“Why, what’s this, my lord Arthur?” demanded Lot. “The Pendragon banner we pledged ourselves to follow, it flies no more over the camp, and there is great unrest among the Tribes—tell me, what have you done?”
Arthur looked pale in the torchlight. “No more than this, cousin—we are a Christian folk, and we fight under the banner of Christ and the Virgin.”
Lot scowled at him. “The archers of Avalon are talking of leaving you, Arthur. Fly your banner of Christ, if your conscience so bids you, but raise the Pendragon banner at its side with the serpents of wisdom, or you will see your men scattered and not all of one heart as they have been through all this dreary waiting! Would you toss all that goodwill away? And the Pict folk with their elf-bolts have killed many a Saxon before this, and will again. I beg you, don’t take away their banner and their allegiance like this!”
Arthur smiled uneasily. “Even as that emperor who saw the sign in the sky and said, ‘In this sign shall we conquer,’ so shall we. You, Uriens, who raise the eagles of Rome, you know that tale.”
“I do, my king,” said Uriens, “but is it wise to deny the folk of Avalon? Even as I, my lord Arthur, you wear the serpents at your wrists, in token of a land older than the cross.”
“But it will be a new land if we win the victory,” said Gwenhwyfar, “and if we do not, it will not matter.”
Lot turned as she spoke and looked on her with loathing. “I might have known this was your doing, my queen.”
Gawaine strode restlessly to the window and looked down at the camp. “I see them moving about their fires, the little folk—from Avalon, and from your country, King Uriens. Arthur, cousin"—and he went to the King—"I beg of you, as the oldest of your Companions, put the Pendragon banner into the field for those who wish to follow it.”
Arthur hesitated, but a glance at Gwenhwyfar’s shining eyes and he smiled at her and said, “I have sworn it. If we survive the battle, our son shall reign over a land united under the cross. I shall compel no man’s conscience, but as it is written in Holy Writ—’as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.’ “
Lancelet drew a deep breath. He stepped away from Gwenhwyfar. “My lord and king, I remind you, I am Lancelet of the Lake, and I honor the Lady of Avalon. In her name, my king, who was your friend and benefactor, I beg this favor of you—let me carry the Pendragon banner into battle myself. Then your vow will be kept, and yet you will not be forsworn to Avalon.”
Arthur hesitated. Gwenhwyfar shook her head imperceptibly, and Lancelet glanced at Taliesin. Taking the silence for consent, Lancelet was about to stride out of the room when Lot said, “Arthur, no! There is enough talk now about Lancelet being your heir and favorite! If he bears the Pendragon into battle, then will they think you have appointed him to bear your banner and there will be division in the kingdom, your party under the cross and Lancelet’s under the Pendragon.”
Lancelet turned on Lot violently. “You carry your own banner—so does Leodegranz, so does Uriens, so does Duke Marcus of Cornwall—why should I not bear a banner of Avalon?”
“But the Pendragon banner is the banner of all Britain united under one Great Dragon,” said Lot, and Arthur sighed and nodded. “We must fight under one standard, and that standard is the cross. I am sorry to refuse you anything, cousin,” Arthur said, and reached for Lancelet’s hand, “but this I may not allow.”
Lancelet stood with his mouth taut, visibly holding in his anger, then went to the window. Lot, behind him, said, “I heard it among my Northmen—they say these are the spears of the Saxons which we will face, and the wild swans are crying, and the ravens await us all. . . .”
Gwenhwyfar stood with her hand tightly clasped in Arthur’s. She said quietly, “In this sign you shall conquer . . .” and Arthur squeezed her hand.
“Though all the forces of Hell, and not the Saxons alone, were ranged against us, lady, with my Companions I cannot fail. And you at my side, Lancelet,” Arthur said, and moved to draw him close to them both. A moment Lancelet stood unmoving, his face still set in angry lines, and then he said, with a deep sigh, “So be it, King Arthur. But—” He hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar, standing very close to him, could feel the shudder which ran through his limbs. “I know not what they will say when they hear of it in Avalon, my lord and my king.”
And for a moment there was total silence in the chamber, while the lights, the spears of the flames from the north, flared over them.
And then Elaine jerked the curtains shut, closing out the portents, and cried merrily, “Come and sit to your dinner, my lords! For if you ride forth to battle at daybreak, you shall not set forth unfeasted, and we have done our best for you!”
But again and again, as they sat at meat, while Lot and Uriens and Duke Marcus spoke of strategy and troop placement with Arthur, Gwenhwyfar caught Lancelet’s dark eyes, and they were filled with sorrow and dread.
13
When Morgaine left Arthur’s court at Caerleon, asking leave only to pay a visit to Avalon and her foster-mother, she kept her thoughts on Viviane—that way she need not think of what had befallen her and Lancelet. Whenever she let her mind wander to it, it was like being burnt with a hot iron of shame; she had offered herself to him in all honesty, in the old way, and he had wanted nothing of her but childish toyings that made a mockery of her womanhood. She did not know whether it was at him or herself that she was angered, that he could have so played with her, or that she could have hungered for him. . . .
