by Joan Wolf
He felt a moment’s flash of gratitude for Gwenhwyfar’s practical good sense. She would never grow hard and embittered, as his mother had, no matter what her disappointments might be. She had the ability to look for happiness, something Igraine had not known. He gave her a quick warm smile. “Thank you for acting so intelligently yesterday. You saved us all from an extremely embarrassing situation.”
She did not return his smile. “Who is he, Arthur?” she asked.
“Surely you have guessed.” He crossed the room toward her, walking so lightly that his feet made no noise on the uncovered floor. He stopped in front of her and said, “He is my son.”
She seemed to flinch and he looked away from her, looked once more at his mother’s lamp. “I did not know of his existence myself until yesterday,” he said, trying to give her time to recover. “Nor do I believe he knows. He thinks himself the son of Morgause and Lot.”
“He doesn’t know.” Her voice was flat with hard-controlled emotion. “When I took him to his room last night he was obviously bewildered by his remarkable resemblance to you.” Arthur’s hair, still damp from his bath, had fallen forward across his forehead. “Was Morgause insane,” Gwenhwyfar went on, “to have introduced him to you in such a public fashion? She certainly knows who he is.”
Arthur thrust his hair back from his brow and walked to the window. He put a hand up to touch the thin drapery that covered it, then turned to her and said, “I suppose she thought this was one sure way to get me to recognize him. No one in that room can be in much doubt as to his identity.”
“And are you going to recognize him?”
“As I just said, I don’t think I have much choice.”
“You can say he resembles Igraine.” She took a step toward him. “You told that to Gawain when he remarked on the likeness. Don’t you remember? It was the time I took him down to the cavalry ring to meet you.”
Arthur said gently, “I’m sorry, my dear, but as Cai pointed out to me last night, Mordred has my eyes. And they are from Uther, not Igraine.”
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “So you will acknowledge him. Then what?”
“Gwenhwyfar.” She heard the note of compassion in his voice, and bitter gall rose in her heart. “Try to see this from a political and not a personal point of view. You have grieved because you have no children, I know that well. And you know also the problem our childlessness has posed for Britain. This boy gives me an heir, a blood descendant who can be accepted by all the regional kings and chiefs as the next high king.”
She stared at him with eyes that glittered with hostility. “You mean to make him your heir?”
“Yes.”
“But he is a bastard!”
His mouth thinned and all the gentleness left his voice. “He is the only son I have got.”
The bitterness spilled over into angry words. “Your son, and who else’s, Arthur? Don’t try to tell me that you got a child on Morgause! I know full well who bore him—your precious Morgan. And she never told you. She has kept him from you for all these years. Will you forgive her that, Arthur? Did she have a good excuse for you last night? Are there any other little bastards in hiding around Britain?”
“Be quiet.” The words were spoken softly, but they stopped Gwenhwyfar instantly. “Morgause is Mordred’s mother,” he said in the same soft, deadly voice. “Do you understand that?”
Under the pretty primrose gown, she was shaking uncontrollably. “Yes” she managed to say. She had not meant . . . it was only that she was so hurt . . . and now Arthur was speaking to her in that cold, inflectionless voice and looking at her as if he hated her.
“I want to see Morgause as soon as she awakens,” he said. He had ceased talking to her; now he was just giving orders.
Her stomach was heaving. “All right”
His gray eyes were icy. “You are Britain’s queen, Gwenhwyfar. It would be well if you remembered that.” Then he was gone.
Gwenhwyfar crumpled into a chair and raised her shaking hands to her face. You coward, she chastised herself. He has only to look at you with that hard face, and you shake as if you had the ague. Why didn’t you stand up to him? You’re right. You know you are.
But she knew the answer before she even asked the question. She was not afraid of his anger, she was afraid of being locked out from him altogether. He was perfectly capable of doing that, of denying their friendship, their partnership, of treating her like an unwelcome stranger for the rest of their lives together. He would be able to live like that, but she could not. She cared too much. She could not bear to lose the little piece of him that she had.
If she wanted him back, she would have to accept Mordred. The witch’s son. She did not know if she would be able to do it.
She longed, with all her sore and aching heart, for the comfort of Bedwyr.
Arthur sent a servant to instruct both Lothian princes to keep to their rooms until they were sent for. Then he went to his office, ostensibly to read his weekly dispatches from the garrisons stationed around the country, in reality to stare at his desk and to think.
Gwenhwyfar had given him an unpleasant shock. He had not expected her to accept Mordred easily. Mordred’s very existence must be a reproach to her, a proof and a reminder of her own barrenness. He had been prepared for that. He had even been prepared for her to suspect that Morgan was Mordred’s mother. What he had not been prepared for was the evident jealousy and bitterness that Gwenhwyfar felt toward Morgan. He had thought she was happy with their domestic arrangements. He had thought she was happy with Bedwyr.
Of course, he acknowledged honestly to himself, he had never wanted to know the secrets of her heart. It was enough for him if the surface of their lives together was serene. All his emotions were tied up with Morgan. It had always been like that. He thought she had ceased to care.
