The Mists of Avalon

Book Two. The High Queen

1

Far to the north, where Lot was king, the snow lay deep on the fells, and 'even at midday there was often no more than a twilit fog. On the rare days when the sun shone, the men could get out for some hunting, but the women were imprisoned in the castle. Morgause, idly twirling her spindle-she hated spinning as much as ever, but the room was too dark for any finer work-felt an icy draft from the opened door and looked up. She said in mild reproof, "It is too cold for that, Morgaine, and you have been complaining of the cold all day; now would you turn us all into icicles?"

"I was not complaining," said Morgaine. "Did I say a word? The room is as stuffy as a privy, and the smoke stinks. I want to breathe-no more!" She pushed the door shut and went back to the fire, rubbing her hands and shivering. "I have not once been warm since Midsummer."

"I doubt that not at all," said Morgause. "Your little passenger in there steals all the heat from your bones-he is warm and snug, and his mother shivers. It is always so."

"At least Midwinter is now past, the light comes earlier and stays later," said one of Morgause's women. "And perhaps in another fortnight, you will have your babe with you ... ."

Morgaine did not answer but stood shivering near the fire, chafing her hands as if they ached. Morgause thought that the girl looked like her own ghost, her face sharpened and fined to deathly thinness, her hands bony as skeleton sticks contrasted with the huge bulging of her pregnant belly. There were great dark circles under her eyes, and the lids were red as if sore with long weeping; but in all the moons Morgaine had been in this house, Morgause had not seen the younger woman shed a single tear.

I would comfort her, but how can I, if she does not weep?

Morgaine was wearing an old gown of Morgause's own, a faded and threadbare kirtle of dark blue, grotesquely too long. She looked clumsy, almost slatternly, and it exasperated Morgause that her kinswoman had not even troubled to take needle and thread and shorten the dress somewhat. Her ankles, too, were swollen so that they bulged over her shoe tops; that was from having only salt fish and coarse vegetables to eat at this time of year. They all needed fresh food, which was not easy to come by in this weather. Well, perhaps the men would have some luck at hunting and she could induce Morgaine to eat some of the fresh meat; after four pregnancies of her own, Morgause knew the near-starvation of late pregnancy. Once, she remembered, when she was pregnant with Gawaine, she had gone into the dairy and eaten some of the clay they kept for whitening it. An old midwife had told her that when a pregnant woman cannot keep herself from eating such strange things, it is the child that hungers and she should feed him whatever he wishes for. Maybe tomorrow there would be fresh herbs by the mountain stream-that was something every pregnant woman craved, especially in late winter like this. Morgaine's beautiful dark hair was tangled, too, in a loose braid-it looked as if she hadn't combed or rebraided it for weeks. She turned from the fire now, took down a comb that was kept on the shelf, picked up one, of Morgause's little lapdogs and began combing it. Morgause thought, You would be better occupied at combing your own hair, but she held her peace; Morgaine had been so edgy lately that there was no speaking to her at all. It was natural enough, so near her time, she thought, watching the younger woman's bony hands pulling the comb through the matted hair; the little dog yelped and whined, and Morgaine hushed him in a softer voice than, she ever used to anything human these days.

"It cannot be long now, Morgaine," Morgause said gently. "By Candlemas, surely, you will be delivered."

"It cannot be too soon for me." Morgaine gave the dog a final pat and set him on the floor. "There, now you are decent to be among ladies, puppy ... how fine you are, with your hair all smooth!"

"I will make up the fire," said one of the women, whose name was Beth, putting aside her spindle and thrusting the distaff into a basket of loose; wool. "The men will be home, surely-it is already dark." She went over to the fire, tripped on a loose stick, and half fell on the hearth. "Gareth, you little wretch, will you clear away this rubbish?" She flung the stick into fire, and five-year-old Gareth, who had been pushing the sticks about prattling to them in an undertone, set up a howl of outrage-the sticks were his armies!

"Well, Gareth, it is night, and your armies must go to their tents," said Morgause briskly. Pouting, the little boy pushed the array of small sticks into a corner, but one or two he put carefully into a fold of his tunic-they were thicker ones, which Morgaine, earlier that year, had carved into the crude likeness of men in helmets and armor, dyed with berry juice for their crimson tunics.

"Will you make me another Roman knight, Morgaine?"

"Not now, Gareth," she said. "My hands ache with the cold. Tomorrow, perhaps."

He came and scowled, standing at her knee, demanding, "When will I be old enough to go hunting with Father and Agravaine?"

"It will be a few years still, I suppose," said Morgaine, smiling. "Not until you are tall enough not to be lost in a snowdrift!"

"I'm big!" he said, drawing himself up to his full height, "Look, when you're sitting down I'm taller than you are, Morgaine!" He kicked restlessly at the chair. "There's nothing to do in here!"

