Gwenhwyfar’s face was burning; she could not look at either of the men. Arthur went on, slowly, “A son of yours, Lance, would be heir to my kingdom, and better that than it should go to Lot’s sons. . . . Oh, yes, Bishop Patricius would call it grievous sin, no doubt, as if his God were some elderly chaperone who went about at night looking to see who slept in whose bed . . . I think it greater sin to make no provision for a son to inherit my kingdom. Then should we fall into such chaos as threatened before Uther came to the throne—my friend, my cousin—what do you say?”
Gwenhwyfar saw Lancelet moisten his lips with his tongue, and she felt the dryness of her own mouth. At last he said, “I know not what to say, my king—my friend—my cousin. God knows—there is no other woman on this earth—” and his voice broke; he looked at Gwenhwyfar and it seemed she could not endure the naked longing in his eyes. For a moment she thought she would swoon away, and put out a hand to steady herself on the bed frame.
I am still drunk, she thought, I am dreaming this, I cannot have heard him say what I thought I heard. . . . and she felt an agonizing burst of shame. It seemed she could not live and let them speak of her like this.
Lancelet’s eyes had not moved from hers.
“It is for my—for my lady to say.”
Arthur held out his arms to her. He had drawn off his boots and the rich robe he had worn at the feast; in his undertunic he looked very like the boy she had wedded years ago. He said, “Come here, Gwen,” and drew her down on his knee. “You know I love you well—you and Lance, I think, are the two I love best in the world, save for—” He swallowed and stopped, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly, I have thought only of my own love, I have had no thought for Arthur. He took me unseen, unwanted, and he has shown me love and honored me as his queen. But I never thought that as I love Lancelet, there may well be one whom Arthur loves and cannot have . . . not without sin and betrayal. I wonder if that is why Morgaine mocks me, she knows Arthur’s secret loves . . . or his sins . . .
But Arthur went on deliberately, “I think I would never have had the courage to say this, were it not Beltane. . . . For many hundreds of years, our forefathers have done these things without shame, in the very faces of our Gods and by their will. And—listen to this, my dearest—if I am here with you, my Gwenhwyfar, then should a child come of this, then you may swear without any untruth that this child was conceived in your marriage bed, and none of us need ever know for certain—dear love, will you not consent to this?”
Gwenhwyfar could not breathe. Slowly, slowly, she reached out her hand and laid it in Lancelet’s. She felt Arthur’s touch on her hair as Lancelet leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.
I have been married many years and I am as frightened now as any virgin, she thought, and then she remembered Morgaine’s words when she laid the charm about her neck. Beware what you ask for, Gwenhwyfar, for the Goddess may grant it to you. . . .
At the time, she had thought Morgaine meant only that if she prayed for a child, then she might well die in childbirth. Now she knew it was more subtle than that, for it had come about that she should have Lancelet, and without guilt, with her husband’s own will and permission . . . and in a flash of awareness, she thought, It was this I wanted, after all; after all these years it is certain that I am barren, I will bear no child, but I will have had this at least. . . .
With shaking hands she undid her gown. It seemed that the whole world had dwindled down to this, this perfect awareness of herself, of her own body aching with desire, a hunger she had never believed she could feel. Lancelet’s skin was so soft—she had thought all men were like Arthur, sunburnt and hairy, but his body was smooth as a child’s. Ah, but she loved them both, loved Arthur all the more that he could be generous enough to give her this . . . they were both holding her now, and she closed her eyes and put up her face to be kissed, not knowing for certain which man’s lips closed over hers. But it was Lancelet’s hand that stroked her cheek, moved down to her naked throat where the ribbon clung.
“Why, what’s this, Gwen?” he asked, his mouth against hers.
“Nothing,” she said, “nothing. Some rubbish Morgaine gave me.” She pulled it free and flung it into a corner, sinking back into her husband’s arms and her lover’s.
Book Three
The King Stag
1
At this season in Lothian, it seemed the sun hardly went to rest; Queen Morgause wakened as the light began to steal through the hangings, yet it was so early the gulls were hardly astir. But there was already light enough to make out the hairy, well-muscled body of the young man who slept at her side . . . a privilege he had enjoyed most of the winter. He had been one of Lot’s esquires, and had cast longing eyes on the queen even before Lot’s death. And in the deathly darkness of this winter past, it was too much to ask that she should sleep alone in the king’s cold chamber.
It was not that Lot had been so good a king, she thought, slotting her eyes against the growing light. But his reign had been long—he had reigned since before Uther Pendragon took the throne, and his people were used to him; there were people well into their middle years who had known no other king. He had been on the throne, she thought, when young Lochlann was born . . . for that matter, so had she. But that thought was less comfortable, and she flinched away from it.
Gawaine would have succeeded his father, but Gawaine had hardly visited his native land since Arthur’s crowning, and the people did not know him. Here in Lothian, the Tribes were quite content, since there was peace in the land, to be ruled by their queen, with her son Agravaine at hand should they need a leader in war. From time out of mind, a queen had ruled over the people, as a Goddess had ruled over the Gods, and they were content to have it so.
