The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Did I say you must?” His eyes were all injured innocence. “But if I am older, then I will need to know more about women than I did when I was a baby, will I not? I want to stay and talk.”

  “Oh, stay, stay if you want to,” she said, “but turn your back, I’ll not have you staring at me, sir Impudence!” Obediently he turned away, but as she rose and signalled her woman to bring her gown, he said, “No, put on your blue gown, foster-mother, the new one from the looms, and your saffron cloak.”

  “And now you will be giving me advice on what I should wear? What’s this, what’s this?”

  “I like to see you dressed like a fine lady and a queen,” he said, persuasively. “And tell them to dress your hair high with your gold coil, will you not, foster-mother? To please me?”

  “Why, you would have me fine as a Midsummer feast, so that I should sit and card wool in all my best gear—my women would laugh, child!”

  “Let them laugh,” Gwydion coaxed. “Will you not dress in your finest to please me? And who knows what may happen before the day is done? You might be glad of it.”

  Morgause, laughing, gave way. “Oh, as you wish—if you will have it that I dress myself for a festival, let it be so . . . we will have our own festival here, then! And now I suppose the kitchen must bake honey cakes for this imaginary festival—”

  A child, after all, she thought, he thinks in this way to tease for sweets. But then, he brought me berries, why not? “Well, Gwydion, shall I have them bake a honey cake for supper?”

  He turned around. Her gown was still unlaced, and she saw his eyes linger for a moment on her white breasts. Not such a child, then. But he said, “I am always happy to have a honey cake, but perhaps there will be some fish to bake, too, for dinner.”

  “If we are to have fish,” she said, “you will have to change your tunic again and go fishing for it yourself. The men are busy with the sowing.”

  He answered quickly, “I will ask Lochlann to go—it will be like a holiday for him. He deserves one, doesn’t he, foster-mother, you are pleased with him, aren’t you?”

  Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! “If you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today, I suppose.”

  And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in Gwydion’s mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and said, “Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it.”

  “He shall have his cake,” said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. “Look at his sweet face, like one of those angels, he is.”

  Angel. That is the last thing I would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion’s mind.

  The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs, and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she would have caught him bragging of it.

  Ah, well. For some obscure child’s reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt, with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time—he had little in common with Lot’s other sons. Nor did he have Gareth’s passion for arms and knightly things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine’s gift for music, though his voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy all day at her harp if she could.

  Still, he had a quick and retentive mind. For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine—nor Morgause herself, for that matter—could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or the mysterious tongue of those old Romans. Agravaine was quick enough—he kept all the tallies and accounts of the estate, he had a gift for numbering things; but Gwydion soaked up every bit of learning, it seemed, as quickly as it was put before him. Within a year he could read as well as the priest himself and speak in Latin as if he were one of those old Caesars reborn, so that for the first time Morgause wondered might there not be something, after all, in what the Druids said—that we were reborn again and again, learning more and more in each life.

  He is such a son as should make his father proud, Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day—yes, one day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King’s conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur—she could have forced him to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could have had jewels, or power . . . but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause, would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand.

  She sat in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak—he grew so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she, perhaps, give him Agravaine’s cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few months ago. At midday he said, “Mother, I will have a piece of bread and cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries—Agravaine said I should go and see if all the fences are in good order.”

  “Not in your holiday shoes,” said Morgause.

  “Certainly not. I will go barefoot,” Gwydion said, unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him—this was not a task Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with the lad this day?

  Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so heavy Morgause could not lift it; she surveyed it with pleasure—it would feed everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.

  “Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Have you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?” Agravaine asked, coming in from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony.

  “I have, and they are mostly in good order,” said Gwydion, “but at the very top of the north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they’d be away before you could speak to them!”

  “You went all the way up there alone?” Morgause frowned at him in dismay. “You are not a goat—you could have fallen and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd lads with you!”

  “I had my reasons for going alone,” retorted Gwydion, with that stubborn set of his mouth, “and I saw what I wanted to see.”