"Well," said Morgaine, "I could always teach you to spin, and then you need not be idle." She picked up Beth's abandoned distaff and held it out to him, but he made a face and started back.

"I'm going to be a knight! Knights don't have to spin!"

"That's a pity," Beth said sourly. "Perhaps they would not wear out so many cloaks and tunics if they knew what toil it is to spin them!"

"Yet there was a knight who did spin, so the tale says," Morgaine said, holding out her arms to the little boy. "Come here. No, sit on the bench, Gareth, you are all too heavy now for me to hold you on my lap like a sucking babe. There was in the old days, before the Romans came, a knight named Achilles, and he was under a curse; an old sorceress told his mother that he would die in battle, and so she put him into skirts and hid him among the women, where he learned to spin and to weave and do all that was fitting for a maiden."

"And did he die in battle?"

"He did indeed, for when the city of Troy was besieged, they called on all the knights and warriors to come and take it, and Achilles went with the rest, and he was the best of all the knights. It was told of him that he was offered a choice, he could live long in safety, then die an old man in his bed and be forgotten, or he could live a short life and die young with great glory, and he chose the glory; so men still tell of his story in the sagas. He fought with a knight in Troy called Hector-Ectorius, that is, in our tongue-"

"Was it that same sir Ectorius who fostered our king Arthur?" asked the little boy, wide-eyed.

"To be sure it was not, for it was many hundred years ago, but it might have been one of his forefathers."

"When I am at court, and one of Arthur's Companions," said Gareth, his eyes round as saucers, "I will be the best fighter in war, and I will win all the prizes when there are games. What happened to Achilles?"

"I remember it not-it was long ago, at Uther's court, I heard the tale," Morgaine said, pressing her hands against her back as if it hurt her.

"Tell me about Arthur's knights, Morgaine. You have really seen Lancelet, have you not? I saw him, that day at the King's crowning-has he killed any dragons? Tell me, Morgaine-"

"Don't plague her, Gareth, she's not well," said Morgause. "Run out to the kitchens and see if they can find you some bannock."

The child looked sulky, but he took his carved knight out of his tunic and went off, talking to it in an undertone. "So, sir Lancelet, we will go out and we will kill all the dragons in the Lake. ..."

"That one, he talks only of war and fighting," said Morgause impatiently, "and his precious Lancelet, as if it were not enough to have Gawaine away with Arthur at the wars! I hope that when Gareth is old enough, there will be peace in the land!"

"There will be peace," Morgaine said absently, "but it will not matter, for he will die at the hands of his dearest friend-"

"What?" cried Morgause staring, but the younger woman's eyes were vacant and unfocused; Morgause shook her gently and demanded, "Morgaine! Morgaine, are you ill?"

Morgaine blinked and shook her head. "I am sorry-what did you say to me?"

"What did I say to you? What, rather, did you say to me? " Morgause demanded, but at the look of distress in Morgaine's eyes, her skin prickled. She stroked the younger woman's hand, dismissing the grim words as delirium. "I think you must have been dreaming with your eyes wide open." She found that she did not want to think that Morgaine might have had' a moment of the Sight. "You must care for yourself better, Morgaine, you hardly eat, you don't sleep-"

"Food sickens me," Morgaine said, sighing. "Would it were summer, that I might have some fruit ... last night I dreamed I ate of the apples of Avalon-" Her voice trembled, and she lowered her head so that Morgause would not see the tears hanging from her lashes; but she clenched her hands and did not weep.

"We are all weary of salt fish and smoked bacon," said Morgause, "but if Lot has had good hunting, you must eat some of the fresh meat. Morgaine, she thought, had been trained in Avalon to ignore hunger and thirst and fatigue; now, pregnant, when she should relax her austerities somewhat, she took pride in enduring everything without complaint.

"You are priestess-trained, Morgaine, hardened to fasting, but yout child cannot endure hunger and thirst, and you are far too thin-"

"Don't mock me!" Morgaine said angrily, gesturing at her enormously swollen belly.

"But your hands and face are like bare bone," said Morgause. "You must not starve yourself like this, you have a child and you must consider him!"

"I will consider his welfare when he considers mine!" Morgaine said, rising abruptly, but Morgause took her hands and drew her down again. "Dear child, I know what you are going through, I have borne four children, remember? These last few days are worse than all the long months combined!"

"I should have had the sense to be rid of it while there was time!"

Morgause opened her mouth for a sharp answer, then sighed and said, "It's too late to say you should have done so or so; ten days more will bring it to an end." She took her own comb from her tunic folds and began to unravel Morgaine's tangled braid.

"Let it be-" said Morgaine restlessly, pulling her head away from the comb. "I will do it myself tomorrow. I have been too weary to think of it. But if you are sick of looking at me all bedraggled like this-well, give me the comb!"

