Igraine looked troubled. “Well, it shall be as you wish. Perhaps you could be lodged with my sister, the Queen of Orkney. Do you remember Morgause?”
“I will be glad to have my kinswoman Morgaine,” said a soft voice, and Morgaine looked up to see the very image of her own mother as she remembered her from her own childhood: stately, robed richly in bright silks, with jewels and hair braided into a bright coronal on her brow. “Why, you were such a little girl, and now you are grown, and a priestess!” Morgaine was folded into a warm and scented embrace. “Welcome, kinswoman, come here and sit by me. How does our sister Viviane? We hear great things of her, that she is the moving force behind all the great events which have brought Igraine’s son to the throne. Even Lot could not stand against one backedby the Merlin and the fairy folk and all the Tribes and all the Romans. And so your little brother is to be king! Will you come to court, Morgaine, and advise him, as Uther would have been well advised to have the Lady of Avalon do?”
Morgaine laughed, relaxing into Morgause’s embrace. “A king will do as seems good to him, that is the first lesson which all who come near him must know. I suppose Arthur is like enough to Uther to learn that without much lessoning.”
“Aye, there is not much doubt who had his fathering now, for all the talk there was about it then,” Morgause said, and drew breath in swift compunction. “No, Igraine, you must not weep again—it should be joy to you, not sorrow, that your son is so much like his father, and accepted everywhere in all of Britain because he has pledged himself to rule all the lands and peoples.”
Igraine blinked; she had, Morgaine thought, been doing overmuch weeping in the last days. She said, “I am happy for Arthur—” but her voice choked and she could not speak again. Morgaine stroked her mother’s arm, but she felt impatient; always, always, ever since she could remember, her mother had had no thought for her children, only for Uther, Uther. . . . Even now when he was dead and lay in his grave, her mother would push her and Arthur aside for the memory of the man she had loved enough to make her forget everything else. With relief she turned back to Morgause.
“Viviane said you had sons—”
“True,” Morgause said, “though most of them are still young enough to be here among the women. But the oldest is here to pledge loyalty to his king. Should Arthur die in battle—and not even Uther was immune to that fate—my Gawaine is his nearest kinsman, unless you already have a son, Morgaine—no? Have the priestesses of Avalon embraced chastity like nuns, then, that at your age you have given the Goddess neither son nor daughter? Or have you shared your mother’s fate and lost many children at birth? Forgive me, Igraine—I did not mean to remind you—”
Igraine blinked back tears. “I should not weep against God’s will; I have more than many women. I have a daughter who serves the Goddess to whom I was reared, and a son who will tomorrow be crowned with his father’s crown. My other children are in the bosom of Christ.”
Name of the Goddess, thought Morgaine, what a way to think of a God, with all the generations of the dead clinging to him! She knew it was only a way of speaking, a comfort to a sorrowing mother, yet the blasphemy of the idea troubled her. She remembered that Morgause had asked her a question and shook her head.
“No, I have borne no children, Morgause—until this year at Beltane I was kept virgin for the Goddess.” She stopped abruptly; she should say no more. Igraine, who was more Christian than Morgaine could have believed, would have been horrified at the thought of the rite in which she had played the part of the Goddess for her own brother.
And then a second horror swept over her, worse than the first, so that she felt a wave of sickness follow in its wake. It had come about at full moon, and though the moon had waned and filled and waned again, her moon-dark bleeding had not yet come upon her, nor showed any sign it was about to do so. She had been relieved that she would not have this nuisance at the crowning, and had thought it was reaction to the great magic; no other explanation had suggested itself to her until this moment.
A rite for the renewal and fertility of crops and land, and of the wombs of the women of the tribe. She had known that. Yet such had been her blindness and her pride, she had thought that perhaps the priestess, the Goddess, would be exempted from the purpose of this ritual. Yet she had seen other young priestesses sicken and grow pale after these rites, until they began to bloom with their own ripening fruit; she had seen the children born, had brought some of them to birth with her own trained priestess-hands. Yet never once, in her stupid blindness, had it entered her mind that she too might come away from the ritual with a womb grown heavy.
She saw Morgause’s sharp eyes on her, and deliberately drew a long breath and yawned to cover her silence. “I have been travelling since daybreak,” she said, “and have not breakfasted; I am hungry.” And Igraine apologized and sent her women for bread and barley beer which Morgaine forced herself to eat, though the food made her feel faintly sick and now she knew why.
Goddess! Mother Goddess! Viviane knew this might come about, yet she did not spare me! She knew what must be done, and done as quickly as possible; yet it could not be done in the three days of Arthur’s crowning, for she had no access to the roots and herbs she could find in Avalon, and furthermore she dared not be sick now. She felt herself shrinking from the violence and sickness, yet it must be done, and done without delay, or in Midwinter she would bear a son to her own mother’s son. Furthermore, Igraine must know nothing of it—the thought would strike her as evil beyond imagining. Morgaine forced herself to eat, and to talk of small things, and gossip like any woman.
