may be he bears supernatural protection of some sort."

  "Morgaine would know that," said Morgause dryly, "but I would not suggest you ask her."

  "I do know that Arthur's life is charmed," said Gwydion, "for he bears the sacred Excalibur, sword of the Druid Regalia, and a magical scabbard which guards him from shedding blood. Without it, so Niniane told me, he would have bled himself to death at Celidon Wood, and after that ... . Morgaine has been given as her first task to get this sword again from Arthur, unless he will swear anew to be true to Avalon. And I doubt not my mother is wily enough to do so. I doubt she would stop at much, my mother. Of the two, I think I like my father better-he knew not what evil he had wrought when he got me, I think."

  "Morgaine knew not that, either," said Morgause sharply.

  "Oh, I am weary of Morgaine ... even Niniane has fallen under her spell," said Gwydion sharply. "Do not you begin to defend her to me, Mother."

  Morgause thought, Viviane was even so, she could charm any man alive to do her will, and any woman either ... Igraine went pliant at her bidding to wed with Gorlois and later to seduce Uther ... and I to Lot's bed ... and now Niniane has done what Morgaine wished. And this foster-son of hers had, she suspected, something of that power, too. She recalled, suddenly and with unexpected pain, Morgaine with her head bent, having her hair combed like a child, on the night she bore Gwydion; Morgaine, who had been to her as the daughter she never bore, and now she was torn between Morgaine and Morgaine's son, who was even dearer to her than her own sons. "Do you hate her so, Gwydion?"

  "I know not how I feel," said Gwydion, looking up at her with Lancelet's dark mournful eyes. "It seems not to run with the vows of Avalon that I should so hate the mother who bore me and the father who got me. ... I would that I had been reared at court as my father's son and his sworn follower, not his bitterest enemy ... ."

  He laid his head down on his arms and said through them, "I am weary, Mother. I am weary and sick of fighting, and I know Arthur is so, too ... he has brought peace in these isles-from Cornwall to Lothian. I do not like to think that this great king, this great man, is my enemy and that for the sake of Avalon I must bring him down to nothing, to death or dishonor. I would rather love him, as all men do. I would like to look on my mother-not you, Mother, but lady Morgaine-I would like to look on her who bore me as my mother, not as the great priestess whom I am sworn to obey whatever she bids me. I would that she were my mother, not the Goddess. I wish that when Niniane lay in my arms she were no more than my own dear love, whom I love because she has your sweet face and your lovely voice. ... I am so weary of gods and goddesses ... I would that I had been your son and Lot's and no more than this, I am so weary of my fate ... ." And he lay for a long moment quiet, his face hidden, his shoulders shaking. Tentatively, Morgause stroked his hair. At last he raised his head and said, with a bitter grin that defied her to make anything of his moment of weakness, "I will have now another cup of that strong spirit they brew in these hills, without the water and honey this time ... " and when it was brought, he drained it, without even looking on the steaming porridge and bannock the girl had brought. "What was it said in those old books of Lot's, when the house priest beat Gareth and me until our backsides were bloody, trying to teach us the Roman tongue? Who was yonder old Roman who said, 'Call no man happy until he is dead'? My task, then, is to bring that greatest of all happinesses to my father, and why should I then rebel against that fate?" He signalled for another drink; when Morgause hesitated, he seized the flask and poured the cup full again.

  "You will be drunk, my dear son. Eat your supper first, will you not?"

  "So I will be drunk," said Gwydion bitterly. "So let it be. I drink to death and to dishonor... Arthur's and mine!" Again he drained the drinking horn and flung it into a corner, where it struck with a metallic sound. "So let it be as the fates have ordained-the King Stag shall rule in the forest until the day the Lady has ordained .. .for all the beasts were born and joined with others of their kind and lived and worked the will of the forces of life and at last gave up their spirits into the keeping of the Lady again. ..." He spoke the words with a strange, harsh emphasis, and Morgause, untrained in Druid lore, knew that the words were those of ritual, and shivered as he spoke them.

  He drew a deep breath. Then he said, "But for tonight I shall sleep in my mother's house and forget Avalon, and kings, and stags, and fates. Shall I not? Shall I not?" and, as the strong drink at last overpowered him, he fell forward into her arms. She held him there, stroking his fine dark hair, so much like Morgaine's own, as he slept with his head on her breast. But even in his dreams he twitched and moaned and muttered as if his dreams were evil, and Morgause knew it was not only the pain of his unhealed wound.

  Book Four. The Prisoner in the Oak

  1

  In far hills of North Wales, rain had been falling day after day, and the castle of King Uriens seemed to swim in fog and damp. The roads were ankle-deep mud, the fords swollen as rivers rushed down in spate from the mountains, and damp chill gripped the countryside. Morgaine, wrapped in cloak and heavy shawl, felt her fingers stiffening and slowing on the shuttle as she sent it through the loom; suddenly she started upright, the shuttle falling from her cold hands.

  "What is it, Mother?" Maline asked, blinking at the sharp sound in the quiet hall.

  "There is a rider on the road," Morgaine said. "We must make ready to welcome him." And then, observing her daughter-in-law's troubled look, she cursed herself; again she had let herself slip into the half-trance which women's work always brought upon her nowadays. She had long ago ceased to spin, but weaving, which she enjoyed, had seemed safe if she kept her wits about her and didn't succumb to the drowsy trancelike monotony of it.

  And Maline was looking at her in the half-wary, half-exasperated way which Morgaine's unexpected seeings always evoked. Not that Maline believed there was anything wicked or even magical about them-it was just her mother-in-law's queer way. But Maline would speak of them to the priest, and he would come again and try to be subtle about asking her whence they came, and she would have to put on a meek-woman face and pretend
she didn't know what he was talking about. Someday she would be too weary or too unguarded to care, and she would speak her mind to the priest. Then he would really have something to talk about ... .

  Well, done was done, and could not be helped now. She got along well enough with Father Eian, who had been Uwaine's tutor-he was an educated man for a priest. "Tell the Father that his pupil will be here at dinnertime," Morgaine said, and once again realized that her tongue had slipped; she had known Maline had been thinking of the priest and had responded to Maline's thought, not her words. She went out of the room leaving the younger woman staring.

  All the winter, which had been heavy with rain and snow and repeated storms, not a single traveller had come. She dared not spin; it opened the gates too quickly to trance. Now, weaving was likely to do the same. She sewed industriously at making clothes for all the folk of the household, from Uriens down to Maline's newest baby, but it was hard on her eyes to do fine needlework; in the winter she had no access to fresh herbs and plants, and could do little with brewing simples and medicines. She had no companion-her waiting-women were the wives of Uriens' men-at-arms and duller than Maline; not one of them could spell out so much as a verse in the Bible and were shocked that Morgaine could read and write and knew some Latin and Greek. And she could not sit always at her harp. So she had spent the winter in a frenzy of boredom and impatience ...

  ... the worse, she thought, because the temptation was always there to sit and spin and dream, letting her mind slide away, to follow Arthur at Camelot, or Accolon on quest-it had come to her, three years ago, that Accolon should spend enough time at court that Arthur should know him well and trust him. Accolon bore the serpents of Avalon, and that might prove a valuable bond with Arthur. She missed Accolon like a constant ache; in his presence she was what he always saw her-high priestess, confident of her goals and herself. But that was secret between them. In the long, lonely seasons, Morgaine experienced recurrent doubts and dreads; was she then no more than Uriens thought her, a solitary queen growing old, body and mind and soul drying and withering?