"Sit still, lennavan," said Morgause. "Don't you remember, when you were a little girl at Tintagel, you used to cry for me to comb your hair because your nurse-what was her name? ... Now I remember: Gwennis, that was it-she used to pull your hair so, and you would say, 'Let Aunt Morgause do it?' " She teased the comb through the tangles, smoothing out strand after strand, and stroked Morgaine's head affectionately. "You have lovely hair."

"Dark and coarse as a pony's mane in winter!"

"No, fine as the wool of a black sheep, and shining like silk," Morgause said, still stroking the dark strands. "Hold still, I will plait it for you ... . Always I have wished for a girl-child, so that I could dress her finely and plait her hair like this ... but the Goddess sent me only sons, and so you must just be my little daughter now when you need me ... ." She pulled the dark head against her breast, and Morgaine lay there, shaking with the tears she could not shed. "Ah, there, there, my little one, don't cry, it won't be long now, there, there ... you have not been taking good care of yourself, you need a mother's care, my little girl ... ."

"It is only ... it is so dark here ... I long so for the sun ... ."

"In the summer we have more than our share of sunlight, it is light even to midnight," said Morgause, "and so in winter we get so little." Morgaine was still shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and Morgause held her close, rocking her gently. "There, little one, lennavan, there, I know how you feel ...I bore Gawaine in the darkest time of winter. It was dark and stormy like this, and I was only sixteen years old then, and very frightened, I knew so little of bearing children. I wished then that I had stayed to be priestess at Avalon, or at Uther's court, or anywhere but here. Lot was away at the wars, I hated my big body, I was sick all the time and my back hurt, and I was all alone with only strange women. Would you believe, all that winter, I kept my old doll secretly in my bed, and held her, and cried myself every night to sleep? Such a baby I was! You at least are a woman grown, Morgaine."

Morgaine said, choking, "I know I am too old to be such a baby . .." but still she clung to Morgause, while the older woman petted and stroked her hair.

"And now that same babe I bore even before I was a grown woman is away fighting with the Saxons," she said, "and you, whom I held on my lap like a doll, you are to have a babe of your own. Ah, yes, I knew there was news I meant to tell you; the cook's wife Marged has borne her child-no doubt that was why the porridge was so full of husks this morning-so there will be a wet nurse ready at hand for yours. Though indeed, when you see him, I doubt not you will want to suckle him yourself."

Morgaine made a gesture of revulsion, and Morgause smiled. "So I felt myself, before each of my sons was born, but when I looked once on their faces, I felt I could never let them out of my arms." She felt the younger woman flinch. "What is it, Morgaine?"

"My back aches; I have been sitting too long, that is all," Morgaine said, rising restlessly and wandering around the room, her hands clasped at the small of her back. Morgause narrowed her eyes thoughtfully; yes, in the last few days the girl's bulging belly was carried lower, it could not be long now. She should have the women's hall filled with fresh straw and speak to the midwives to be at hand for the lying-in.

LOT'S MEN HAD FOUND a deer on the hills; skinned and cleaned, the smell roasting over the great fire filled the whole of the castle, and even Morgaine did not refuse a slice of the raw liver, dripping blood-by custom this food was saved for such of the women as were with child.

Morgause could see her grimace with revulsion, as she herself had done when such things were given to her in her own pregnancies, but Morgaine, as Morgause had done, sucked at ft with avidity, her body demanding the nourishment even as her mind revolted. Later, though, when the meat was cooked and carvers were slicing it and carrying it around, she gestured refusal. Morgause took a slice of meat and laid it on Morgaine's dish.

"Eat it," she commanded. "No, Morgaine, I will be obeyed, you cannot starve yourself and your child this way."

"I cannot," said Morgaine in a low voice. "I will be sick-put it by and I will try to eat it later."

"What is wrong?"

Morgaine lowered her head and muttered, "I cannot eat-the meat of deer-I ate it at Beltane when-and now the very smell sickens me-" And this child was gotten at Beltane at the ritual fires. What is it that troubles her so? That memory should be a pleasant one, Morgause thought, smiling at the memory of the Beltane license. She wondered if the girl had fallen into the hands of some particularly brutish man and had undergone something like rape-that would account for her rage and despair at this pregnancy. Still, done was done, and Morgaine was old enough to know that not all men were brutes, even if she had once fallen into the hands of one who was neither gentle nor skilled with women.

Morgause took a slice of oatcake and sopped it in the meat juice in the dish. "Eat this, then-you will get the good of the meat so," she said, "and I have made you some tea with the hips of roses; it is sour and will taste good to you. I remember how I craved sour things when I was breeding."

Morgaine ate obediently, and it seemed to Morgause that a little color came into her face. She made a face at the sourness of the drink, but drank it down thirstily nonetheless. "I do not like it," she said, "but how strange, I cannot stop drinking it."