But her mind did not rest as she talked. Yes, the fine linen she wore had been woven in Avalon, there was no linen anywhere like it, perhaps it was the flax of the Lake, which grew stronger, longer fibers, and whiter than anywhere else. But in her heart she was thinking, Arthur, he must never know, he has enough to weigh his heart at this crowning. If I can bear this burden and keep silence to give his heart ease, I will do so. Yes, she had been taught to play the harp—why, how foolish, Mother, to think it was wrong for a woman to make music. Even if one of the Scriptures did say that women were to keep silence in the church, it was shocking to think that the ears of God could be offended with the voice of a woman singing his praises; had not his own Mother lifted up her voice to sing praises when she knew she was to bear a child by the Holy Spirit? Then, when Morgaine took the harp in her hands and sang for her mother, beneath the refrain lay despair, for she knew as well as Viviane that she was to be the next Lady of Avalon, and she owed the Goddess a daughter at least. It was impious to cast out a child conceived under the Great Marriage. But how could she do anything else? The Mother of the Christian God had rejoiced in the God that had given her a child, but Morgaine could only rage in silent bitterness against the God who had taken the form of her unknown brother. . . . She was used to living her life on two levels at once, but even so the effort made her lips pale and her voice strained, and she was glad when Morgause cut her short.
“Morgaine, your voice is lovely, I hope to hear it at my own court. And Igraine, I hope to see you many times before the crowning feast is ended, but I must return and see how my babe is cared for. I have no love for convent bells and much praying, either, and Morgaine looks weary with travelling. I think I shall take her away to my tents and make her lie down, so she will be fresh in the morning to see Arthur crowned.”
Igraine hardly troubled to conceal her relief. “Yes, I should be at the noonday office,” she said. “You know, both of you, that when Arthur is crowned I shall dwell in the nunnery at Tintagel in Cornwall. Arthur asked me to remain with him, but soon, I hope, he will have a queen of his own, and no need of me.”
Yes, they would insist that Arthur be wedded, and soon. Morgaine wondered which of these petty kings would manage the honor of being the king’s father-in-law. And my son might have been the heir to a crown . . . no. No, I will not even think of that.
And again bitter anger overcam
e her, like choking; why, why had Viviane done this to her? To set all this in motion, so that they two, Arthur and Morgaine, might play out some mummery of Gods and Goddesses . . . was it no more than that?
Igraine kissed and embraced them both, promising to see them again afterward. As they walked along the path toward the brilliant array of pavilions, Morgause said, “Igraine is so changed I would not have known her—who would ever have thought she would grow so pious? No doubt she will end her days as the terror of a whole sisterhood of nuns, and, although I grieve to say it, I must rejoice I am not one of them. I have no call to a nunnery.”
Morgaine forced herself to smile and say, “No, I suppose not; marriage and motherhood seem to have agreed with you. You blossom like the wild roses of the hedge, Aunt.”
Morgause smiled lazily. “My husband is good to me, and it suits me well to be a queen,” she said. “He is one of the Northmen, and so he does not think it wrong to take counsel of a woman, as these fools of Romans do. I hope Arthur has not been all spoilt by dwelling in a Roman household—it might have made him mighty in war, but if he despises the Tribes he will not rule. Even Uther was wise enough to know that and to have himself crowned on Dragon Island.”
“So was Arthur,” said Morgaine. It was all she could say.
“True. I have heard something of that, and I think he is wise. As for me, I am ambitious; Lot seeks my counsel, and all goes well in our land. The priests are very sour about me and say I do not keep my place as befits a woman—no doubt they think I am some kind of evil sorceress or witch, because I do not sit modestly at my spinning and weaving. But Lot thinks little of the priests though his people are Christian enough . . . to tell the truth, most of them care not whether the God of this land is the white Christ, or the Goddess, or the Horned One, or the Horse God of the Saxons, so long as their crops grow and their bellies are full. I think that is just as well—a land ruled by priests is a land filled with tyrants on Earth and in Heaven. Uther leaned a bit too far in that direction these last years, if you ask me. The Goddess grant that Arthur has more sense.”
“He swore to deal justly by the Gods of Avalon, before Viviane gave him the sword of the Druids.”
“Did she so?” Morgause said. “Now I wonder what brought that to her mind? But enough of Gods and kings and all of that—Morgaine, what ails you?” And, when Morgaine did not answer, “Do you think I can’t tell a breeding woman when I see one? Igraine did not see it, but she has eyes now only for her grief.”
Morgaine forced herself to say lightly, “Well, it might be so; I went to the rites at Beltane.”
Morgause chuckled. “If that was your first time, you might not know for a moon or so, but good fortune to you. You are already past your best childbearing years—at your age I had three. I would not advise telling Igraine—she is far too Christian to accept a child to the Goddess now. Ah well, I suppose all women grow old in time. Viviane too must be well on in years now. I have not seen her since Gawaine was born.”
“She seems much the same to me as always,” Morgaine said.
“And so she did not come to Arthur’s crowning. Well, we can manage without her. But I do not think she will be content to stay long in the background. One day, I doubt it not, she will put her will to seeing the cauldron of the Goddess rather than the sharing-cup of the Christian’s love feast on our altar at court, and I won’t weep when that day comes, either.”