But Gawaine had not left Arthur’s side . . . not even when Lancelet had come north before Beltane—he said, to see that the lighthouses had been put in order on the coast so that ships would not be driven on to the rocks. But Morgause supposed, rather, that he came so that Arthur’s eyes could see what went on in Lothian, whether there was anyone there at odds with the rule of the High King.
She had heard, then, of Igraine’s death—before that, word had not come north to Lothian. She and Igraine had not been friends when she was younger; she had always envied her older sister her beauty, and had never forgiven her that Viviane had chosen her for Uther Pendragon; she would have made a better High Queen than that ninny, so pliant and pious and loving. And when all was said and done, when the lamp was out, one man was not so different from any other, and all of them were ridiculously easy to manage, foolishly dependent on that thing a woman could offer to them. She had ruled well behind Lot’s throne; she would have done better yet with Uther, for she would not have become so stupidly entangled with the priests.
Yet when she heard of Igraine’s death she had mourned her sincerely and wished she had made the time to ride to Tintagel before she died. She had so few woman friends now. . . .
Her waiting-women had mostly been chosen by Lot for their beauty or their availability to the king, and he cared most for such women as did not think very much or talk very intelligently; she was, he said once, quite enough in that line. He took her counsel in all things and respected her wit, but when she had borne him four royal sons, he went back to what he naturally preferred for his bed—pretty women with little of sense. Morgause had never begrudged him his pleasures and was just as well pleased to be spared further childbearing. And if she craved babes to play with, there was her fosterling Gwydion, and Lot’s women had always been breeding—Gwydion had playmates enough of royal blood!
Lochlann stirred at her side, muttered, and sleepily drew her into his arms, and she gave over thinking for the moment. She had missed him—while Lancelet was at court she had sent Lochlann to sleep among the young men. Though for all the difference it had made to Lancelet, she might have kept Lochlann in her bed, or slept with the house dog! Well, he was here again; Lot had never begrudged her amusement, any more tha
n she had begrudged him his women.
But when the excitement had subsided, and Lochlann had trundled down the stairs to the privy outside, Morgause thought suddenly that she missed Lot. Not that he had ever been particularly good at this kind of sport . . . he had been old when she married him. But when that was done, he could talk with her intelligently, and she found that she missed the years when they would wake together, and lie in bed and talk of all that was to be done or what befell in the kingdom, or all of Britain.
By the time Lochlann came back, the sun was already strengthening and the air was alive with the crying of gulls. She could hear small sounds down the stairs, and somewhere there was a smell of bannock baking. She pulled him to her for a quick kiss and said, “You must be off, my dear. I want you out of here before Gwydion comes—he is a big boy now, he is beginning to notice things.”
Lochlann chuckled. “That one, he has been noticing everything since he was out of his nurse’s arms. While Lancelet was here he noticed every move he made—even at Beltane. But I do not think you have to worry—he’s not old enough to think of that.”
“I’m not so certain,” Morgause said, and patted his cheek. Gwydion’s way was to do nothing until he was sure he would not be laughed at as too young. Self-possessed as he was, he could never bear to be told he was too young for anything—even when he was four years old he had flown into a rage at being told he could not go birds-nesting on the cliffs, and had nearly fallen to his death trying to keep up with the older boys. She remembered that occasion, and other similar ones, when she had told him never to do so or so again, and he had set his small dark face and told her, “Aye, but I shall, and you cannot stop me.” Her only reply to that had had to be, “You shall not, or I will myself beat you.” Not that it mattered whether she beat him or not—it only made him more defiant, unless she was prepared to beat him insensible; and once, losing her temper, she had frightened herself with how hard she had struck the harmless child. None of her own sons, even the strong-willed Gareth, had ever been so defiant. Gwydion took his own way and did what he would, and so as he got older she had taken to subtler methods: “You shall not, or I shall have your nurse take off your breeks and beat you with a heather switch before all the house folk as if you were a babe of four or five.” That had been effective, for a time—very conscious of his dignity was young Gwydion. But now he did as he would and there was no stopping him; it would have taken a harsh man to thrash him as hard as was needful, and he had a way of making anyone who offended him sorry for it, soon or late.
She supposed that he would be more vulnerable when he began to care what the maidens thought of him. Fairy-born he was and dark, like Morgaine, but handsome enough, even as Lancelet was handsome. And it might be that his outward indifference to the maidens would be the same as Lancelet’s. She thought about that for a moment, knowing the sting of humiliation. Lancelet . . . there was the handsomest man she had seen in many a long year, and she had made it clear to him that even the queen was not beyond his reach . . . but Lancelet had professed not to understand, had meticulously called her “Aunt” early and late—one would have thought from Lancelet’s manner that she was elderly indeed, Viviane’s twin, not young enough to be Viviane’s daughter!
She had begun taking her breakfast in bed while she talked with her women about what must be done that day. While she lingered, propped up on the cushions—they had brought her some of the fresh hot bannock, and there was, at this time of year, plenty of butter from the dairy—Gwydion came into the room.