"Your child craves it," said Morgause seriously. "Babes in the womb know what is good for them, and they demand it of us."

Lot, sitting at his ease between two of his huntsmen, smiled amiably at his sister-in-law. "An old skinny animal, but a good dinner for late winter," he said, "and I'm just as glad we didn't get a breeding doe. We saw two or three of them, but I told my men to let them be, and even called off the dogs-I want the deer to drop their fawns in peace, and I could see that time is near, so many of them were heavy." He yawned, taking up small Gareth, whose face was greasy and shining with the meat. "Soon you'll be big enough to go hunting with us," he said. "You and the little Duke of Cornwall, no doubt."

"Who is the Duke of Cornwall, Father?" Gareth asked.

"Why, the babe Morgaine carries," Lot replied, smiling, and Gareth stared at Morgaine. "I don t see any baby. Where is your baby, Morgaine?"

Morgaine chuckled uneasily. "Next month at this time I shall show him to you."

"Will the spring maiden bring it to you?"

"You could say so," Morgaine said, smiling despite herself.

"How can a baby be a duke?"

"My father was Duke of Cornwall. I am his only child in marriage. When Arthur came to reign, he gave Tintagel back to Igraine; it will pass from her to me and to my sons, if I have any."

Morgause, looking at the young woman, thought: Her son stands nearer the throne than my own Gawaine. I am full sister to Igraine, and Viviane but her half-sister, so Gawaine is nearer kin than Lancelet. But Morgaine's son will be Arthur's nephew. I wonder if Morgaine has thought of that?

"Certainly, then, Morgaine, your son is Duke of Cornwall-"

"Or Duchess," said Morgaine, smiling again.

"No, I can tell by the way you carry, low and broad, that it will be a son," said Morgause. "I have borne four, and I have watched my women through pregnancies ... ." She grinned maliciously at Lot and said, "My husband takes very seriously that old writing which says that a king should be father to his people!"

Lot said good-naturedly, "I think it only right for my true-born sons' by my queen to have many foster-brothers; bare is back, they say, without brother, and my sons are many ... . Come, kinswoman, will you take the harp and sing for us?"

Morgaine pushed aside the remnant of gravy-soaked oatcake. "I haves,' eaten too much for singing," she said, frowning, and began to pace the hall again, and Morgause again saw her hands pressed to her back. Gareth came; and tugged at her skirt.

"Sing to me. Sing me that song about the dragon, Morgaine."

"It is too long for tonight-you must be away to your bed," she said, but she went to the corner, took up the small harp that stood there, and sat on a bench. She plucked a few notes at random, bent to adjust one of the' strings, then broke into a rowdy drinking song of the armies.

Lot joined in the chorus, as did his men, their raucous voices ringing up to the smoky beams:

"The Saxons came in dark of night,

With all the folk asleep,

They killed off all the women, for-

They'd rather rape the sheep!"

"You never learned that song in Avalon, kinswoman," Lot said, grinning, as Morgaine rose to replace the harp.

"Sing again," Gareth teased, but she shook her head.

"I am too short of breath now for singing," she said. She put the harp down and took up her spindle, but after a moment or two put it aside and-j once more began pacing the hall.

"What ails you, girl?" Lot asked. "You're restless as a caged bear!"

"My back aches with sitting," she said, "and that meat my aunt would have me eat has given me a bellyache after all." She held her hands again to her back and bent over suddenly as if with a cramp; then, suddenly, she gave a startled cry, and Morgause, watching, saw the too-long kirtle turn dark and wet, soaking her to the knees.

"Oh, Morgaine, you've wet yourself," Gareth cried out. "You're too big to wet your clothes-my nurse would beat me for that!"

"Hush, Gareth!" Morgause said sharply, and hurried to Morgaine, who stood bent over, her face crimson with astonishment and shame.

"It's all right, Morgaine," she said, taking her by the arm. "Does it hurt you here-and here? I thought as much. You are in labor, that is all, didn't you know?" But how should the girl know? It was her first, and she was never one for listening to women's gossip, so she would not know the signs. For much of this day she must have been feeling the first pains. She called Beth and said, "Take the Duchess of Cornwall to the women's hall and call Megan and Branwen. And take down her hair; she must have nothing knotted or bound about her or her clothing." She added, stroking Morgaine's hair, "I would that I had known this sooner this day when I braided your hair-I will come down soon and stay with you, Morgaine."

She watched the girl go out, leaning heavily on the nurse's arm. She said to Lot, "I must go and stay with her. It is her first time, and she will be frightened, poor girl."

"There's no hurry," Lot said idly. "If it's her first, she'll be in labor all this night, and you'll have time to hold her hand." He gave his wife a good-natured smile. "You are quick to bring our Gawaine's rival into the world!"

"What do you mean?" she asked, low.

