Elaine stared at the floor, where a patch of sunlight came in through an old, discolored bit of glass that had been there since Roman days. “Morgaine—while he was at Pentecost, did he see the Queen?”
“Since Lancelet is not blind, and since she sat on the dais beside Arthur, I suppose he did,” Morgaine said dryly.
Elaine made an impatient movement. “You know what I speak of!”
Is she still so jealous? Does she hate Gwenhwyfar so much? She has Lancelet, she has borne his children, she knows he is honorable, what more does she want? But before the younger woman’s nervously twisting hands, the tears which seemed to hang on her eyelashes, Morgaine softened. “Elaine, he spoke with the Queen, and he kissed her in farewell when the call to arms came. But I vow to you, he spoke as courtier to his queen, not as lover to lover. They have known one another since they were young, and if they cannot forget that once they loved in a way that comes not twice to any man or woman, why should you begrudge them that? You are his wife, Elaine, and I could tell when he bade me bear you his message, he loves you well.”
“And I swore to be content with no more, did I not?”
Elaine lowered her head for a long moment, and Morgaine saw her blinking furiously, but she did not cry, and at last she raised her head. “You who have had so many lovers, have you ever known what it is to love?”
For a moment Morgaine felt herself swept by the old tempest, the madness of love which had flung her and Lancelet, on a sun-flooded hill in Avalon, into each other’s arms, which had brought them together again and again, until it all ended in bitterness . . . by main will she forced away the memory and filled her mind with the thought of Accolon, who had roused again the sweetness of womanhood in her heart and body when she had felt old, dead, abandoned . . . who had brought her back to the Goddess, who had made her again into a priestess . . . she felt bands of crimson rising in quick successive waves over her face. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, child. I have known—I know what it is to love.”
She could see that Elaine wanted to ask a hundred other questions, and she thought how happy it would be to share all this with the one woman who had been her friend since she left Avalon, whose marriage she had made—but no. Secrecy was a part of the power of a priestess, and to speak of what she and Accolon had known would be to bring it outside of the magical realm, make her no more than a discontented wife sneaking to the bed of her stepson. She said, “But now, Elaine, there is something more to speak of. Remember, you made me a vow once—that if I helped you to win Lancelet, you would give me what I asked of you. Nimue is past five years old, old enough for fostering. I ride tomorrow for Avalon. You must make her ready to accompany me.”
“No!” It was a long cry, almost a shriek. “No, no, Morgaine—you cannot mean it!”
Morgaine had been afraid of this. Now she made her voice distant and hard.
“Elaine. You have sworn it.”
“How could I swear for a child not yet born? I knew not what it meant—oh, no, not my daughter, not my daughter—you cannot take her from me, not so young!”
Again Morgaine said, “You have sworn it.”
“And if I refuse?” Elaine looked like a spitting cat ready to defend her kittens against a large and angry dog.
“If you refuse,” Morgaine’s voice was as quiet as ever, “when Lancelet comes home, he shall hear from me how this marriage was made, how you wept and begged me to put a spell on him so that he would turn from Gwenhwyfar to you. He thinks you the innocent victim of my magic, Elaine, and blames me, not you. Shall he know the truth?”
“You would not!” Elaine was white with horror.
“Try me,” Morgaine said. “I know not how Christians regard an oath, but I assure you, among those who worship the Goddess, it is taken in all seriousness. And so I took yours. I waited till you had another daughter, but Nimue is mine by your pledged word.”
“But—but what of her? She is a Christian child—how can I send her from her mother into—into a world of pagan sorceries . . . ?”
“I am, after all, her kinswoman,” Morgaine said gently. “How long have you known me, Elaine? Have you ever known me do anything so dishonorable or wicked that you would hesitate to entrust a child to me? I do not, after all, want her for feeding to a dragon, and the days are long, long past when even criminals were burnt on altars of sacrifice.”
“What will befall her, then, in Avalon?” asked Elaine, so fearfully that Morgaine wondered if Elaine, after all, had harbored some such notions.
“She will be a priestess, trained in all the wisdom of Avalon,” said Morgaine. “One day she will read the stars and know all the wisdom of the world and the heavens.” She found herself smiling. “Galahad told me that she wished to learn to read and write and to play the harp—and in Avalon no one will forbid her this. Her life will be less harsh than if you had put her to school in some nunnery. We will surely ask less of her in the way of fasting and penance before she is grown.”
“But—but what shall I say to Lancelet?” wavered Elaine.
“What you will,” said Morgaine. “It would be best to tell him the truth, that you sent her to fosterage in Avalon, that she might fill the place left empty there. But I care not whether you perjure yourself to him—you may tell him that she was drowned in the lake or taken by the ghost of old Pellinore’s dragon, for all care.”
“And what of the priest? When Father Griffin hears that I have sent my daughter to become a sorceress in the heathen lands—”
“I care even less what you tell him,” Morgaine said. “If you choose to tell him that you put your soul in pawn for my sorceries to win yourself a husband, and pledged your first daughter in return—no? I thought not.”
