The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “And you have tried to subject it to the service of the Christian God,” Morgaine retorted. “Now in the name of the Goddess I demand of you that it be returned to the shrine of the Lake!”

  Arthur drew a long breath. Then he said in a voice of studied calm, “I refuse. If the Goddess wants this sword returned, then she herself will have to take it from my hands.” Then his voice softened. “My dear sister, I beg of you, do not quarrel with me about the name by which we call our Gods. You yourself have said to me that all the Gods are the One God.”

  And he will never see why what he has said is wrong, Morgaine thought in despair. Yet he has called on the Goddess, if she wants his sword to come and take it. Be it so, then; Lady, may I be your hand. She bowed her head for a moment and said, “To the Goddess, then, I leave the disposal of her sword.” And when she has done with you, Arthur, you will wish you had chosen to deal with me instead. . . . And she went to sit beside Gwenhwyfar. Arthur beckoned to Gwydion.

  “Sir Mordred,” he said, “I would have made you one of my Companions at any time you asked it of me. I would have done so for Morgaine’s sake and for my own—you needed not to force knighthood from me by a trick.”

  “I thought if you made me knight without some good excuse such as this,” Gwydion said, “there might be talk of a kind you did not wish. Will you forgive me the trick, then, sir?”

  “If Lancelet has forgiven you, I have no reason to bear you any grudge,” said Arthur, “and since he has gifted you richly, it would seem he cherishes no wrath. I wish it lay in my power to acknowledge you my son, Mordred. Until a few years ago, I knew not that you existed—Morgaine told me not what came of that kingmaking. You do know, I suppose, that to the priests and bishops, your very existence is sign of something unholy.”

  “Do you believe that, sir?”

  Arthur looked his son directly in the eye. “Oh—times I believe one thing, times another, like all men. It does not matter what I believe. The facts are thus—I cannot acknowledge you before all men, though you are such a son as any man, let alone a childless king, would be glad and proud to own. Galahad must inherit my throne.”

  “If he lives,” said Gwydion, and at Arthur’s shocked look, added quietly, “No, sir, I am not making a threat to his life. I will swear any oath you will, by cross or oak, by the Sacred Well or by these serpents I bear"—he thrust out his wrists—"which you bore before me: may the Goddess send living serpents like these to take my life if ever I raise a hand against my cousin Galahad. But I have seen it—he will die, honorably, for the cross he worships.”

  “God save us from evil!” cried out Gwenhwyfar.

  “Indeed, lady. But if he does not live to ascend your throne—my father and my king, he is a warrior and a knight, and no more than mortal, and you may live to be older than King Uriens. What then?”

  “Should Galahad die before he comes to my throne—God stand between him and harm—” said Arthur, “I will have no choice. Royal blood is royal blood, and yours is royal, from the Pendragon and from Avalon. Should such an evil day come, I suppose even the bishops would rather see you on the throne than leave this land to such chaos as they feared when Uther died.”

  He rose and stood with his two hands on his son’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Would that I could say more, my son. But done is done. I will say only that—I wish with all my heart that you had been the son of my queen.”

  “And so do I,” said Gwenhwyfar, rising to embrace him.

  “Still, I will not treat you as a baseborn churl,” said Arthur. “You are Morgaine’s son. Mordred, Duke of Cornwall, Companion of the Round Table, you shall go to be the voice of the Round Table among the Saxon kings. You shall have the right to do the King’s justice, and to collect my taxes and revenues, keeping a suitable portion to maintain such a household as the King’s chancellor should have. And, if you wish it, I give you permission to marry the daughter of one of the Saxon kings, which will give you a throne of your own, even if you come never to mine.”

  Gwydion bowed and said, “You are generous, sir.”

  Yes, Morgaine thought, and this would keep Gwydion well out of the way, until and unless there was need of him. Arthur was skilled at kingcraft! She raised her head and said, “You have been so generous to my son, Arthur, may I trespass again on your kindness?”

