Her lips hardly moved; only her dark eyes, sunken deep in her head with suffering, flickered from the fire to the sorcerous things on the floor before the hearth. "Morgause," she said, "swear to me-if you love me, swear to me-that you will speak nothing of this to Lot or to any other! Swear it, or I will curse you with all the curses I know!"
Morgause laid the child in the cradle and turned to Morgaine, taking her arm and leading her back to the bed.
"Come, lie down, rest, little one-we must talk about this. Arthur! Why? Was it Viviane's doing?"
Morgaine repeated, even more agitated, "Swear to say nothing! Swear never to speak of it again! Swear it! Swear it!" Her eyes glittered wildly. Morgause, looking at her, was afraid she would work herself into a fever. "Morgaine, child-"
"Swear! Or I curse you by wind and fire, sea and stone-" "No!" Morgause interrupted her, taking her hands to try to calm her. "See, I swear it, I swear."
She had not wanted to swear. She thought, I should have refused, I should talk of this with Lot ... but it was too late, now she had sworn ... and Morgause had no wish to be cursed by a priestess of Avalon.
"Lie still, now," she said quietly. "You must sleep, Morgaine." The younger woman closed her eyes, and Morgause sat petting her hand and thinking. Gawaine is Arthur's man, whatever happens. Lot would get no good from Gawaine on the throne. This-no matter how many sons Arthur may have, this is his first Arthur was reared Christian and makes much of being king over Christians; he would think this child of incest his shame. It is just as well to know some evil secret of a king. Even of Lot, though I love him well, I have made it my business to know certain details of his sins and lecheries.
The cradled child woke and squalled. Morgaine, as all mothers when a child cries, opened her eyes at the sound. She was almost too weak to move, but she whispered, "My baby-is that my baby? Morgause, I want to hold my baby."
Morgause bent and started to put the swaddled bundle into her arms. Then she hesitated; if Morgaine once held the child, she would wish to suckle him, she would love him, she would concern herself about his welfare. But if he was put to a wet nurse before she ever looked on his face ... well, then, she would not feel anything much for him, and he would be truly the child of his foster-parents. It was just as well to have Arthur's firstborn son, the son he dared not acknowledge, feel the highest loyalty to Lot and Morgause as his truest parents; that Lot's sons should be his brothers, rather than any sons Arthur might have when he should marry.
Tears were sliding weakly down Morgaine's face. She begged, "Give me my baby, Morgause, let me hold my baby, I want him-"
Morgause said tenderly but relentlessly, "No, Morgaine; you are not strong enough to hold him and suckle him, and"-she groped quickly for a lie which the girl, unskilled in midwifery, would believe-"if you hold him even once, he will not suck from his wet nurse's breasts, so he must be given to her right away. You can hold him when you are a little stronger and he is feeding well." And, though Morgaine began to cry and held out her arms, sobbing, Morgause carried the child out of the room. Now, she thought, this will be Lot's fosterling, and we will always have a weapon against the High King. And now I have made certain that Morgaine, when she is well enough, will care little for him and be content to leave him to me.
2
Gwenhwyfar, daughter of King Leodegranz, sat on the high wall of the enclosed garden, clinging to the stones with both hands and watching the horses in the paddock below.
Behind her was the sweet smell of kitchen herbs and pot herbs, the still-room herbs her father's wife used to make medicines and simples. The garden was one of her favorite places, perhaps the only outdoor place Gwenhwyfar really liked. She felt safer indoors, as a rule, or when securely enclosed-the walls around the kitchen garden made it nearly as safe as inside the castle. Up here, on top of the wall, she could see out over the valley, and there was so much of it, stretching farther than the eye could see ... . Gwenhwyfar turned her look back to the safety of the garden for a moment, for her hands were beginning to tingle with the numbness again, and her breath felt tight in her throat. Here, right on the very wall which enclosed her own garden, here it was safe; if she began to feel the strangling panic again she could turn and slide down the wall arid be safe again inside the garden.
Her father's wife, Alienor, had asked her once in exasperation, when she said something like this, "Safe from what, child? The Saxons never come so far west as this. Where we are on the hill, we could see them three leagues off if they should come-it's the long view we have here that makes us safe, in heaven's name!"
Gwenhwyfar could never explain. Put like that it sounded sensible. How could she tell the sensible, practical Alienor that it was the very weight of all that sky and the wide lands which frightened her? There was nothing to be frightened of, and it was foolish to be frightened.
But that did not stop her from gasping and breathing hard and feeling the numbness rising up from her belly into her throat, her sweating hands losing all feeling. They were all exasperated with her-the house priest telling her that there was nothing out there but God's good green lands, her father shouting that he'd have none of that womanish nonsense in his house -and so she had learned never to whisper it aloud. Only in the convent had anyone understood. Oh, the dear convent where she had felt as snug as a mouse in her hole, and never, never having to go out of doors at all, except into the enclosed cloister garden. She would like to be back there, but now she was a woman grown, and her stepmother had little children and needed Gwenhwyfar.
The thought of marrying made her afraid, too. But then she should have her own house where she could do as she would and she would be the mistress; no one would dare to make fun of her!
Down below, the horses were running, but Gwenhwyfar's eyes were focused on the slender man in red, with dark curls shading his tanned brow, who moved among them. As swift he was as the horses themselves; she could well understand the name his Saxon foes gave him: Elf-arrow. Someone had whispered to her that he himself had fairy blood. Lancelet of the Lake, he called himself, and she had seen him in the magical Lake, that dreadful day when she had been lost, in the company of the terrible fairy woman.
Lancelet had caught the horse he wanted; one or two of her father's men shouted a warning, and Gwenhwyfar drew a breath of terror, herself wanting to cry out in dismay; that horse not even the king rode, only one or two of his best trainers. Lancelet, laughing, gestured disdain of their warning; he let the trainer come and hold the horse while he strapped the saddle on it. She could just hear his laughing voice.
"What good would it do to ride a lady's palfrey, which anyone could ride with a bridle of plaited straw? I want you to see-with leathers fitted like this, I can control the fiercest horse you have, and make him into a battle steed! Here, this way-" He gave a tug to a buckle somewhere under the horse, then swung himself up one-handed. The horse reared up; Gwenhwyfar watched with her mouth open as he leaned into it, forcing the horse down and under control, making it walk sedately. The spirited animal fidgeted, stepping sideways, and Lancelet gestured for one of the king's foot soldiers to give him a long pike.
"Now see-" he shouted. "Supposing that bale of straw there is a Saxon coming at me with one of those great blunt swords of theirs ... " and he let the horse go, pounding hard across the paddock; the other horses scattered as he came sweeping down on the straw bale and impaling it on the long pike, then snatching his sword from its scabbard as he whirled, checking the horse in mid gallop, swinging the sword about him in great circles. Even the king stepped back as he thundered toward them. He brought the animal to a full stop before the king, slid off and bowed.