“You are hard, Morgaine,” said Elaine, tears falling from her eyes. “Cannot I have a few days to prepare her to go from me, to pack such things as she will need—”
“She needs not much,” said Morgaine. “A change of shift if you will, and warm things for riding, a thick cloak and stout shoes, no more than that. In Avalon they will give her the dress of a novice priestess. Believe me,” she added kindly, “she will be treated with love and reverence as the granddaughter of the greatest of priestesses. And they will—what is it your priests say—they will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. She will not be forced to austerities until she is of an age to endure them. I think she will be happy there.”
“Happy? In that place of evil sorcery?”
Morgaine said, and the utter conviction of her words struck Elaine’s heart, “I vow to you—I was happy in Avalon, and every day since I left, I have longed, early and late, to return thither. Have you ever heard me lie? Come—let me see the child.”
“I bade her stay in her room and spin in solitude till sunset. She was rude to the priest and is being punished,” said Elaine.
“But I remit the punishment,” said Morgaine. “I am now her guardian and foster-mother, and there is no longer any reason to show courtesy to that priest. Take me to her.”
They rode forth the next day at dawn. Nimue had wept at parting with her mother, but even before they were gone an hour, she had begun to peer forth curiously at Morgaine from under the hood of her cloak. She was tall for her age, less like Lancelet’s mother, Viviane, than like Morgause or Igraine; fair-haired, but with enough copper in the golden strands that Morgaine thought her hair would be red when she was older. And her eyes were almost the color of the small wood violets which grew by the brooks.
They had had only a little wine and water before setting out, so Morgaine asked, “Are you hungry, Nimue? We can stop and break our fast as soon as we find a clearing, if you wish.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Very well.” And soon she dismounted and lifted the little girl from her pony.
“I have to—” The child cast down her eyes and squirmed.
“If you have to pass water, go behind that tree with the serving-woman,” said Morgaine, “and never be ashamed again to speak of what God has
made.”
“Father Griffin says it is not modest—”
“And never speak to me again of anything Father Griffin said to you,” Morgaine said gently, but with a hint of iron behind the mild words. “That is past, Nimue.”
When the child came back she said, with a wide-eyed look of wonder, “I saw someone very small peering out at me from behind a tree. Galahad said you were called Morgaine of the Fairies—was it a fairy, Aunt?”
Morgaine shook her head and said, “No, it was one of the Old People of the hills—they are as real as you or I. It is better not to speak of them, Nimue, or take any notice. They are very shy, and afraid of men who live in villages and farms.”
“Where do they live, then?”
“In the hills and forests,” Morgaine said. “They cannot bear to see the earth, who is their mother, raped by the plow and forced to bear, and they do not live in villages.”
“If they do not plow and reap, Aunt, what do they eat?”
“Only such things as the earth gives them of her free will,” said Morgaine. “Root, berry and herb, fruit and seeds—meat they taste only at the great festivals. As I told you, it is better not to speak of them, but you may leave them some bread at the edge of the clearing, there is plenty for us all.” She broke off a piece of a loaf and let Nimue take it to the edge of the woods. Elaine had, indeed, given them enough food for ten days’ ride, instead of the brief journey to Avalon.
She ate little herself, but she let the child have all she wanted, and spread honey herself on Nimue’s bread; time enough to train her, and after all, she was still growing very fast.
“You are eating no meat, Aunt,” said Nimue. “Is it a fast day?”
Morgaine suddenly remembered how she had questioned Viviane. “No, I do not often eat it.”
“Don’t you like it? I do.”
“Well, eat it then, if you wish. The priestesses do not have meat very often, but it is not forbidden, certainly not to a child your age.”
“Are they like the nuns? Do they fast all the time? Father Griffin says—” She stopped, remembering she had been told not to quote what he said, and Morgaine was pleased; the child learned quickly.
She said, “I meant you are not to take what he says as a guide for your own conduct. But you may tell me what he says and one day you will learn to separate for yourself what is right in what he says, and what is folly or worse.”
“He says that men and women must fast for their sins. Is that why?”
Morgaine shook her head. “The people of Avalon fast, sometimes, to teach their bodies to do what they are told without making demands it is inconvenient to satisfy—there are times when one must do without food, or water, or sleep, and the body must be the servant of the mind, not the master. The mind cannot be set on holy things, or wisdom, or stilled for the long meditation which opens the mind to other realms, when the body cries out ‘Feed me!’ or ‘I thirst!’ So we teach ourselves to still its clamoring. Do you understand?”
“N-not really,” said the child doubtfully.
“You will understand when you are older, then. For now, eat your bread, and make ready to ride again.”
Nimue finished her bread and honey and wiped her hands tidily on a clump of grass. “I never understood Father Griffin either, but he was angry when I did not. I was punished when I asked him why we must fast and pray for our sins when Christ had already forgiven them, and he said I had been taught heathendom and made Mother send me to my room. What is heathendom, Aunt?”