  “What could you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all alone for days?” demanded Agravaine crossly.
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  “I have never fallen yet,” Gwydion said, “and if I did, it is I who would suffer for it. What is it to you, if I take my own risks?”

  “I am your elder brother and ruler in this house,” said Agravaine, “and you will show me some respect or I will knock it into you!”

  “Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense inside it,” Gwydion said pertly, “for sure, it will never grow there on its own—”

  “You wretched little—”

  “Aye, say it,” Gwydion shouted, “mock me with my birth, you—I do not know my father’s name, but I know who fathered you, and between the two I would rather be in my situation!”

  Agravaine took a heavy step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her. “Don’t tease the boy, Agravaine.”

  “If he always runs to hide behind your skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?” demanded Agravaine.

  “It would take a better man than you to teach me that,” Gwydion said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice.

  “Hush, hush, child—don’t speak so to your brother,” she admonished, and Gwydion said, “I am sorry, Agravaine—I should not have been rude to you.”

  He smiled up, his eyes big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine grumbled, “I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal—do you think I want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your head to climb the fells alone?”

  “Well,” said Gwydion, “otherwise you would not have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep there or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes—do I, Mother?”

  Morgause chuckled, for it was true—Gwydion was easy on his clothes. There were some boys like that. Gareth had only to put on a tunic and it was crumpled, stained, and dirty before he had worn it an hour, while Gwydion had climbed the high fells in his saffron holiday tunic and it looked as if he had that moment taken it from the washing-woman. Gwydion looked at Agravaine in his working smock and said, “But you are not fit to sit at table with Mother in her fine clothes. Go and put on your fine tunic, brother. Would you sit down to dinner in your old smock like a farmer?”

  “I won’t be ruled by a young knave like you,” Agravaine growled, but he did go off toward his chamber, and Gwydion smiled with secret satisfaction. He said, “Agravaine should have a wife, Mother. He is bad-tempered as a bull in spring, and besides, you should not have to weave his clothes and mend them.”

  Morgause was amused. “No doubt you are right. But I want no other queen beneath this roof. No house is big enough for the rule of two women.”

  “Then you should find him a wife who is not too well-born and very stupid,” said Gwydion, “so that she will be glad you can tell her what to do, because she will be afraid of making a mistake among gentlefolk. The daughter of Niall would be about right—she is very pretty, and Niall’s folk are rich but not too rich, because so many of their cattle and sheep died in the bad winter six years ago. She would have a good dowry, because Niall is afraid she will not marry. The girl had the measles when she was six years old, and her eyesight is not good, and she is not too broad in the wit, either. She can spin and weave well enough, but she has neither the eyesight nor the cleverness for much more, so she will not mind much if Agravaine keeps her always breeding.”

  “Well, well, well, what a statesman you are already,” said Morgause caustically. “Agravaine should appoint you one of his councillors, you are so wise.” But she thought, aye, he is right, I will speak to Niall tomorrow.

  “He could do worse,” said Gwydion seriously, “but I shall not be here for that, Mother. I meant to tell you, when I went up on the fells, I saw—no, but here is Donil the hunter, he can tell you.” And indeed, the big hunter was already coming into the hall, bending low before Morgause.

  “My lady,” he said, “there are riders on the road, nearing the great house—a sedan chair draped like the Avalon barge, and with them a hunchbacked man with a harp, and servants in the garb of Avalon. They will be here in half an hour.”

  Avalon! Then Morgause saw Gwydion’s secret smile and knew that he had been ready for this. But he has never spoken of having the Sight! What child would not brag of it, if he did? And suddenly, the thought that he could conceal it, enjoy it yet more that his knowledge was secret, seemed uncanny to her, so that for a moment she shrank away, almost afraid of her foster-son. And she knew he saw it, and was not displeased.

  All he said was, “Now isn’t it lucky that we have a honey cake, and baked fish, and that we have all dressed in our best clothing, so we may do honor to Avalon, Mother?”

  “Yes,” Morgause said, staring at her foster-son. “Very lucky indeed, Gwydion.”

