"Well, don't get any ideas into that featherhead of yours," Leodegranz said gruffly. "You can look higher than that one. He's no more than one of King Ban's bastards by God-knows-who, some damsel of Avalon!"
"His mother is the Lady of Avalon, the great High Priestess of the Old People-and he is himself a king's son-"
"Ban of Benwick! Ban has half a dozen legitimate sons," said her father. "Why marry a king's captain? If all goes as I plan, you'll wed the High King himself!"
Gwenhwyfar shrank away, saying, "I'd be afraid to be the High Queen!"
"You're afraid of everything, anyway," her father said brutally. "That's why you need a man to take care of you, and better the King than the King's captain!" He saw her mouth trembling and said, genial again, "There, there, my girl, don't cry. You must trust me to know what's best for you. That's what I'm here for, to look after you and make a good marriage with a trusty man to look after my pretty little featherhead."
If he had raged at her, Gwenhwyfar could have held on to her rebellion. But how, she thought wildly, can I complain of the best of fathers, who has only my own welfare at heart?
3
On a day in early spring, in the year following Arthur's crowning, the lady Igraine sat in her cloister, bent over a set of embroidered altar linens. All her life she had loved this fine work, but as a young girl, and later, married to Gorlois, she had been kept busy-like all women-with the weaving and spinning and sewing of clothes for her household. As Uther's queen, with a household of servants, she had been able to spend her time on fine broideries and weaving of borders and ribbons in silk; and here in the nunnery she put her skill to good use. Otherwise, she thought a little ruefully, it would be for her as it was with so many of the nuns, the weaving only of the dark plain woolen dresses which all of them, including Igraine herself, wore, or the smooth, but boring, white linens for veils and coifs and altar cloths. Only two or three of the sisters could weave with silks or do fine embroidering, and of them Igraine was the cleverest.
She was a little troubled. Again, as she sat down at her frame this morning, she thought she heard the cry, and jerked around before she could stop herself; it seemed to her that somewhere Morgaine cried out "Mother!" and the cry was one of agony and despair. But the cloister was quiet and empty around her, and after a moment Igraine made the sign of the cross and sat down again to her work.
Still ... resolutely she banished the temptation. Long ago she had renounced the Sight as the work of the fiend; with sorcery she would have no doings. She did not believe Viviane was evil in herself, but the Old Gods of Avalon were certainly allied to the Devil or they could not maintain their force in a Christian land. And she had given her daughter to those Old Gods. Late last summer Viviane had sent her a message saying, If Morgaine is with you, tell her that all is well. Troubled, Igraine had sent a reply that she had not seen Morgaine since Arthur's crowning; she had thought her still safe at Avalon. The Mother Superior of the convent had been dismayed at the thought of a messenger from Avalon to one of her ladies; even when Igraine explained that it was a message from her sister, the lady had still been displeased and said firmly that there could be no coming and going, even of messages, with that ungodly place.
Igraine, then, had been deeply troubled-if Morgaine had left Avalon, she must have quarrelled with Viviane. It was unheard of for a sworn priestess of the highest rank to leave the Island except upon the business of Avalon. For Morgaine to leave without the knowledge or permission of the Lady was so unprecedented that it made her blood run cold. Where could she have gone? Had she run away with some paramour, was she living a lawless life without the rites either of Avalon or the church? Had she gone to Morgause? Was she lying somewhere dead? Nevertheless, although she prayed continually for her daughter, Igraine had resolutely refused the constant temptation to use the Sight.
Still, much of this winter, it seemed that Morgaine had walked at her side; not the pale, somber priestess she had seen at the crowning, but the little girl who had been the only comfort, those desperate, lonely years in Cornwall, of the frightened child-wife, child-mother she had been. Little Morgaine, in a saffron gown and ribbons, a solemn child, dark-eyed in her crimson cloak; Morgaine with her little brother in her arms-her two children sleeping, dark head and golden close together on the one pillow. How often, she wondered, had she neglected Morgaine after she had come to her beloved Uther, and had borne him a son and heir to his kingdom? Morgaine had not been happy at Uther's court, nor had she ever had much love for Uther. And it was for that reason, as much as from Viviane's entreaty, that she had let Morgaine go to be fostered at Avalon.
Only now she felt guilty; had she not been overquick to send her daughter away, so that she might give all her thought to Uther and his children? Against her will, an old saying of Avalon rang in Igraine's mind: the Goddess does not shower her gifts on those who reject them ... in sending her own children away, one to fosterage (for his own safety, she reminded herself, remembering Arthur lying white as death after the fall from the stallion) and the other to Avalon-in sending them away, had she herself sown the seed of loss? Was the Goddess unwilling to give her another child when she had let the first go so willingly? She had discussed this with her confessor, more than once, and he had reassured her that it was just as well to send Arthur away, every boy must go for fostering sooner or later; but, he said, she should not have sent Morgaine to Avalon. If the child was unhappy in Uther's court, she should have been sent to school in a nunnery somewhere.
She had thought, after hearing that Morgaine was not in Avalon, of sending a messenger to King Lot's court, to find out if she was there; but then the winter settled in in earnest, and every day was a new battle against cold, chilblains, the vicious dampness everywhere; even the sisters went hungry in the depths of winter, sharing what food they had with beggars and peasants.
And once in the hard weeks of winter, she thought she heard Morgaine's voice, crying-crying out for her in anguish: "Mother! Mother!" Morgaine, alone and terrified-Morgaine dying? Where, ah God, where? Her fingers clenched the cross which, like all the sisters of the convent, she wore at her belt. Lord Jesus, keep and guard her, Mary, Mother divine, even if she is a sinner and a sorceress ... pity her, Jesus, as you pitied the dame of Magdala who was worse than she ... .
In dismay, she realized that a tear had dripped down on the fine work she was doing; it might spot the work. She wiped her eyes with her linen veil and held the embroidery frame further away, narrowing her eyes to see better-ah, she was getting old, her sight blurred a little from time to time; or was it tears that blurred her vision?
She bent resolutely over her embroidery again, but Morgaine's face seemed again to be before her, and she could hear in her imagination that despairing shriek, as if Morgaine's soul were being torn from her body. She herself had cried out like that, for the mother she could hardly remember, when Morgaine was born ... did all women in childbirth cry out for their mothers? Terror gripped her. Morgaine in that desperate winter, giving birth somewhere ... Morgause had made some such jest at Arthur's crowning, saying Morgaine was as squeamish with her food as a breeding woman. Against her will, Igraine found herself counting on her fingers; yes, if it had been so with her, Morgaine would have borne her child in the dead of winter. And now, even in that soft spring, she seemed to hear again that cry; she longed to go to her daughter, but where, where?