“Good morning, foster-mother,” he said. “I have been out and brought you some berries. And there is cream in the pantry. If you want it, I will run down and fetch it for you.”
She looked at the berries, dew-fresh in a wooden bowl. “That was thoughtful of you, foster-son,” she said, and sat up in bed to take him close in a great hug. When he was only a little younger he had crawled in beside her into the blankets at such occasions, while she fed him hot bannock and honey, and in winter snuggled him into her furs, like any pampered youngest; she missed the feel of the small warm body burrowing against her, but she supposed he was really too old now.
He straightened himself, smoothing his hair into place—he hated to be mussed. Like Morgaine, who had always been a tidy little thing.
“You are out early, my love,” she said, “and you did all this just for your old foster-mother? No, I do not want any cream. You do not want me fat as the old sow, do you?”
He tilted his head to one side like a small precise bird and looked, considering, at Morgause. “It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “You would still be beautiful even if you were fat. There are women at this court—Mara, for instance—she is no bigger than you, but all the other women, and the men, call her Fat Mara. But somehow you do not look as big as you are, because when anyone looks at you, all they see is that you are beautiful. So have the cream if you want it, foster-mother.”
So precise an answer for a child! But after all he was beginning to grow into a man. Though he would be like Agravaine, never very tall—one of the Old People, a throwback. And of course, next to the giant Gareth he would always look like a child, even when he was twenty! He had washed his face and brushed his hair very carefully; yes, and it had been trimmed freshly too.
“How nice you look, my love,” she said, as his small fingers swooped precisely to appropriate a berry from the dish. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”
“No,” he said, “I made the steward do it; I said I was tired of looking like the house dog. Lot was always clean-trimmed and clean-shaven, and so was Lancelet all the time he stayed here. I like to look like a gentleman.”
“And so you always do, my dear,” she said, looking at the small dark hand holding the berry. It was bramble-scratched and the knuckles grimed and grubby like any active boy’s hand, but she noted, too, that he had scrubbed it long and hard and that the nails were not dirty and broken but carefully pared short. “But why have you put on your holiday tunic this morning?”
“Did I put on my holiday tunic?” he asked, his small dark face innocent. “Yes, I suppose I did. Well—” He paused, and she knew that whatever his reason, and of course he would have a good one, she would never know it. At last he said calmly, “I soaked my other one in the dew picking your berries, madam.” Then, suddenly, he said, “I thought I should hate sir Lancelet, Mother. Gareth talked of him early and late as if he were a God,” and Morgause remembered that, though he would not weep before her, Gwydion had been heartbroken when Gareth had gone south to King Arthur’s court. Morgause had missed him too—Gareth had been the only person alive who had real influence with Gwydion and could make him do as he would with only a light word. Since Gareth had gone there was no one alive to whose counsel Gwydion would listen.
“I thought he would be a fool full of his own importance,” Gwydion said, “but he is nothing of the sort. He told me more about lighthouses than even Lot knew, I think. And he said when I was older I should come to Arthur’s court and be made a knight, if I was good and honorable.” His deep-set dark eyes considered that. “All the women said I look like him—and they asked, and I was angry that I did not know how to answer them. Foster-mother"—he leaned forward, his dark, soft hair falling loose over his forehead, lending the composed small face an unusual vulnerability—"tell me true—is Lancelet my father? I thought that might be why Gareth was so fond of him. . . .”
And you are not the first to ask that question, my love, she thought, stroking the boy’s soft hair. The unusual childishness in his face as he asked made her voice gentler than usual.
“No, my little one. Of all the men in the kingdom, Lancelet could not be your father—I made it my business to ask. All that year you were begotten, Lancelet was in Less Britain, fighting at the side of his father, King Ban. I thought so too, but you look like him because Lancelet is your mother’s nephew, as he is mine.”
Gwydion surveyed her skeptically, and Morgause could almost read his thought
s; that she had told him exactly what she would have told him if she had known Lancelet was his father. He said at last, “Perhaps one day I shall go to Avalon, rather than to Arthur’s court. Does my mother dwell now in Avalon, foster-mother?”
“I know not.” Morgause frowned . . . once again, this oddly adult foster-son of hers had led her on to speak to him as if he were a grown man; he did that so often. It came to her that now Lot was gone, Gwydion was the only person in this household with whom she spoke from time to time as one adult to another! Oh, yes, Lochlann was man enough in bed at night, but he never had much more to say than one of the shepherds or even the housemaids!
“Go out now, Gwydion my love, I am going to be dressed—”
“Why should I go?” he asked. “I have known well enough what you look like, ever since I was five years old.”
“But you are older now,” she said, with that old sense of helplessness. “It is not fitting you should be here while I dress.”
“Do you care that much what is fitting, foster-mother?” he said ingenuously, his eyes resting on the depression in the cushion where Lochlann had lain, and Morgause felt the sudden upward rush of frustration and wrath—he could entangle her in these arguments as if he were a grown man and a Druid! She said sharply, “I need not account to you for my doings, Gwydion!”
The Mists of Avalon Page 69