  As she stood in the front yard to welcome the riders, she found herself remembering a day when Viviane and Taliesin had come to the faraway castle of Tintagel. Taliesin, she supposed, was long past such journeys, even if he was still alive. She would have heard if he had died. And Viviane rode no longer in boots and breeches like a man, travelling at speed, a law unto herself.

  Gwydion stood quietly at her side. In his saffron tunic, his dark hair neatly combed from his face, he looked very like Lancelet.

  “Who are these visitors, Mother?”

  “I suppose it is the Lady of the Lake,” Morgause said, “and the Merlin of Britain, the Messenger of the Gods.”

  “You told me my own mother was a priestess of Avalon,” said Gwydion. “Does their coming have anything to do with me?”

  “Well, well, do not tell me there is anything you do not know!” said Morgause sharply, then relented. “I do not know why they have come, my dear; I have not the Sight. But it may well be. I want you to hand the wine about, and to listen and to learn, but not to speak unless you are spoken to.”

  That, she thought, would have been hard for her own sons—Gawaine, Gaheris, and Gareth were noisy and inquisitive, and it had been difficult to school them to courtly manners. They were, she thought, great friendly dogs, while Gwydion was like a cat, silent, sleek, fastidious, and watchful. Morgaine as a child had been like that . . . Viviane did not well when she cast Morgaine aside, even if she was angry with her for bearing a child . . . and why should it matter to her? She herself bore children, including that damnable Lancelet, who has set Arthur’s kingdom so much at havoc that even here we have heard how the Queen favors him.

  And then she wondered, why did she assume that Viviane had not wanted Morgaine to bear this child? Morgaine had quarrelled with Avalon, but perhaps that had been Morgaine’s doing and not the Lady’s.

  She was deep in thought; and Gwydion touched her arm and murmured in an undertone, “Your guests, Mother.”

  Morgause sank in a deep curtsey before Viviane, who seemed to have shrunk. Always before this, she had been ageless, but now she looked withered, her face lined, her eyes sunk into her face. But she had the same lovely smile, and her voice was low and sweet as ever.

  “Ah, it is good to see you, little sister,” she said, drawing Morgause into an embrace. “How long has it been? I like not to think of the years! How young you look, Morgause! Such pretty teeth, and your hair as bright as ever. You met Kevin Harper at Arthur’s wedding, before he was the Merlin of Britain.”

  It seemed that Kevin too had grown older, stooped and gnarled, like an ancient oak tree; well, that was fitting, she thought, for one of those who consorted with oaks, and felt her mouth move in a little ripple of secret mirth. “You are welcome, Master Harper—Lord Merlin, I should say. How is it with the noble Taliesin? Is he yet in the land of the living?”

  “He lives,” said Viviane as another woman stepped from the sedan chair. “But he is old and fragile now, he will not make such a journey as this again.” And then she said, “This is a daughter of Taliesin, a child of the oak groves—Niniane. So she is your half-sister, Morgause.”

  Morgause was a little dismayed as the yo
unger woman stepped forward and embraced her, saying in a sweet voice, “I am glad to know my sister.” Niniane seemed so young! She had fair reddish-gold hair and blue eyes beneath silky long lashes. Viviane said, “Niniane travels with me, now I am old. She is the only one except myself dwelling upon Avalon who is of the old royal blood.” Niniane was dressed as a priestess; her fair hair was braided low across her forehead, but the blue crescent mark of a priestess, freshly painted with blue dye, could be clearly seen. She spoke with the trained voice of a priestess, filled with power; but she herself seemed young and powerless as she stood next to Viviane.

  Morgause sought to recapture her sense that she was hostess and these were her guests; she felt like a kitchen girl before the two priestesses and the Druid. Then she reminded herself angrily that both these women were her own half-sisters, and as for the Merlin, he was only an old hunchback! “Be welcome to Lothian and to my hall. This is my son Agravaine, who reigns here while Gawaine is away at Arthur’s court. And this is my foster-son, Gwydion.”