Now and again she regretted her harsh words to him. Why had she flung insults at him? He was as the Goddess had made him, no worse and no better. But at other times, while she rode eastward, she felt herself to blame; the old taunt of Gwenhwyfar, little and ugly as one of the fairy folk, scalded her mind. Had she had more to give, had she been beautiful as Gwenhwyfar was beautiful . . . had she been content with what he had to give . . . and then her mind would swing the other way again, he had insulted her and the Goddess through her. . . . So tormented, she rode through the green country of the hills. And after a time her thoughts began to turn to what awaited her at Avalon.
She had left the Holy Isle unpermitted. She had renounced her state as priestess, leaving behind her even the little sickle knife of her initiation; and in the years since, always she had dressed her hair low on her brow, so that none might see the blue crescent tattooed there. Now in one of the villages she bartered away a little gilt ring she had for some of the blue paint the Tribeswomen used, and painted the faded mark afresh.
All that has befallen me has come because I forswore the vows I had given the Goddess . . . and then she recalled what Lancelet had said in his despair, that there were neither Gods nor Goddess, but these were the shapes mankind gives, in terror, to what they cannot make into reason.
But even if this were true, it would not lessen her guilt. For whether the Goddess took the form they thought, or whether the Goddess was only another name for the great unknowns of nature, still she had deserted the temple and the way of life and thought to which she was pledged, and she had forsaken the great tides and rhythms of the earth. She had eaten foods forbidden to a priestess, had taken the life of animal or bird or plant without giving thanks to that part of the Goddess being sacrificed for her good, she had lived unmindful, had given herself to a man without seeking to know the will of the Goddess in her sun tides, for mere pleasure and lechery—no, it was not to be looked for, that she could return and all should be as before. And as she rode through the hills, through ripening harvest and fertilizing rain, she was aware, with greater and greater pain, of how far she had come from the teachings of Viviane and of Avalon.
The difference is deeper than I thought. Even those who till the earth, when they are Christians, come to a way of life which is far from the earth; they say that their God has given them dominion over all growing things and every beast of the field. Whereas we dwellers in hillside and swamp, forest and far field, we know that it is not we who have the dominion over nature, but she wh
o has dominion over us, from the moment lust stirs in the loins of our fathers and desire in the womb of our mothers to bring us forth, under her dominion, to when we quicken in the womb and are brought forth in her time, to the lives of plant and animal which must be sacrificed to feed and swaddle and clothe us and give us strength to live . . . all, all of these things are under the domain of the Goddess and without her beneficent mercy none of us could draw a living breath, but all things would be barren and die. And even when the time comes for barrenness and death, so that others may come to take our place on this earth, that is her doing too, she who is not only the Green Lady of the fruitful earth, but also the Dark Lady of the seed lying hidden beneath the snows, of the raven and the hawk who bring death to the slow, and of the worms who work in secret to destroy that which has served its time, even Our Lady of rot and destruction and death at the end. . . .
In the memory of all these things, Morgaine came at last to see that what had happened with Lancelet, after all, was but a little thing; the greatest sin was not with Lancelet but in her own heart, that she had turned away from the Goddess. What did it matter what the priests thought was good, or virtuous, or sinful, or shameful? The wound to her pride was only a healthful cleansing.
The Goddess will deal with Lancelet in her own time and her way. It is not for me to say. At the moment Morgaine thought it the best thing that could happen, should she never set eyes again on her cousin.
No; it was not to be looked for that she could return to her place as chosen priestess . . . but Viviane might have pity on her and let her amend her sins against the Goddess. At the moment she felt she could be content to dwell in Avalon, even as servant or humble worker-woman in the fields. She felt like a sick child, hurrying to lay her head in her mother’s lap and weep there . . . she would send for her son and have him fostered in Avalon, among the priests, and never depart again from the way she had been taught. . . .
And so when first she saw the sight of the Tor, thrusting itself up, green and unmistakable, over the hills lying in between, the tears streamed down her face. She was coming home, home to her own place and to Viviane, she would stand within the ring stones and pray to the Goddess that her faults might be healed, that she might return to that place from which her own pride and self-will had thrust her.
It seemed that the Tor was playing hide-and-seek with her, now visible, thrusting itself up between the hills like an erect phallus, now hiding between smaller hills, now disappearing in the damp fogs; but at last she came to the shores of the Lake where she had come with Viviane so many years ago.
The greying waters, in late-evening sunlight, lay empty before her. Against the red light in the sky, the reeds were dark and barren, and the shores of the Island of the Priests just visible, rising in the sunset mist. But nothing stirred, nothing moved on the water, even though she thrust forth her whole heart and mind in a passionate effort to reach the Holy Isle, to summon the barge. . . . An hour she stood there unmoving, and then the darkness closed down, and she knew she had failed.
No . . . the barge would not come for her, this night or ever again. It would come for a priestess, for Viviane’s chosen, cherished fosterling; it would not come for a runaway who had lived in secular courts and done her own will for four years. Once before, at the time of her initiation, she had been cast forth from Avalon, and the test of whether or no she might be called priestess was only this—that she should return without aid.