The sword Merlin had given him, the sword he had carried throughout the Saxon wars, hung on the wall of his office. His eyes fastened on it much as they had fastened on his mother’s lamp earlier. It seemed to be a day for remembering, and he thought now of his grandfather, who had saved him and taught him and made him a king. It was Merlin, not Uther, who had been his true father.
Hadrian’s great ruby glittered in the sword’s handle. A king is a public thing, Merlin had told him. Well, he thought now as he stared at the sword that had won him so many victories, so is a queen. Morgan had put country first, and at a far greater cost than that he was asking of Gwenhwyfar. She would have to accept Mordred. Britain needed an heir.
The war against the Saxon, was won, true, but victory was worthless unless he could secure another fifty years of peace. Britain needed time, time for the barbarians to become civilized, for the inevitable merging of Saxon and Celt to be peaceful and beneficial, just as the empire had been strengthened and revitalized by the additions of the Goths and the Visigoths.
The key to such a peace was a strong high king. That was why he had built this capital. That was why he was opening communications with the leaders in Gaul, with the emperor in Rome. That was why he needed a son.
Gwenhwyfar would have to see that. Perhaps Bedwyr could make her understand.
He put his elbows on the table and rested his forehead in his hands. In less than an hour’s time he would be meeting his son. It was one of the most momentous occasions of his entire life. He had no idea what he was going to say. His fingers were pressed so hard against his forehead that the skin around them was white. Then the door opened. “My lord,” said one of his clerks, “the Queen of Lothian to see you.”
Arthur rose to his feet. “Send her in.”
He had been surprised when first he had seen Morgause last night. She looked nothing like either Morgan or Igraine. The Queen of Lothian was a tall, full-bodied woman, with Gawain’s auburn hair and slightly prominent blue eyes. Her skin was clear as a girl’s, with fine lines around the eyes and the mouth. She smiled at Arthur, and he thought that the lines had come from laughter and not from
sorrow.
“My lord king,” she said in a rich, contralto voice.
He gestured to a chair. “Won’t you be seated, my lady?”
Morgause seated herself with all the proud serenity of a ship coming into port. Her blue eyes regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “It seems strange that we have never met,” she said.
Arthur resumed his own chair. “You see,” he said excusingly, “Morgan told me that you had not forgiven me for Lot’s death. That is why I stayed away from Lothian for all these years.”
“Morgan is so clever,” Morgause said admiringly. She looked down at her well-tended hands and Arthur could see the faint beginnings of a double chin. “Pellinore also insisted that we keep our distance from you. He was one of the only people in Lothian who knew you, of course, and he guessed that you were Mordred’s father quite some years ago.” Morgause looked candidly at the king’s face. “The resemblance is quite remarkable. I didn’t realize, otherwise I should never have brought Mordred to you like this.”
“But why did Pellinore allow him to come?” Arthur asked. “After all these years of care, it seems strange . . .”He broke off at the look on her face.
“I had forgotten that you didn’t know,” Morgause said sadly. “Pellinore is dead, my lord. That is the reason my sons and I have come to Camelot, to bring the news to my eldest son, Gawain.”
There was a pause. “I am sorry to hear about Pellinore. He was a good man and a good king.”
“Yes,” said Morgause. “I shall miss him.”
Arthur picked up a stylus from his desk and began to turn it over in his fingers. “But you did not bring all your sons to Camelot?”
“No. Gaheris, my second son, has stayed in Lothian. If Gawain does not wish to return home, then Gaheris will be king. Agravaine came because he would like to join your cavalry, my lord. It has long been his ambition.”
“And Mordred?” Arthur asked. “Why did he come?”
“He wanted to see the king, of course. And Camelot. But mainly I think he wanted to visit Morgan. He is very fond of her, you see.”
Arthur looked down at the stylus in his hand. “I suppose you realize that I knew nothing about Mordred until yesterday.”
Morgause sighed. “I know. Morgan is not going to be happy with me.” He looked up. “I suppose you guessed the story as soon as you saw him.”
“I went to Avalon last night to see Morgan. She told me the whole.”
Morgause’s blue eyes were full of curiosity. She had not meant to precipitate this moment, but now that she had, she was obviously enjoying herself. “I felt so sorry for her,” she said to Arthur. “We offered to find her a husband, but she wouldn’t marry. She refused to try to do away with the child. This seemed to be the best solution.” Arthur’s lashes fell, screening his eyes from hers. “She loves you very much, you know,” she added.
His lashes flickered but he did not reply. “So we went off into Wales and changed identities,” she continued briskly, “and when the fighting was over in Lothian, I went home with a new baby.”
He put the stylus down and looked up at her slowly. “Morgan told me she might have died in childbirth were it not for you. I owe you a great debt, Morgause. I shall probably never be able to repay you, but if there is anything I can ever do for you, you have only to ask.”
Morgause’s face was radiant. “She is my sister. I was happy to help.” ’
“Now,” Arthur said, “about Mordred.”
Morgause blinked and readjusted her thoughts. “Yes,” she said. “Mordred.”
“I do not think it will be possible to hide the fact that he is my son.”
“That is what Pellinore always said.”
“He is my son and must be known to be my son by everyone who sees him. That is one fact. The second fact is that I have no other children, nor am I likely to have.”