  Arthur looked wary, but he said, “Ask me something I can grant, my sister, and it will be my pleasure to give it.”

  “You have made my son Duke of Cornwall, but he knows little of Cornwall’s land as yet. I have heard that Duke Marcus now claims all that country. Will you come with me to Tintagel, and investigate this matter and this claim?”

  Arthur’s face relaxed; had he been braced for her to raise the matter of the sword Excalibur again? No, my brother, not ever again before this court; when again I stretch forth my hand for Excalibur, it will be in my own country and in the place of the Goddess.

  “I have not been in Cornwall for more years than I can reckon,” Arthur said, “and I cannot leave Camelot until Midsummer is past. But remain here in Camelot as my guest, and then we will go together to Tintagel, and see if Duke Marcus, or any other man God ever made, will dispute the claim of Arthur and of Morgaine, Duchess of Cornwall.” He turned to Kevin. “And now enough of high matters—my lord Merlin, I would not command you to sing for me before my entire court, but in private within my own chambers, and in the company of my family alone, may I entreat you for a song?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” said Kevin, “if the lady Gwenhwyfar does not object.” He glanced at the Queen, but she was silent, and so he set his harp to his shoulder and began to play.

  Morgaine sat quietly beside Uriens, listening to the music. A royal gift indeed Arthur had commanded for his family, Kevin’s music. Gwydion listened, his hands clasped about his knees, silent and spellbound; she thought, In that at least he is my son. Uriens listened with polite attention. Morgaine looked up for a moment, meeting Accolon’s eyes, and thought; Somehow this night we must manage to meet, even if I must give Uriens a sleeping potion; there is much I must say to him . . . and then she cast down her eyes. She was no better than Gwenhwyfar. . . .

  Uriens was holding her hand, fondling her fingers and wrists; she felt him touch the bruises he had made that day, and through the pain, she felt revulsion. She must go to his bed if he desired it; here in this Christian court she was his property, like a horse or dog he could fondle or beat at his own will!

  Arthur had betrayed both her and Avalon; Uriens had played her false as well. Kevin, too, had betrayed her. . . .

  But Accolon would not fail her. Accolon should rule for Avalon, the King Viviane had foreseen would come; and after Accolon, Gwydion, Druid King, King of Avalon and all Britain.

  And behind the King, the Queen, ruling for the Goddess as in the days of old. . . .

  Kevin raised his head and met her eyes, and Morgaine shivered, knowing she must conceal her thoughts. He has the Sight, and he is Arthur’s man. He is the Merlin of Britain, and nevertheless he is my enemy!

  But Kevin said mildly, “Since this is a family party, and I too would wish to hear music made, may I ask as my fee that the lady Morgaine will sing?” and Morgaine went to take his place, feeling the power of the harp in her hands.

  I must charm them, she thought, so they think no harm, and set her hands to the strings.

  7

  Uriens said, when they were alone in their chamber, “I knew not that your claim to Tintagel was being disputed again.”

  “The things you do not know, my husband, are as many as acorns in a pig meadow,” she said impatiently. How had she ever thought she could suffer this fool? Kind, yes, he had never been unkind to her, but his stupidity grated on her like a rasp. She wanted to be alone, to consider her plans, to confer with Accolon, and instead she must placate this old idiot!

  “I should know what you are planning.” Uriens’ voice was sullen. “I am angry that you did not consult with me if you w
ere displeased at what was happening in Tintagel—I am your husband and you should have told me rather than appealing to Arthur!” The sulkiness in his voice held a hint of jealousy too, and she remembered now, stricken, that it had been brought out what she had concealed all these years—who had fathered her son. But could Uriens really think that after a quarter of a century she still held power of that sort over her brother, because of something only fools and Christians would think a sin? Well, if he has not wit enough to see what is happening before his eyes, why should I explain it to him word by word like a child’s lesson?