She could not call the barge; she feared within her very soul to cry aloud the word of power that would summon it through the mists. She could not command it, who had forfeited the right to be called a child of Avalon. As the color left the water and the last remnants of the sunlight faded into twilight mist, Morgaine looked mournfully toward the distant shore. No, she dared not call the boat; but there was another way into Avalon, around at the other side of the Lake, where she could cross by the hidden path through the swamp and there find her way into the hidden world. Aching with loneliness, she began to skirt the shore, leading her horse. The looming presence of the big animal in the dusk, his snorting breaths behind her, were a vague comfort. If all failed she could spend the night on the shores of the Lake; it would not be the first night she had spent alone in the open. And in the morning she would find her way. She remembered that solitary journey, disguised, to Lot’s court far in the north, years ago. She had grown soft with the good living and luxury of the court, but she could do it again if she must.
But it was so still: no sound of bells from the Isle of the Priests, no chantings from the convent, no bird cries; it was as if she moved through an enchanted country. Morgaine found the place she was looking for. It was growing dark, and each bush and tree seemed to take on a sinister shape, some strange thing, some monster, some dragon. But Morgaine was recovering the habits of mind she had possessed when she dwelt in Avalon; there was nothing here that would harm her, if she meant it no harm.
She began to take her way along the hidden path. Halfway she must move through the mists; otherwise the path would but bring her to the monks’ kitchen garden behind their cloister. She admonished herself firmly to stop thinking of the growing darkness and set her mind into meditative silence, fixing it on where she longed to go. Thus, then, with each step as if she wound a spell, treading out the spiral dance as if the way wound up the Tor toward the ring stones . . . she moved silently, her eyes half-closed, placing each foot with care. She could feel the mists cold about her now.
Viviane had not thought it any such great ill, that she should lie with her half-brother and bear him a child . . . a child born of the old royal line of Avalon, more a king than Arthur’s self. Had she borne such a child to Lancelet, then could that child have been fostered here in Avalon and reared to become one of the greatest of the Druids. Now what would become of her son? Why did she leave Gwydion in the hands of Morgause? Morgaine thought, I am an unnatural mother; I should have sent for my son. But she had not been willing to look Arthur in the face and tell him of his child’s existence. She would not want the priests and ladies at court to look on her and say, This is the woman who bore a child to the Horned One in the old pagan way of the tribes who paint their faces and wear horns and run with the deer like animals . . . the boy was well enough where he was, Arthur’s court was no place for him, and what would she do with a little boy of three running at her heels? Arthur’s?
But there were times when she thought of him, remembered nights when he had been brought to her full-fed and sweet-smelling, when she had sat holding him and crooning to him, thinking of nothing, her whole body filled with mindless happiness . . . when else had she been so happy? Only once, she thought, when Lancelet and I lay in the sunshine on the Tor, when we hunted waterfowl by the shores of the Lake . . . and then, blinking, she realized that by this time she should have come further than this, she should be past the mists and on the solid ground of Avalon.
And indeed the boggy places were gone—there were trees around her, and the path was firm underfoot, and she had not come to the priests’ kitchen garden and outbuildings either. She should now be in the field behind the House of Maidens, leading into the orchard; now she must think of what she would say when she was found here, of the words she would speak to prove to the folk of Avalon that she had the right to be here. Or did she? Somehow it seemed that it was a little less dark; perhaps the moon was rising—it was three or four days after the full, soon there would be light enough to find her way. It was not to be looked for that every tree and bush should be the same as when she had dwelt here and known every step of every path. Morgaine clung to her horse’s bridle, suddenly afraid of losing her way on the once-familiar paths.
No, it was actually growing brighter, she could see the bushes and trees quite plainly now. If the moon was rising, why could she not see it above the trees? Had she somehow gotten turned round, while she was walking with her eyes half-closed, treading out the path that led through the mists and between the worlds? If only she might see
some familiar landmark! There were no clouds now—she could see the sky and even the mists had gone, but she could make out no star.
Perhaps she had been away too long from such things? She could see no sign of rising moon, though it should have been long since in the sky. . . .
And then it was as if cold water flooded down her back and set her blood to moving like ice inside her. That day when she had gone to seek roots and herbs, when she would have cast forth the child within her . . . had she wandered again into that enchanted country which was neither the world of Britain nor the secret world where the magic of the Druids had taken Avalon, but that older, darker country where there was neither star nor sun . . . ?
She bade her beating heart to still itself; she gripped the horse’s bridle and leaned against the warm, sweaty flank, feeling the solidity of muscle and bone, hearing the soft snorting breaths real and definite under her cheek. Surely if she stood still for a little and took thought, she would find her way. . . . But fear was rising in her.
I cannot go back. I cannot go back to Avalon, I am not worthy, I cannot make my way through the mists. . . . On the day of the ordeal of initiation she had felt this for a moment, but she had firmly put her fear aside.
But I was younger then and innocent. Never then had I betrayed the Goddess or the secret teachings, never had I betrayed life. . . .
The Mists of Avalon Page 61