“Are you saying he does so unfairly?” Elaine asked with a flare of resentment, and the strange woman said, “By no means. But he should, at these games, stay on the sidelines, since no one can stand against him.”
Morgaine laughed. “I have seen young Gareth there, Gawaine’s brother, throw him ass-over-head in the dirt,” she said, “and he took that in good part, too. But if you want sport, I will wager you a crimson silk ribbon that Accolon wins a prize, even over Lancelet.”
“Done,” said the woman, and Morgaine rose in her seat. She said, “I have no taste for watching men batter each other for sport—there has been enough of fighting that I am weary even of the sound of it.” She nodded to Gwenhwyfar. “Sister, may I go back to the hall and see that all is in order for the feasting?”
Gwenhwyfar nodded permission, and Morgaine slid down at the back of the seats and made her way toward the main courtyard. The great gates were open and guarded only by a few who had no wish to attend the mock battles. Morgaine started toward the castle and never knew what intuition it was that sent her back toward the gates, or why she stood watching a pair of approaching riders who were arriving late for the first festivities. But as they came nearer, her skin began to prickle with foreboding, and then she began to run, as they rode through the gates, and now she was weeping. “Viviane,” she cried out, and then stopped, afraid to throw herself into her kinswoman’s arms; instead she knelt on the dusty ground and bent her head.
The soft, familiar voice, unchanged, just as she had heard it in dreams, said gently, “Morgaine, my darling child, it is you! How I have longed to meet with you all these years. Come, come, darling, you need not ever kneel to me.”
Morgaine raised her face, but she was trembling too hard to rise. Viviane, her face shrouded in grey veils, was bending over her; she put out a hand, and Morgaine kissed it, and then Viviane pulled her close into an embrace. “Darling, it has been so long—” she said, and Morgaine struggled helplessly not to cry.
“I have been so troubled about you,” Viviane said, holding tight to Morgaine’s hand as they walked toward the entrance. “From time to time I would see you, a little, in the pool—but I am old, I can use the Sight but seldom. Yet I knew you lived, you were not dead in childbirth, nor far over the seas . . . I longed to look on your face, little one.” Her voice was as tender as if there had never been any quarrel between them, and Morgaine was flooded by the old affection.
“All the people of the court are at the games. Morgause’s youngest son was made knight and Companion this morning,” she said. “I think I must have known that you were coming—” and then she recalled the moment of the Sight, last night; indeed, she had known. “Why have you come here, Mother?”
“I thought you had heard how Arthur betrayed Avalon,” Viviane said. “Kevin has spoken to him in my name, but without avail. So I have come to stand here before his throne and demand justice. In Arthur’s name the lesser kings are forbidding the old worship, sacred groves have been despoiled, even on the land where Arthur’s queen rules by inheritance, and Arthur has done nothing—”
“Gwenhwyfar is overpious,” Morgaine murmured, and felt her lip cruel in disdain; so pious, yet taking her husband’s cousin and champion to her bed, with the sanction of that too-pious King! But a priestess of Avalon did not babble the secrets of the bedchamber if they came into her keeping.
It seemed that Viviane read her thoughts, for she said, “Nay, Morgaine, but a time might come when some secret knowledge might give me a weapon to force Arthur to his sworn duty. One hold, indeed, I have over him, though for your sake, child, I would not use it before his court. Tell me—” She glanced around. “No, not here. Take me where we may talk together in secret, and let me refresh myself and make myself seemly to stand before Arthur at his great feast.”
Morgaine took her to the room she shared with Gwenhwyfar’s ladies, who were all at the games; the servants were gone too, so she herself fetched Viviane water for washing, and wine to drink, and helped her to change her dusty, travel-worn clothing.
“I met with your son in Lothian,” Viviane said.
“Kevin told me.” The old pain clutched at her heart—so Viviane had gotten what she wanted of her, after all: a son of the doubled royal lines, for Avalon. “Will you make him a Druid, then, for Avalon?”