"Only this-that Arthur and Morgaine were born of one womb, and her son stands nearer the throne than ours."

"Arthur is young," Morgause said coldly, "and has time enough to father a dozen sons. Why should you think he has need of an heir?"

Lot shrugged. "Fate is fickle," he said. "Arthur bears a charmed life in battle-and I doubt not that the Lady of the Lake had something to do with that, damn her-and Gawaine is all too loyal to his king. But fate may turn away from Arthur, and if that day should come, I would like to know that Gawaine stood closest to the throne. Think well, Morgause; the life of an infant is uncertain. You might do well to beseech your Goddess that the little Duke of Cornwall should not draw a second breath."

"How could I do that to Morgaine? She is like my own daughter!"

Lot chucked his wife affectionately under the chin. He said, "You are a loving mother, Morgause, and I wouldn't have you otherwise. But I doubt if Morgaine is so eager to have a child in her arms. I have heard her say that she wished she had cast forth her child-"

"She was ill and weary," said Morgause angrily. "Do you think I did not say as much, when I was weary of dragging around a great belly? Any woman says such things in the last few moons of her pregnancy."

"Still, if Morgaine's child should be born without breath, I do not think she would grieve overmuch. Nor-this is what I am saying-should you."

Morgause defended her kinswoman: "She is good to our Gareth, has made him toys and playthings and told him tales. I am sure she will be just as good a mother to her own."

"Yet, it is not to our interest or our son's that Morgaine should think of her son as Arthur's heir." He put his arm around his wife, "Look sweeting, you and I have four sons, and no doubt when they're all grown they'll be at one another's throats-Lothian is not so big a kingdom as all that! But if Gawaine were High King, then there would be kingdom enough for them all."

She nodded slowly. Lot had no love for Arthur, as he had had none for Uther; but she had not thought him quite so ruthless as this. "Are you asking me to kill her child as it comes forth?"

"She is our kinswoman and my guest," Lot said, "and thus sacred, I would not invoke the curse of a kinslayer. I said only-the lives of newborn babes are frail, unless they are very carefully tended, and if Morgaine has a difficult time of it, it might be well that none has leisure to tend the babe."

Morgause set her teeth and turned away from Lot. "I must go my to kinswoman."

Behind her Lot smiled. "Think well on what I have said, my wife."

Down in the little hall, a fire had been lighted for the women; a kettle of gruel was boiling on the hearth, for it would be a long night. Fresh straw had been spread. Morgause had forgotten, as women happy with their children do, the dread of birth, but the sight of the fresh straw made her teeth clench and a shudder go down her back. Morgaine had been put into a loose shift, and her hair, unbound, was hanging loose down her back; she was walking up and down in the room, leaning on Megan's arm. It all had the air of a festival, and so indeed it was for the other women. Morgause went up to her kinswoman and took her arm.

"Come now, you can walk with me a bit, and Megan can go and prepare the swaddlings for your child," she said. Morgaine looked at her and Morgause thought the younger woman's eyes were like those of a wild animal in a snare, awaiting the hunter's hand which will cut its throat.

"Will it be long, Aunt?"

"Now, now, you must not think ahead," said Morgause tenderly "Think, if you must, that you have been in labor most of this day, so it will go all the faster now." But to herself she thought, It will not be easy for her, she is so small, and she is reluctant to bear this child; no doubt there is a long hard night ahead of her ... .

And then she remembered that Morgaine had the Sight, and that it was useless to lie to her. She patted Morgaine's pale cheek. "No matter, child, we will take good care of you. It is always long with a first child-they are loath to leave their snug nest-but we will do all we can. Did anyone bring a cat into the room?"

"A cat? Yes, she is there, but why, Aunt?" Morgaine asked.

"Because, little one, if you have seen a cat kittening, you know that the cat bears her children purring, not crying out in pain, and so perhaps her pleasure in bearing will help you to feel the pains less," Morgause said, stroking the small furry creature. "It is a form of birth magic that perhaps you do not know in Avalon. Yes, you may sit down now, and rest for a little, and hold the cat in your lap." She watched Morgaine stroking the cat in a moment of respite, but then she doubled over again with the sharp cramps, and Morgause urged her to get up again and keep walking. "As long as you can bear it-it goes quicker so," she said.

"I am so tired, so tired ... " Morgaine said, moaning a little.

You will be more tired before this is over, Morgause thought, but she only came and put her arms around the younger woman. "Here. Lean on me, child ... ."

"You are so like my mother ..." Morgaine said, clinging to Morgause, her face contorted as if she were about to cry. "I wish my mother were here ... " and then she bit her lip as if she regretted her moment of weakness, and began slowly walking, walking up and down the crowded room.