“It is anything a priest does not like,” said Morgaine. “Father Griffin is a fool. Even the best of the Christian priests do not trouble little ones like you, who can do no sin, with much talk about it. Time enough to talk about sin, Nimue, when you are capable of doing it, or making choices between good and evil.”
Nimue got on her pony obediently, but after a time she said, “Aunt Morgaine—I am not such a good girl, though. I sin all the time. I am always doing wicked things. I am not at all surprised that Mother wanted to send me away. That is why she is sending me to a wicked place, because I am a wicked girl.”
Morgaine felt her throat close with something like agony. She had been about to mount her own horse, but she hurried to Nimue’s pony and caught the girl in a great hug, holding her tight and kissing her again and again. She said, breathlessly, “Never say that again, Nimue! Never! It is not true, I vow to you it is not! Your mother did not want to send you away at all, and if she had thought Avalon a wicked place she would not have sent you no matter what I threatened!”
Nimue said in a small voice, “Why am I being sent away, then?”
Morgaine still held her tight with all the strength of her arms. “Because you were pledged to Avalon before you were born, my child. Because your grandmother was a priestess, and because I have no daughter for the Goddess, and you are being sent to Avalon that you may learn wisdom and serve the Goddess.” She noted that her tears were falling, unheeded, on Nimue’s fair hair. “Who let you believe it was punishment?”
“One of the women—while she packed my shift—” Nimue faltered. “I heard her say, Mother should not have sent me to that wicked place—and Father Griffin has told me often I am a wicked girl—”
Morgaine sank to the ground, holding Nimue in her lap, rocking her back and forth. “No, no,” she said gently, “no, darling, no. You are a good girl. If you are naughty or lazy or disobedient, that is not sin, it is only that you are not old enough to know any better, and when you are taught to do what is right, then you will do so.” And then, because she thought this conversation had gone far for a child so young, she said, “Look at that butterfly! I have not seen one that color before! Come, Nimue, let me lift you on your pony now,” she said, and listened attentively as the little girl chattered on about butterflies.
Alone she could have ridden to Avalon in a single day, but the short legs of Nimue’s little pony could not make that distance, so they slept that night in a clearing. Nimue had never slept out of doors before, and the darkness frightened her when they put out the fire, so Morgaine let the child creep into the circle of her arms and lay pointing out one star after another to her.
The little girl was tired with riding and soon slept, but Morgaine lay awake, Nimue’s head heavy on her arm, feeling fear stealing upon her. She had been so long away from Avalon. Step by slow step, she had retraced all her training, or what she could remember; but would she forget some vital thing?
At last she slept, but before morning it seemed that she heard a step in the clearing, and Raven stood before her. She wore her dark gown and spotted deerskin tunic, and she said, “Morgaine! Morgaine, my dearest!” Her voice, the voice Morgaine had heard but once in all her years in Avalon, was so filled with surprise and joy and wonder that Morgaine woke suddenly and stared around the clearing, half expecting to see Raven there in the flesh. But the clearing was empty, except for a trace of mist that blotted out the stars, and Morgaine lay down again, not knowing if she had dreamed, or whether, with the Sight, Raven knew that she was approaching. Her heart was racing; she could feel the beat of it, almost painful inside her chest.
I should never have stayed away so long. I should have tried to return when Viviane died. Even if I died in the attempt, I should have made it. . . . Will they want me now, old, worn, used, the Sight slowly going from me, with nothing to bring them . . . ?
The child at her side made a small sleepy sound and stirred; she shifted her weight slightly and moved closer into Morgaine’s arms. Morgaine put an arm round her, thinking, I bring them Viviane’s granddaughter. But if they let me return only for her sake it will be more bitter than death. Has the Goddess cast me out forever?
At last she slept again, not to waken until it was broad daylight, misty drizzle beginning to fall. With this bad start the day went badly; toward midday Nimue’s pony cast a shoe, and, although Morgaine was impatient and would have taken the child up to ride before her—she herself was the lightest of burdens for a horse,
who could have carried two her size without trouble—she did not want to lame the pony, so they must turn aside for a village and a blacksmith. She did not want it known or rumored in the countryside that the King’s sister rode for Avalon, but now there was no help for it. There was so little news in this part of the land that whatever happened here seemed to fly on wings.
Well, it could not be helped; the wretched little animal was not to blame. They delayed and found a small village off the main road. All day the rain fell; even though it was high summer, Morgaine was shivering, and the child was damp and fretful. Morgaine paid little attention to her fussing; she was sorry for her, especially when Nimue began to cry softly for her mother, but that could not be helped either, and one of the first lessons of a priestess in the making was to endure loneliness. She would simply have to cry until she found her own comfort or learned to live without it, as all the maidens in the House had had to learn to do.
The Mists of Avalon Page 96