“The queen is barren, then?”
“Yes.”
Morgause pursed her full lips. “Poor thing.” There was more than a hint of complacency in her voice.
“It is a great sorrow to her,” Arthur said levelly. “It has, as well, always posed a severe problem for the state. I need an heir to follow me in the high kingship.” He held her eyes. “It seems now that I have one.”
The prominent blue eyes became even more prominent. “You are proposing to make Mordred your heir?”
“He is my only son.”
Morgause sat very straight. “So he is.” This was evidently not a possibility she had considered.
“Morgause.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I do not want it known that Morgan is Mordred’s mother,” he said. “You have been a mother to him. Will you say he is your child?”
She looked at him with calculation. “But why?”
“Why not?” he countered. “It is an enviable position, that of mother to the next high king.”
“I would have to say I was unfaithful to Lot.”
“Yes, you would. But it was many years ago. And you are a very beautiful woman. No one will question the likelihood of an attraction between the two of us.”
“What does Morgan say to this idea?”
“If you agree, she will be grateful.”
He could tell from the look on Morgause’s face that she understood perfectly why he was asking this of her. She might not be overly shrewd about matters of policy, but matters of sex were another matter altogether. She said after a minute, “But we have never met until now.”
“You were at Avalon for some months. Who is to say I did not meet you there? I was very young, you are very beautiful—”
“Stop!” She was laughing. “You almost make me believe it did happen.” Her face sobered. “All right, I’ll do it. As you say, it was too many years ago for it to matter much now. And Lot has been long dead.”
Arthur smiled at her. “Morgan has always told me you are wonderful,” he said. “I thoroughly agree.”
She was suddenly immensely glad she was doing this for him. Really, she wondered, where did he get his charm? Certainly not from his mother.
“I am going to tell Mordred the whole truth,” he was saying.
She would have thought Mordred was one of the last persons he would want to know the truth. She stared at him in puzzlement. “You will tell him about Morgan? But why?”
The infectious gaiety had quite left his face. “He deserves to know who he is. I, of all people, know how important that is.”
The truth of that statement struck Morgause for the first time. “Really,” she said, “when you think of it, it is rather extraordinary. Both you and Mordred were unaware you were sons of high kings.” Her blue eyes were wide with amazement. “Isn’t that extraordinary?” she repeated.
Arthur looked back at her with a mixture of amusement and something she could not quite decipher. “Yes,” he said dryly. “It is.”
Chapter 33
TWENTY minutes later, Cai was escorting Mordred to Arthur’s office. Gwenhwyfar, as promised, had had the packhorses brought to the palace, and Mordred was appropriately dressed in a tunic fine enough for any prince. Cai thought he looked very young and very lonely. He gave Arthur’s son a warm encouraging smile before opening the door to the king’s office. “Prince Mordred is here,” he said briefly, gently urged the boy forward by a hand on his back, then closed the door on father and son.
As Cai walked away across the great hall, a long-buried memory surfaced in his mind: Arthur on the day he had first come to Avalon. He had been six years younger than the boy Cai had just left in the king’s office, but even then Arthur had had defenses this boy knew nothing of. There had never been anything vulnerable about Arthur.
Left alone in the king’s office, Mordred paused for a moment by the door, looking around with cautious curiosity. The room was simple, obviously furnished for work and not for show. There was a long walnut table against the window wall to Mordred’s right, covered with hundreds of neatly stacked scrolls. The walls were hun
g with maps. The king sat behind another large walnut table in a chair with a dragon crest carved on its high wooden back. There were two other carved chairs placed in front of the king’s table.
Arthur rose and came around his desk as Mordred stood in the doorway, and then he beckoned the boy forward, placing the two chairs in front of the desk to face each other. “Come and sit down, Mordred,” he said.
The boy came and took the chair Arthur had indicated. For the first time since he had come into the room, he looked directly at the king.
Arthur suddenly had the strangest sensation that he was looking back in time: this boy’s face was his face, and he was once again the boy he had been; that boy, and this boy, both of them meeting for the very first time a father and a king. For one dizzy moment, past and present fused and became one; then the moment passed and he was himself again.
“I want to tell you a story, Mordred,” he said. His face was grave and composed; only the brilliant eyes betrayed his feelings. “It is about me, but it concerns you too, so be patient.”
“Yes, my lord king,” the boy replied. His voice had the uncertain note of the adolescent male whose voice has not yet reliably settled into its adult register.
Arthur linked his hands loosely in his lap and began. “When I was an infant, my parents, Uther and Igraine, sent me away and gave it out to the country that I was dead. You may perhaps be familiar with the story. I had been born too soon after their marriage, and they felt it would be best to have an heir whose birth was unblemished.” Mordred nodded. Every person in Britain was familiar with the story of Arthur’s childhood, he thought. The king was going on, “Years passed and Igraine bore no more living children. Then my grandfather, Merlin, took me from my hiding place in Cornwall and brought me to Avalon to be trained as a king. For reasons of safety, he kept my true identity a secret. Only he and Uther knew I was the son of the high king. I was never told, nor was anyone else.