The hours dragged slowly by. Some of the women slept, but there were plenty to take their turn in walking with Morgaine, who grew more and more frightened and pale as time wore on. The sun rose, and still the midwives had not said Morgaine might lie down in the straw, though she was so weary that she stumbled and could hardly put one foot before another. One moment she said she was cold and clutched her warm fur cloak about her; another time she thrust it from her, saying that she was burning up. Again and again she retched and vomited, at last bringing up nothing but green bile; but she could not seem to stop retching, though they forced her to drink hot herb drinks, which she gulped down thirstily. But then she would begin retching again, and Morgause, watching her, her mind full of what Lot had said, wondered if it would make any difference what she did or did not do ... it might well be that Morgaine could not survive this birth.

At last she could walk no more, and they let her lie down, gasping and biting her lips against the recurrent pains; Morgause knelt beside her, holding her hand as the hours wore on. A long time past noon, Morgause asked her quietly, "Was he-the child's father-much bigger than you? Sometimes when a baby takes so long to be born, it means the child takes after his father and is too big for the mother."

She wondered, as she had wondered before, who was this child's father? She had seen Morgaine looking on Lancelet at Arthur's crowning; if Morgaine had gotten herself with child by Lancelet, that might well explain why Viviane had been so angered that poor Morgaine had had to flee from Avalon.... In all of these months, Morgaine had said nothing of her reasons for leaving the temple, and of her child, no more than that it was gotten at Beltane fires. Viviane was so tender of Morgaine, she would not have allowed her to bear a child to just anyone ... .

But if Morgaine, rebelling against her chosen destiny, had taken Lancelet for lover, or had seduced him into the Beltane grove, then it might explain why Viviane's chosen priestess, her successor as Lady of the Lake, fled from Avalon.

But Morgaine said only, "I did not see his face; he came to me as the Horned One," and Morgause knew, with her own faint trace of the Sight, that the younger woman was lying. Why?

THE HOURS DRAGGED BY. Once Morgause went into the main hall, where Lot's men were playing at knucklebones. Lot sat watching, one of Morgause's younger waiting-women on his lap and his hand playing casually with her breasts; as Morgause came in, the woman looked up apprehensively and started to slide from his knees, but Morgause shrugged. "Stay where you are; we have no need of you among the midwives, and tonight at least I shall be with my kinswoman and have no leisure to argue with you over a place in his bed. Tomorrow it might be another matter." The young woman bent her head, blushing. Lot said, "How goes it with Morgaine, sweeting?"

"Not well," Morgause said. "It was never so hard for me." Then she cried out in a rage, "Did you ill-wish my kinswoman that she might never rise from childbed?"

Lot shook his head. "You have the charms and magic in this kingdom, lady. I wish Morgaine no ill. God knows, that would be grievous waste of a pretty woman-and Morgaine's handsome enough, for all her sharp tongue! Though that she comes by honest enough from your side of the family, does she not, sweeting, and it adds salt to the dish ... ."

Morgause smiled affectionately at her husband. Whatever pretty toys he might choose for his bed-and the girl on his lap was just one more of them-she knew that she suited him well.

"Where is Morgaine, Mother?" Gareth asked. "She said that today she would carve me another knight to play with!"

"She is sick, little son." Morgause drew a long breath, the weight of anxiety settling over her again.

"She will be well soon," Lot said, "and then you will have a little cousin to play with. He shall be your foster-brother and your friend-we have a saying that kin ties last for three generations and foster ties for seven, and since Morgaine's son will be both to you, he will be more than your own brother."

"I will be glad to have a friend," said Gareth. "Agravaine mocks me and calls me a silly baby, saying I am too old for wooden knights!"

"Well, Morgaine's son will be your friend, when he is grown a bit," said Morgause. "At first he will be like a puppy with his eyes not open, but in a year or two he will be old enough to play with you. But the Goddess hears the prayers of little children, son, so you must pray to the Goddess that she will hear you and bring Morgaine a strong son and health, and not come to her as the Death-crone-" and suddenly she began to cry. With astonishment, Gareth watched his mother weep, and Lot said, "As bad as that, sweetheart?"

Morgause nodded. But there was no need to frighten the child. She wiped her eyes with her kirtle.

Gareth looked upward and said, "Please, dear Goddess, bring my cousin Morgaine a strong son, so we can grow up and be knights together."

Against her will, Morgause laughed and stroked the chubby cheek. "Such a prayer I am sure the Goddess will hear. Now I must go back to Morgaine."

But she felt Lot's eyes on her as she left the hall, and remembered what he had said to her earlier-that it might be better for them all if Morgaine's son did not survive.

I shall be content if Morgaine comes alive through this, she thought, and almost for the first time, she regretted that she had learned so little of the great magics of Avalon, now, when she needed some charm or spell that could ease this struggle for Morgaine. It had gone so hard, so frightfully hard with the girl, her own childbed had been nothing to this ... .