“It is too soon to know what stuff he has in him,” said Viviane. “Too long, I fear, was he left in Morgause’s keeping. But whether or no, he must be reared in Avalon, and loyal to the old Gods, so that if Arthur is false to his oath, we may remind him that there is a son of the Pendragon’s blood to take his place—we will have no king turned apostate and tyrant, forcing that god of slaves and sin and shame down the throats of our people! We set him on Uther’s throne, we can bring him down if we must, and all the more readily if there is one of the old royal line of Avalon, a son of the Goddess, to take his place. Arthur is a good king, I would be reluctant to make such threats; but if I must, I will—the Goddess orders my actions.”
Morgaine shuddered; would her child be the instrument of his father’s death? She turned her face resolutely from the Sight. “I do not think Arthur will be this false to Avalon.”
“The Goddess grant he may not,” Viviane said, “but even so, the Christians would not accept a son gotten in that rite. We must keep a place near the throne for Gwydion, so that he may be his father’s heir, and one day we will have a king born of Avalon again. The Christians, mark you, Morgaine, would think your son born out of sin; but before the Goddess he is of the purest royalty of all, mother and father born of her lineage—sacred, not evil. And he must come to think himself so, not be contaminated by priests who would tell him his begetting and birth were shameful.” She looked Morgaine straight in the eye. “You still think it shameful?”
Morgaine lowered her head. “Always you could read my heart, kinswoman.”
“Igraine’s is the fault,” said Viviane, “and mine, that I left you at Uther’s court seven years. The day I knew you priestess-born, I should have had you from there. You are priestess of Avalon, darling child, why came you never back?” She turned, the comb in her hand, her long faded hair falling along her face.
Morgaine whispered, tears forcing themselves through the barrier of her tight eyes, “I cannot. I cannot, Viviane. I tried—I could not find the way.” And all the humiliation and shame of that washed over her, and she wept.
Viviane put down the comb and caught Morgaine to her breast, holding her, rocking and soothing her like a child. “Darling, my own darling girl, do not cry, do not cry . . . if I had known, child, I would have come to you. Don’t cry now—I shall myself take you back, we will go together when I have given Arthur my message. I will take you with me and go, before he gets it into his head to marry you off to some braying Christian ass . . . yes, yes, child, you shall come back to Avalon . . . we will go together. . . .” She wiped Morgaine’s wet face on her own veil. “Come, now, help me to dress myself to stand before my kinsman the High King—”
Morgaine drew a deep breath. “Yes, let me braid your hair, Mother.” She tried to laugh. “This morning I did the Queen’s hair.”
Viviane held her away and said, in great anger, “Has Arthur put you, priestess of Avalon and princess in your own right, to waiting hand and foot on his queen?”
“No, no,” said Morgaine quickly, “I am honored as high as the Queen herself—I dressed Gwenhwyfar’s hair this day out of friendship; she is as likely to do mine, or to lace my gown, as sisters do.”
Viviane sighed with relief. “I would not have you dishonored. You are the mother of Arthur’s son. He must learn to honor you as such, and so must the daughter of Leodegranz—”
“No!” Morgaine cried. “No, I beg of you—Arthur must not know, not before the whole court—listen to me, Mother,” she pleaded, “all these folk are Christian. Would you have me shamed before them all?”
Viviane said implacably, “They must learn not to think shame of holy things!”<
br />
“But the Christians have power over all this land,” Morgaine said, “and you cannot change their thinking with a few words—” And in her heart she wondered, had advancing age driven Viviane out of her wits? There was no way simply to proclaim that the old laws of Avalon should be set up again and two hundred years of Christianity be overthrown. The priests would drive her out of the court as a madwoman and go on as before. Viviane must know enough of practical ruling to know this! And indeed, Viviane nodded and said, “You are right, we must work slowly. But Arthur at least must be reminded of his promise to protect Avalon, and I will speak to him in secret, one day, about the child. We cannot proclaim it aloud among the ignorant.”