  She said, still impatient, “Arthur is displeased with me because he thinks a woman should not contend with him this way. Therefore I asked his help, so that he will not believe I am in rebellion against him.” She said no more. She was priestess of Avalon, she would not lie, but there was no need to speak more truth than she wished. Let Uriens think, if he would, that she only wished to make up her quarrel with Arthur.

  “How clever you are, Morgaine,” he said, patting her wrist. She thought, flinching, that already he had forgotten that it was he who had inflicted the injury. She felt her lips trembling as if she were a child, thinking, I want Accolon, I want to lie in his arms and be cherished and comforted, but in this place how can we contrive even to meet and speak in secret? She blinked away angry tears. Strength was her only safety now; strength and concealment.

  Uriens had gone out to relieve himself, and came back, yawning. “I heard the watchman cry midnight,” he said. “We must to bed, lady.” He began to take off his festal robe. “Are you very weary, dear one?”

  She did not answer, knowing that if she did she would weep. He took her silence for consent and drew her close, nuzzling at her throat, then pulled her toward the bed. She endured him, wondering if she could remember some charm or herb to put an end to the old man’s too-enduring virility—damn him, he should be long past this by his age, no one would even think it the result of sorcery. She lay wondering, afterward, why she could not simply turn to him with indifference, let him have her without even thinking, as she had done so often in these long years . . . what did it matter, why should she notice him any more than a stray animal sniffing round her skirts?

  She slept fitfully, dreaming of a child she had found somewhere and must suckle, though her breasts were dry and ached terribly . . . she woke with the pain still in them. Uriens had gone to hunt with some of Arthur’s men—it had been arranged days ago. She felt sick and queasy. I ate more, she thought, than I usually do in three days, no wonder I am sick. But when she went to fasten her gown, her breasts were still sore and aching. It seemed to her that the nipples, brown and small, looked pink and swollen.

  She let herself collapse on the bed as if her knees had been broken. She was barren! She knew she was barren, they had told her after Gwydion’s birth that she would probably never bear a child again, and in all the years since, never once from any man had she gotten with child. More than that, she was near to nine-and-forty, long past the childbearing years. But for all that, she was certainly pregnant now. She had thought herself long past the possibility. Her courses had grown irregular and were absent for months at a time, she had thought herself coming to the end of them. Her first reaction was fear; she had come so near to death when Gwydion was born. . . .

  Uriens would certainly be delighted at this supposed proof of his manhood. But when this child was conceived, Uriens had been ill with the lung fever; there was small likelihood, after all, that it was Uriens’ child. Had it been fathered by Accolon, on the day of the eclipse? Why, then, it was child to the God as he had come to them then in the hazel grove.

  What would I do with a babe, old woman that I am? But perhaps it will be a priestess for Avalon, one to rule after me when the traitor has been tumbled from the throne where Viviane set him. . . .

  It was grey and dismal outside, drizzling rain. The games field of yesterday was trampled and muddy, with scattered banners and ribbons trodden into the mud; one or two of the subject kings were making ready to ride out, and a few kitchen-women, their gowns tucked up to their bare thighs, carrying washing paddles and sacks of clothing, were trudging down toward the shores of the lake.

  There was a knock at the door; the servant’s voice was soft and respectful. “Queen Morgaine, the High Queen has asked that you and the Queen of Lothian should come to break your fast with her. And the Merlin of Britain has asked that you will receive him here at noon.”

  “I will go to the Queen,” said Morgaine. “Tell the Merlin I will receive him.” She shrank from both confrontations, but she dared not deny herself to either, especially now.

  Gwenhwyfar would never be anything but her enemy. It was her doing that Arthur had fallen into the hands of the priests and betrayed Avalon. Perhaps, Morgaine thought, I am plotting the downfall of the wrong person; if I could somehow manage it that Gwenhwyfar left court, even to run away with Lancelet to his own castle, now that he is widowed and can lawfully take her . . . but she dismissed that idea.

