“Welcome, cousin. I will gladly make you the first of my Companions; I hope you will join and be welcomed by my dearest friends,” he said, and nodded to the three young men standing at one side. “Lancelet, Gawaine is our cousin. This is Cai, and this Bedwyr; they are my foster-brothers. Now I have Companions, even as did that Alexander of the Greeks.”
Morgaine stood and watched all that day as kings from all over Britain came to pledge fealty to the throne of the High King and swear to join him in war and to defend their shores. Fair-haired King Pellinore, lord of the Lake Country, came to bend the knee before Arthur and beg to take leave even before the end of the feasting.
“What, Pellinore?” said Arthur, laughing. “You, who I thought would be my staunchest supporter here, to desert me so soon?”
“I have had news from my homeland, Lord, that a dragon is raging there; I would swear to follow it until I have killed it.”
Arthur embraced him and handed him a gold ring. “I will keep no king from his own people when they have need of him. Go and see to the killing of the dragon, then, and bring me its head when you have killed it.”
It was nearing sunset when at last all the kings and nobles who had come to swear allegiance to their High King had finished. Arthur was no more than a boy, but he stood through the long afternoon with unflagging courtesy, speaking to each person who came as if he had been the first. Only Morgaine, trained in Avalon to read faces, could see the traces of weariness. But at last it was over, and servants began to bring the feast.
Morgaine had expected Arthur to sit down to dine among the circle of youths he had appointed as his Companions; it had been a long day, he was young, and he had done his duty with concentrated attention all day. Instead, he sat among the bishops and elder kings of his father’s Council—Morgaine was pleased to see that the Merlin was among them. After all, Taliesin was his own grandsire, although she was not sure that Arthur knew that. When he had eaten (and he stuffed himself like a hungry boy who was still growing)—he rose and began to make his way among the guests.
In his plain white tunic, adorned only with the slender gold coronet, he stood out among the brightly dressed kings and nobles like a white deer in the dark forest. His Companions came at his side: the huge young Gawaine, and Cai, dark, with Roman, hawklike features and a sardonic smile—as he came closer Morgaine saw that he had a scar at the corner of his mouth, still red and ugly, which drew his face up into an ugly leer. It was a pity; he had probably been good-looking before that. Lancelet, next to him, looked pretty as a girl—no; something fierce, masculine and beautiful, perhaps a wild cat. Morgause looked at him with a greedy eye.
“Morgaine, who is that beautiful young man—the one beside Cai and Gawaine, the one in crimson?”
Morgaine laughed. “Your nephew, Aunt; Viviane’s son Galahad. But the Saxons named him Elf-arrow, and mostly he is called Lancelet.”
“Who would have thought that Viviane, who is so plain, should have such a handsome son! Her older son Balan—now he is not handsome; rugged, strong and hearty, and trustworthy as an old dog, but he is like Viviane. No one alive could call her beautiful!”
The words cut Morgaine to the heart. I am said to be like Viviane; does everyone think me ugly, then? That girl said, little and ugly as one of the fairy folk. She said coldly, “I think Viviane very beautiful.”
Morgause snickered. “It is easy to see you have been reared in Avalon, which is even more isolated than most nunneries. I do not think you know what men desire for beauty in a woman.”
“Come now,” said Igraine soothingly, “there are virtues other than beauty. This Lancelet has his mother’s eyes, and no one has ever denied that Viviane’s eyes are beautiful; Viviane has so much charm that no one knows or cares whether or no she is beautiful, only that she has pleased them with her beautiful eyes and her fine voice. Beauty is not only in queenly stature and a fair complexion and golden curls, Morgause.”
Morgause said, “Ah, you too are unworldly, Igraine. You are a queen, and everyone thinks a queen is beautiful. And you were married to the man you loved well. Most of us are not so fortunate, and it’s a comfort to know that other men admire one’s beauty. If you had lived all your life with old Gorlois, you too would be glad of your fair face and beautiful hair, and take pains to outshine those women who have nothing but charm and nice eyes and a sweet voice. Men are like babies—they see only the first thing they want, a full breast—”
“Sister!” said Igraine, and Morgause said, with a wry smile, “Ah well, it has been easy for you to be virtuous, sister, since the man you loved was a king. Most of us are not so fortunate.”
“Do you not love Lot after all these years, Morgause?”
Morgause shrugged. “Love is a diversion for the bower and the winter fireside. Lot takes counsel of me in all things, and leaves the ruling of his household to me in time of war; and whenever he has plunder of gold or jewels or fine garments, I have first choice. So I am grateful to him, and he has never had the shadow of cause to think he rears another man’s son. But that does not mean I must be blind when a young man has fine features and shoulders like a young bull, either—or an eye for his queen.”
I doubt not, thought Morgaine, faintly disgusted, that to Morgause this seems great virtue and she thinks of herself as a very virtuous queen. For the first time in many years she felt confused, knowing that virtue could not be so simply defined. The Christians valued chastity above all other virtues, while on Avalon the highest virtue was to give over your body to the God or Goddess in union with all of the flow of nature; to each, the virtue of the other was the blackest sin and ingratitude to their own God. If one of them was right, the other was of necessity evil. It seemed to her that the Christians were rejecting the holiest of the things under heaven, but to them, she would not be considered much better than a harlot. If she should speak of the Beltane fires as a sacred duty to the Goddess, even Igraine, who had been reared in Avalon, would stare and think that some fiend spoke through her.