Then Morgaine helped Viviane to arrange her hair and to dress herself in the stately robes of a priestess of Avalon, dressed for high ceremonial. And it was not long before they heard sounds telling them that the mock games were over. No doubt the prizes would be given indoors this time, at the feast; she wondered if Lancelet had won them all again in honor of his king. Or, she thought sourly, his queen? And could one call that honor?
They turned to leave the chamber, and as they left the room, Viviane touched her hand gently. “You will return to Avalon with me, will you not, dear child?”
“If Arthur will let me go . . .”
“Morgaine, you are a priestess of Avalon, and you need not ask leave, even of the High King, to come and go as it pleases you. A High King is a leader in battle—he does not own the lives of his subjects, or even of his subject kings, as if he were one of those Eastern tyrants who thinks the world is his and the life of every man and woman in it. I will tell him I have need of you in Avalon and we will see what he answers to that.”
Morgaine felt herself choking with unshed tears. Oh, to return to Avalon, to go home . . . but even as she held Viviane’s hand she could not believe she was truly to go there after this day. Later she was to say, I knew, I knew, and recognize the despair and foreboding that struck her at the words, but at the moment she was certain it was only her own fear, the sense that she was not worthy of what she had cast away.
Then they went down into Arthur’s great hall for the Pentecost feasting.
It was Camelot, Morgaine thought, as she had never seen it before, and perhaps would never see it again. The great Round Table, Leodegranz’s wedding gift, was now set in a hall worthy of its majesty; the halls had been hung with silks and banners, and a trick of the arrangement made it so that all eyes were drawn to where Arthur sat, at the high seat at the far end of the hall. For this day he had brought Gareth to sit beside him and his queen, and all the knights and Companions were ringed together, the Companions in fine clothing, their weapons gleaming, the ladies garbed brightly as flowers. One after another, the petty kings came, knelt before Arthur and brought him gifts; Morgaine watched Arthur’s face, grave, solemn, gentle. She looked sidewise at Viviane—surely she must see that Arthur had grown into a good king, not one to be lightly judged, even by Avalon or the Druids. But who was she to weigh causes between Arthur and Avalon? She felt the old tremor of disquiet, as in the old days at Avalon when she was being taught to open her mind to the Sight that would use her as its instrument, and found herself wishing, without understanding why, Would that Viviane were a hundred leagues from here!
She looked around the Companions—Gawaine, sandy and bulldog-strong, smiling at his newly knighted brother; Gareth, shining somehow like new-minted gold. Lancelet looked dark and beautiful, and as if his thoughts were somewhere at the other end of the world. Pellinore, greying and gentle, his daughter, Elaine, waiting on him.
And now one came to Arthur’s throne who was not one of the Companions. Morgaine had not seen him before, but she saw that Gwenhwyfar recognized him and shrank away.
“I am the only living son of King Leodegranz,” he said, “and brother to your queen, Arthur. I demand that you recognize my claim to the Summer Country.”
Arthur said mildly, “You do not make demands in this court, Meleagrant. I will consider your request and take counsel of my queen, and it may be that I will consent to name you her regent. But I cannot deliver you judgment now.”
“Then it may be I shall not wait for your judgment!” shouted Meleagrant. He was a big man, who had come to the feast wearing not only sword and dagger, but a great bronze battle-axe; he was dressed in ill-tanned furs and skins, and looked savage and grim as any Saxon bandit. His two men-at-arms looked even more ruffianly than he did himself. “I am the only surviving son of Leodegranz.”
Gwenhwyfar leaned forward and whispered to Arthur. The King said, “My lady tells me that her father always denied he had begotten you. Rest assured, we shall have this matter looked into, and if your claim is good we will allow it. For the moment, sir Meleagrant, I ask you to trust to my justice, and join me in feasting. We will take this up with our councillors and do you such justice as we can.”