  Probably Arthur has asked her to make up the quarrel with me, she thought cynically. He knows, too, that he cannot afford to quarrel with subject kings, and if Gwenhwyfar and I are at odds, Morgause, as ever, will take my part. Too strong a family quarrel, and he would lose Uriens, and Morgause’s sons too. He cannot afford to lose Gawaine, Gareth, the Northmen. . . .

  Morgause was in the Queen’s room already; the smell of food made Morgaine sick again, but she controlled it with iron will. It was well known that she never ate much and it would not be particularly noticed. Gwenhwyfar came and kissed her, and for a moment Morgaine’s real tenderness for this woman returned. Why should we be enemies? We were friends once, so long ago. . . . It was not Gwenhwyfar herself that she hated, it was the priests who had so much influence over her.

  She came to the table, accepting but not eating a piece of new bread and honey. Gwenhwyfar’s ladies were the kind of pious idiots with whom Gwenhwyfar always surrounded herself. They welcomed Morgaine with curious looks and a great outward display of cordiality and pleasure.

  “Your son, sir Mordred—what a fine lad he is, how proud you must be of him,” one of them said, and Morgaine, breaking the bread and crumbling it, remarked with composure that she had hardly seen him since he was weaned. “It is Uwaine, my husband’s son, who is more truly my own son, and it is in his knightly accomplishments that I take pride,” Morgaine said, “for I reared him from a little child. But you are proud of Mordred as your own son, are you not, Morgause?”

  “But Uriens’ son is not your own child?” someone else asked.

  “No,” she said patiently, “he was nine years old when I married my lord of North Wales.”

  One of the girls giggled that if she were Morgaine, she would pay more heed to that other handsome stepson of hers, Accolon was it not? Morgaine, clenching her teeth, thought, Shall I kill this fool? But no; the ladies of Gwenhwyfar’s court had nothing to do but spend their time in mindless jests and gossip.

  “Now tell me—” Alais, who had been waiting-woman when Morgaine was also at Gwenhwyfar’s court, and whose bride-woman Morgaine had been when the girl was married, giggled. “Isn’t he Lancelet’s son, really?”

  Morgaine raised her eyebrows and said, “Who? Accolon? King Uriens’ late wife would hardly thank you for that imputation, lady.”

  “You know what I mean.” Alais snickered. “Lancelet was the son of Viviane, and you were raised by her—and who could blame you? Tell me the truth now, Morgaine, who was that handsome lad’s father? There is no one else it could have been, is there?”

  Morgause laughed and said, trying to break the tension, “Well, we are all in love with Lancelet, of course—poor Lancelet, what a burden to bear.”

  “But you are eating nothing, Morgaine,” said Gwenhwyfar. “Can I send to the kitchens, if this is not to your liking? A slice of ham? Some better wine than this?”

  Morgaine shook her head and put a piece of bread into her mouth. Hadn’t t
his all happened before? Or perhaps she had dreamed it . . . she felt a sick dizziness before her eyes, grey spots dancing. It would indeed give them gossip to enliven many a boring day if the old Queen of North Wales swooned away like a breeding woman! Her fingernails cut into her hands and somehow she managed to make the dizziness recede a little. “I drank too much at the feast yesterday—you have known for twenty years that I have no head for drinking wine, Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Ah, and it was good wine too,” said Morgause, with a greedy smack of her lips, and Gwenhwyfar replied courteously that she would send a barrel of it to Lothian with Morgause when she left. But Morgaine, mercifully forgotten, the blinding headache clamping down over her brow like a torturer’s band, felt Morgause’s questioning eyes on hers.

  Pregnancy was one thing that could not be hidden . . . no, and why should it be hidden? She was lawfully wedded; people might laugh if the old King of North Wales and his middle-aged Queen became parents at their advanced ages, but the laughter would be good-natured. Yet Morgaine felt that she would explode from the sheer force of the anger in her. She felt like one of the fire mountains of which Gawaine had told her, far in the countries to the north. . . .