She came back into the women's hall. The midwives had Morgaine kneeling upright in the straw now, to help the child slip from the womb; but she was slumping between them like a lifeless thing, so that two of them had to hold her upright. She was crying out now in gasps, then biting her lip against the cries, trying to be brave. Morgause went and knelt before Morgaine in the blood-flecked straw; she held out her hands, and Morgaine gripped them, looking at Morgause almost without recognition.

"Mother!" she cried out. "Mother, I knew you would come-"

Then her face convulsed again and she flung back her head, her mouth squared with unvoiced screams. Megan said, "Hold her, my lady-no, behind her like that, hold her upright-" and Morgause, gripping Morgaine beneath the arms, felt the girl shaking, retching, sobbing as she fought and struggled, blindly, to get away from them. She was no longer capable of; helping them or even letting them do what they must, but screamed aloud when they touched her. Morgause shut her eyes, unwilling to see, holding Morgaine's frail convulsing body with all her strength. She screamed again, "Mother! Mother!" but Morgaine did not know whether she was calling '1 on Igraine or on the Goddess. Then she slumped backward into Morgaine's arms, all but unconscious; there was the sharp smell of blood in the room, and Megan held up something dark and shrivelled-looking.

"Look, lady Morgaine," she said, "you have a fine son-" then she bent over him, breathing into the little mouth. There was a sharp, outraged sound, the cry of a newborn shrieking with fury at the cold world into which he had come.

But Morgaine lay collapsed in Morgause's arms, utterly exhausted, and could not even open her eyes to look at her child.

THE BABE HAD BEEN washed and swaddled; Morgaine had swallowed a cup of hot milk with honey in it, and herbs against the bleeding, and now she lay drowsing, weary, not even stirring as Morgause bent to kiss her lightly on the brow.

She would live and heal, though Morgause had never seen a woman struggle so hard, and yet live, with a living child. And the midwife said that after all they had had to do to deliver this one alive, it was unlikely Morgaine would ever bear another. Which, Morgause thought, was just as well. She realized now that her own birthings, which had not been easy, had been nothing to this.

She picked up the swaddled child, looking down at the small features. He seemed to be breathing well enough, though sometimes, when a child did not cry at once and it was necessary to breathe into his mouth, the breathing would fail again later and he would die. But he was a healthy pink, even the tiny nails rosy. Dark hair, perfectly straight, dark, fine down on the small arms and legs-yes, this one was fairy-born, like Morgaine herself. It might indeed be Lancelet's son, and so doubly near to Arthur's throne.

The child should be given to a wet nurse at once ... and then Morgause hesitated. No doubt, when she was a little rested, Morgaine would want to hold and suckle her child; it always happened that way, no matter how difficult the birth. And the harder the birth, the more joy the mother seemed to have in nursing her babe; the worse the struggle, the more was the love and delight when the babe was actually put to her breast.

And then she thought, against her will, of Lot's words. If I want to see Gawaine on the throne, this child stands in his way. She had not wanted to listen when Lot said it, but with the child actually in her hands, she could not help thinking it would not be so evil a thing if this child were overlaid by his nurse, or too weak to take suck. And if Morgaine had never held him or suckled him, she would not feel as much grief; if it was the will of the Goddess that he should not live ...

I want only to spare her sorrow ... .

Morgaine's child, probably by Lancelet, both of the old royal line of Avalon ... should harm come to Arthur, the people would accept this child for his throne.

But she was not even sure it was Lancelet's child.

And although Morgause had borne four sons, Morgaine was the little girl she had petted and cared for like a doll, carried in her arms; she had brushed her hair and washed her and brought her gifts. Could she do this to Morgaine's own child? Who was to say Arthur would not have a dozen sons by his queen, whoever she was?

But Lancelet's son ... yes, Lancelet's son she could abandon to death without a qualm. Lancelet was no closer kin to Arthur than Gawaine, yet Arthur preferred him, turned to Lancelet in everything. Just as she herself had always stood in Viviane's shadow, the unregarded sister, passed over for High Queen-she had never forgiven Viviane that she had chosen Igraine for Uther-just so, the loyal Gawaine would always stand in the shadow of the more flamboyant Lancelet. If Lancelet had played with Morgaine or dishonored her, all the more reason to hate him.

For there was no reason Morgaine should bear Lancelet's bastard child in secrecy and sorrow. Did Viviane think her precious son too good for Morgaine, perhaps? Morgause had seen that the girl wept in secret all during these long months; was she sick with love and abandonment?

Viviane, damn her, uses lives like knucklebones to be cast in play! She flung Igraine into Uther's arms without thought for Gorlois, she claimed Morgaine for Avalon; will she make wreck of Morgaine's life too?

If she could only be sure it was Lancelet's child!