“Feasting be damned!” said Meleagrant angrily. “I came not here to eat comfits and look at ladies and watch grown men making sport like boys! I tell you, Arthur, I am king of that country, and if you dare dispute my claim it will be the worse for you—and for your lady!”
He laid his hand on the hilt of his great battle-axe, but Cai and Gareth were immediately there, pinioning his arms behind him.
“No steel’s to be drawn in the King’s hall,” said Cai roughly, while Gareth twisted the axe out of his hand and set it at the foot of Arthur’s chair. “Go to your seat, man, and eat your meat. We’ll have order at the Round Table, and when our king has said he’ll do you justice, you’ll wait on his good pleasure!”
They spun him roughly round, but Meleagrant struggled free of their hands and said, “To hell with your feast and to hell with your justice, then! And to hell with your Round Table and all your Companions!” He left the axe and turned his back, stamping down all the length of the hall. Cai took a step after him, and Gawaine half rose, but Arthur motioned him to sit down again.
“Let him go,” he said. “We will deal with him at the proper time. Lancelet, as my lady’s champion, it may well fall to you to deal with that usurping churl.”
“It will be my pleasure, my king,” said Lancelet, starting up as if he had been half asleep, but Morgaine suspected he had not the slightest idea what he had agreed to. The heralds at the door were still proclaiming that all men should draw near for the King’s justice; there was a brief, comical interlude, when a farmer came in and told how he and his neighbor had quarreled over a small windmill on the borders of their property.
“And we couldn’t agree, sir,” he said, twisting his rough woolen hat between his hands, “so him and me, we made it out that the King had made all this country safe to have a windmill in, and so I said I’d come here, sir, and see what you say and we’d listen to it.”
Amid good-natured laughter, the matter was settled; but Morgaine noticed that Arthur alone did not laugh, but listened seriously, gave judgment, and when the man had thanked him and gone away, with many bows and thanks, only then did he let his face break into a smile. “Cai, see that they give the fellow something to eat in the kitchens before he goes home, he had a long walk here.” He sighed. “Who is next to ask justice? God grant it be something fitter my solving—will they come next to ask my advice in horse breeding, or something of that sort?”
“It shows what they think of their king, Arthur,” said Taliesin. “But you should make it known that they should go to their local lord, and see that your subjects are also responsible for justice in your name.” He raised his head to see the next petitioner. “But this may be more worthy of the King’s attention after all, for it is a woman, and, I doubt not, in some trouble.”
Arthur motioned her forward: a young woman, self-assured, haughty, reared to courtly ways. She had no attendant except for a small and ugly dwarf, no taller than three feet, but with broad shoulders and well muscled, carrying a short and powerful axe.
She bowed to the King and told her story. She served a lady wh
o had been left, as had so many others after the years of war, alone in the world; her estate was northward, near to the old Roman wall which stretched mile after mile, with ruined forts and mile-castles, mostly now decrepit and falling down. But a gang of five brothers, ruffians all, had refortified five of the castles and were laying the whole countryside to waste. And now one of them, who had a fancy to call himself the Red Knight of Red Lands, was laying siege to her lady; and his brothers were worse than he was.
“Red Knight, hah!” said Gawaine. “I know that gentleman. I fought with him when I came southward from my last visit to Lot’s country, and I barely got away with my life. Arthur, it might be well to send an army to clean out those fellows—there’s no law in that part of the world.”
Arthur frowned and nodded, but young Gareth rose from his seat.
“My lord Arthur, that is on the fringes of my father’s country. You promised me a quest—keep the promise, my king, and send me to help this lady defend her countryside against these evil fellows!”
The young woman looked at Gareth, his shining beardless face and the white silk robe he had put on for his knighting, and she broke into laughter. “You? Why, you’re a child. I didn’t know the great High King was taking overgrown children to serve at his table!” Gareth blushed like a child. He had indeed handed Arthur’s cup to the King—it was a service young well-born boys, fostered at court, all performed at high feasts. Gareth had not yet remembered it was no longer his duty, and Arthur, who liked the boy, had not reproved him.
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