She turned her eyes back to the young men approaching: Arthur, fair and grey-eyed; Lancelet, slender, graceful; and the huge, red-haired Gawaine, who towered over the others like a bull over a pair of fine Spanish horses. Arthur came and bowed to his mother.
“My lady.” He recollected himself. “Mother, has this day been long for you?”
“No longer than for you, my son. Will you sit here?”
“For a moment, Mother.” As he seated himself, Arthur, though he had eaten well, absentmindedly took a handful of the sweets that Morgaine had put aside from her plate. It made Morgaine realize again how very young Arthur was. Still munching on almond paste, he said, “Mother, do you want to marry again? If you do, I will find the very richest—and the very kindest—of the kings to marry you. King Uriens of Northern Wales is widowed; I have no doubt he would be happy to have a good wife.”
Igraine smiled. “Thank you, dear son. But after being wife to the High King, I do not want to be wife to a lesser man. And I loved your father well; I have no wish to replace him.”
“Well, Mother, let it be as you wish,” said Arthur, “only I was afraid you would be lonely.”
“It is hard to be lonely in a nunnery, son, with other women. And God is there.”
Morgause said, “I would rather dwell in a hermitage in the forest than in a house full of chattering ladies! If God is there, it must be hard for him to get a word in edgewise!”
For a moment Morgaine saw the sprightly mother of her own childhood as Igraine retorted, “I imagine, like any henpecked husband, he spends more time in listening to his brides than in speaking to them—but if one listens hard enough for the voice of God it is not far away. But have you ever been quiet enough to listen and hear him, Morgause?”
Laughing, Morgause made a gesture, as a fighter who acknowledges a hit. “And what of you, Lancelet?” she asked, smiling enticingly. “Are you betrothed yet, or even married?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Ah, n
o, Aunt. No doubt my father, King Ban, would find me a wife. But as yet I wish to follow my king and serve him.”
Arthur, smiling up at his friend, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “With my two strong cousins here, I am guarded as well, I make no doubt, as any of those old Caesars themselves!”
Igraine said softly, “Arthur, I think Cai is jealous; say something kind to him,” and Morgaine, hearing this, looked up at the sullen-looking, scarred Cai. Hard for him, indeed; after years of thinking Arthur his father’s unregarded fosterling, now to be supplanted by a younger brother—a younger brother become king—and to find that brother surrounded by two new friends to whom his heart was given.
Arthur said, “When this land is at peace we shall find wives and castles for all of you, no doubt. But you, Cai, shall keep mine for me as my own chamberlain.”
“I am content with that, foster-brother—forgive me, I should say, my lord and king—”
“No,” said Arthur, turning right round to embrace Cai. “God strike me if I ever ask that you, brother, should call me any such thing!”
Igraine swallowed hard. “Arthur, when you speak so, sometimes it seems to me that I hear your father’s very voice.”
“I wish for my own sake, madam, that I could have known him better. But I know, too, that a king cannot always do as he chooses, nor a queen.” He lifted Igraine’s hand and kissed it, and Morgaine thought: So he has already learned that much of king craft.
“I suppose,” Igraine said, “that they have already set about telling you that you should be married.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Arthur said, with a shrug. “Every king, I suppose, has a daughter he would like to marry to the High King. I think I will ask the Merlin which one I ought to marry.” His eyes sought Morgaine’s and for a moment it seemed they held a terrible vulnerability. “I don’t know so very much about women, after all.”
Lancelet said gaily, “Why then, we must find you the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, and the highest born.”
“No,” Cai said slowly, “since Arthur says very sensibly that all women are alike to him, find him the one with the best dowry.”
Arthur chuckled. “I’ll leave it to you then, Cai, and I’ve no doubt I’ll be as well wed as I am crowned. I’d suggest you take counsel of the Merlin and no doubt His Holiness the Archbishop will want some say in the matter. And what of you, Morgaine? Shall I find you a husband, or will you be one of my queen’s ladies-in-waiting? Who should be higher in the kingdom than the daughter of my mother?”
Morgaine found her voice. “My lord and king, I am content in Avalon. Pray don’t trouble yourself with finding me a husband.” Not even, she thought fiercely, not even if I am with child! Not even then!
“So be it, sister, though I doubt not. His Holiness will have something to say about it—he will have it that the women of Avalon are evil sorceresses or harpies, all.”
Morgaine did not answer, and Arthur glanced back almost guiltily at the other kings and councillors; the Merlin was looking at him, and he said, “I see, I have spent all the time I am allowed with my mother and my sister and my Companions; I must go back to the business of being a king again. Madam.” He bowed to Igraine, more formally to Morgause, but as he approached Morgaine he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She stiffened.
Mother, Goddess, what a tangle we have made. He says he will always love me and long for me, and that is the one thing he must not do! If Lancelet only felt so . . . She sighed, and Igraine came and took her hand.