Morgaine felt a prophetic shiver as she saw in her mind the robed priest raising the cup of the Mysteries before the altar of Christ; and clearly before her eyes then she saw Lancelet, kneeling, a light on his face such as she had never seen . . . she shook her head to clear it of the unwanted Sight.
The day of arthur’s crowning dawned brilliant and shining. All night they had come, from the length and breadth of Britain, to see the High King crowned here on the Isle of the Priests. There were crowds of the little dark people; Tribesmen clad in skins and checkered cloth and adorned with the dull-colored stones from the North, red-haired and tall and bearded; and more than any other, the Roman peoples of the civilized lands. And there were tall, fair, broad-shouldered men, Angles and Saxons from the treaty troops who had been settled south in Kent, and had come to renew the broken allegiance. The slopes were lined solid; even at Beltane festivals Morgaine had never seen so many people in one place, and she felt frightened.
She herself had a privileged place, with Igraine, Lot, Morgause and her sons, and the family of Ectorius. King Lot, slender and dark and charming, bent over her hand and embraced her and made a great show of calling her “kinswoman” and “niece,” but Morgaine, looking behind the superficial smile, saw the sullen bitterness in Lot’s eyes. He had schemed and intrigued to prevent this day. Now his son Gawaine was to be proclaimed Arthur’s nearest heir; would that satisfy his ambition, or would he continue to work to undermine the authority of the High King? Morgaine slitted her eyes at Lot and discovered she did not like him at all.
Then the bells rang from the church and a cry went up all along the slopes overlooking the flat land before the church, and out of the church door a slender youth was walking, the sun glinting on his shining hair. Arthur, thought Morgaine. Their young king, like a hero out of legend, with that great sword in his hand. Although she could hear no words from where she sat, she saw the priest place on his head Uther’s slender golden circlet.
Arthur raised the sword in his hand and said something she could not hear. But it was repeated from mouth to mouth, and when she heard it, Morgaine felt the same thrill she had felt, seeing him come victorious and crowned from the victory over the King Stag.
For all the peoples of Britain, he had said, my sword for your protection, and my hand for justice.
The Merlin came forward in his white robes of state; next to the venerable Bishop of Glastonbury, he looked mild and gentle. Arthur bowed briefly to them both, taking each of them by the hand. The Goddess put it into his head to do that, Morgaine thought—and in a moment she heard Lot saying as much.
“Damned clever, that, to set the Merlin and the Bishop side by side, in token that he’ll be advised by both!”
Morgause said, “I don’t know who had the teaching of him, but believe me, Uther had no foolish son.”
“It is our turn,” Lot said, rising to his feet, holding out his hand to Morgause. “Come, Lady; don’t mind worrying that old crew of greybeards and priests. I’ve no shame to confess you sit at my side as my equal in all things. Shame to Uther that he didn’t do likewise with your sister.”
Morgause’s smile twisted. “Perhaps it is our good fortune that Igraine had not the strength of will to insist on it.”
Morgaine rose to her feet, driven by a sudden impulse, and went forward with them. Lot and Morgause motioned her courteously to precede them. Though she did not kneel, she bowed her head slightly. “I bring you the homage of Avalon, my lord Arthur, and of those who serve the Goddess.” Behind her she could hear the priests murmuring, see Igraine among the black-robed sisters from the convent. She heard Igraine as if her mother had spoken: Bold, forward, she was headstrong even as a child. She forced herself not to hear. She was a priestess of Avalon, not one of those housebound hens of God!
“I welcome you, for yourself and for Avalon, Morgaine.” Arthur took her by the hand, and placed her near where he stood. “I do you all honor as the only other child of my mother, and Duchess of Cornwall in your own right, dear sister.” He released her hand and she bent her head to keep herself from fainting, because her eyes had blurred and her head swam. Why must I feel like this now? Arthur’s doing. No, not his, the doing of the Goddess. It is her will, not ours.
Lot stepped forward, kneeling before Arthur, and Arthur raised him. “Welcome, dear Uncle.”
That same dear Uncle, Morgaine thought, who if I am not mistaken would gladly have seen him die as an infant.
“Lot of Orkney, will you keep your shores against the Northmen, and come to my aid if the shores of Britain are threatened?
”
“I will, kinsman, I swear it.”
“Then I bid you keep the throne of Orkney and Lothian in peace, and never will I claim it or fight against you for it,” said Arthur, and bent slightly to kiss Lot on the cheek. “May you and your lady rule well and long in the North, kinsman.”
Lot, rising, said, “I beg leave to present you a knight for your company; I beg you to make him one of your Companions, Lord Arthur. My son Gawaine—”
Gawaine was big, tall and strongly built, rather like a male version of Igraine and Morgause herself. Red curls crowned his head, and though he was not much older than Arthur himself—in fact, Morgaine thought, he must have been a little younger, for Morgause had not wedded Lot until Arthur was born—he was already a young giant, six feet tall. He knelt before Arthur, and Arthur raised him and embraced him.
The Mists of Avalon Page 33