“You are tired, daughter. That long standing in the sun this morning has wearied you. You are sure you would not rather come back with me to the convent where it is so quiet? No? Well, then, Morgause, take her back to your tent, if you will.”
“Yes, dear sister, go and rest.” She watched the young men walk away, Arthur tactfully tempering his pace to Cai’s halting step.
Morgaine returned with Morgause to their tent; she was weary, but she had to remain alert and courteous while Lot talked of some plan Arthur had spoken of—fighting on horseback, with attack tactics which could strike down armed bands of Saxon raiders and foot soldiers, most of whom were not trained battle troops.
“The boy’s a master of strategy,” Lot said. “It might well work; after all, it was bands of Picts and Scots, and the Tribes, fighting from cover, who could demoralize the legions, so I am told—the Romans were so used to orderly fighting by the rules, and to foes who stood to give battle. Horsemen always have an advantage over any foot soldiers; the Roman cavalry units, I have been told, were always the ones who had the greater victories.”
Morgaine remembered Lancelet, talking with passion of his theories of fighting. If Arthur shared that enthusiasm and was willing to work with Lancelet to build cavalry units, then a time might come, indeed, when all the Saxon hordes were driven from this land. Then peace would reign, greater than the legendary two hundred years of the Pax Romana. And if Arthur bore the sword of Avalon and the Druid regalia, then indeed the ensuing time might be a reign of wonder. . . . Viviane had spoken once of Arthur as a king come out of legend, bearing a legendary sword. And the Goddess might rule again in this land, not the dead God of the Christians with his suffering and death. . . . She drifted into daydream, waking to reality only when Morgause shook her shoulder lightly.
“Why, my dear, you are half asleep, go to your bed; we will excuse you,” she said, and sent her own waiting-woman to help Morgaine from her garments, to wash her feet and braid her hair.
She slept long and deeply, without dreams, the weariness of many days suddenly descending on her. But when she waked, she hardly knew where she was or what had happened, only that she was deathly sick and must stumble outside the tent to vomit. When she straightened up, her head ringing, Morgause was there, a firm and kindly hand to help her back inside. So Morgaine remembered her from earliest childhood, Morgause intermittently kind and sharp. Now she wiped Morgaine’s sweating forehead with a wet towel and then sat beside her, telling the waiting-woman to bring her kinswoman a cup of wine.
“No, no, I don’t want it, I shall be sick again—”
“Drink it,” Morgause said sternly, “and try to eat this piece of bread, it is hard and won’t sicken you—you need something in your belly at these times.” She laughed. “Indeed, something in the belly is what brings all this trouble on you.”
Humiliated, Morgaine looked away from her.
Morgause’s voice was kind again. “Come, girl, we’ve all been through it. So you’re breeding—what of it? You’re not the first or the last. Who is the father, or shouldn’t I ask? I saw you looking at Viviane’s handsome son—was he the lucky one? Who could blame you? No? A child of the Beltane fires, then? I’d have thought as much. And why not?”
Morgaine clenched her fists against Morgause’s well-meant briskness. “I won’t have it; when I return to Avalon, I know what to do.”
Morgause looked at her, troubled. “Oh, my dear, must you? In Avalon they would welcome a child to the God, and you’re of the royal Avalon line. I won’t say I’ve never done the same—I told you I had been very careful never to bear a child which was not Lot’s, which does not mean I slept alone all the time when he was away on his wars. Well, why should I? I don’t suppose he always lay down alone! But an old midwife told me once, and she knew her business well, I must say—she told me that a woman should never try to cast out the first child she conceives, for if she did, it might injure her womb so that she could never bear another.”
“I am a priestess, and Viviane grows old; I do not want it to interfere with my duties in the temple.” And even as she spoke, she knew she was hiding her truth; there were women in Avalon who pursued their work to the last few months of their pregnancies, and then the other women cheerfully divided their tasks so that they could rest before the birth; and afterward, they even had time to nurse their babies before they were sent to fostering. Indeed, some of their daughters were priestess-reared, as Igraine had been. Morgause
herself had been reared to her twelfth year in Avalon as Viviane’s foster-daughter.
Morgause looked at her shrewdly. “Yes, I think every woman feels like that when first she carries a babe in her womb—trapped, angry, something she can’t change and is afraid of. I know it was so with Igraine, it was so with me, I suppose it is so with every woman.” Her arms went out and circled Morgaine, holding her close. “But, dear child, the Goddess is kind. As the child grows quick within you, the Goddess will put love in your heart for him, even if you care nothing for the man who put him there. Child, I was married at fifteen to a man far older; and on the day I knew I was with child I was ready to cast myself into the sea—it seemed the end of my youth, the end of my life. Ah, don’t cry,” she added, stroking Morgaine’s soft hair, “you’ll feel better soon. I have no liking for going about with a big belly and piddling like a babe in breechclouts all the day long, but the time will pass, and a babe at the breast is as much pleasure as the bearing is pain. I have borne four and would willingly have another—so often I had wished one of my sons had been a daughter. If you’d rather not foster your babe in Avalon, I’ll foster him for you—what do you think of that?”
The Mists of Avalon Page 34