As she had regretted, when Morgaine was in labor, that she had not enough magic to ease the birth, so now she regretted how little she knew of magic. She had not, when she dwelt in Avalon, had the interest nor the persistence to study the Druid lore. But still, as Viviane's fosterling, she had learned one thing and another from the priestesses, who had petted and spoilt her; offhand and good-naturedly, as one indulges a child, they had shown her certain simple spells and magics.

Well, now she would use them. She shut the doors of the chamber and lighted a new fire; she clipped three hairs from the silky down on the child's head, and bending over the sleeping Morgaine, cut a few of her hairs too. She pricked the child's finger with her bodkin, rocking him after to hush the fitful squalling; then, casting secret herbs on the fire with the hairs and blood, she whispered a word she had been taught, and stared into the flames. And caught her breath in silence as the flames swirled, died, and for a moment a face looked out at her-a young face, crowned with fair hair and shadowed by antlers casting a darkness over the blue eyes that were like Uther's ... .

Morgaine had spoken truth when she said he had come to her as the Horned God; yet she had lied. ....orgause should have known; they had made the Great Marriage for Arthur, then, before his crowning. Had Viviane planned this too, a child that should be born of the two royal lines? There was a small sound behind her and she looked up, to see that Morgaine had struggled to her feet and was standing there, clinging to the bed frame, her face white as death.

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.

"My lord! I ask for leave to train horses and men, so that you may lead them into battle when the Saxons come again, to defeat them as he did at Celidon Wood last summer. We have had victories, but one day there will be a mighty battle which will decide for all time whether Saxon or Roman will rule this land. We are training all the horses we can get, but yours are better than those we can buy or breed."

"I have not sworn allegiance to Arthur," her father said. "Uther was another matter; he was a tried soldier and Ambrosius' man. Arthur is little more than a boy-"

"You still believe that, after the battles he has won?" Lancelet asked. "He has held his throne now for more than a year, he is your High King, sir. Whether you have sworn or not, every battle he fights against the Saxons protects you, too. Horses and men-that is little enough to ask."

Leodegranz nodded. "This is no place to discuss the strategy of a kingdom, sir Lancelet. I have seen what you can do with the horse. He is yours, my guest."

Lancelet bowed low and thanked King Leodegranz formally, but Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes shine like those of a delighted boy. Gwenhwyfar wondered how old he was.

"Come within my hall," her father said, "we will drink together, and I will make you an offer."

Gwenhwyfar slid down from the wall and ran through the garden to the kitchens, where her father's wife was supervising the baking women. "Madam, my father will be coming in with the High King's emissary, Lancelet; they will want food and drink."

Alienor gave her a startled glance. "Thank you, Gwenhwyfar. Go and make yourself tidy and you may serve the wine. I am far too busy."

Gwenhwyfar ran to her room, pulled her best gown on over the simple kirtle she wore, and hung a string of coral beads about her neck. She unbraided her fair hair and let it fall, rippled from the tight braiding. Then she put on the little gold maiden's circlet she wore, and went down, composing her steps and moving lightly; she knew the blue gown became her as no other color, no matter how costly, could do.

She fetched a bronze basin, filled it with warmed water from the kettle hanging near the fire, and strewed rose leaves in it; she came into the hall as her father and Lancelet were entering. She set down her basin, took their cloaks and hung them on the peg, then came and offered them the warmed, scented water to wash their hands. Lancelet smiled, and she knew he had recognized her.

"Did we not meet on the Isle of the Priests, lady?"

"You have met my daughter, sir?"

Lancelet nodded, and Gwenhwyfar said, in her shyest little voice-she had found, long ago, that it displeased her father if she spoke out boldly ' -"Father, he showed me the way to my convent door when I was lost."

Leodegranz smiled at her indulgently. "My little featherhead, if she goes three steps from her own doorway, she is lost. Well, sir Lancelet, what do you think of my horses?"

"I have told you-they are better than any we can buy or breed," he said. "We have some from the Moorish realms down in Spain, and we have bred them with the highland ponies, so we have horses that are sturdy and can endure our climate, but are swift and brave. But we need more. We can breed only so many. You have more than enough, and I can show you how to train them so you can lead them into battle-"

"No," the king interrupted, "I am an old man. I have no desire to learn new battle methods. I have been four times married, but all my former wives bore only sickly girls who die before they are weaned, sometimes before they are baptized. I have daughters; when the eldest marries, her husband will lead my men into battle, and can train them as he will. Tell your High King to come here, and we will discuss the matter."

Lancelet said, a little stiffly, "I am my lord Arthur's cousin and his captain, sire, but even I do not tell him to come and go."

"Beseech him, then, to come to an old man who does not want to ride out from his own fireside," the king said, a little wryly. "If he will not come for me, perhaps he will come to know how I will dispose of my horses and the armed men to ride them."

Lancelet bowed. "No doubt he will."

"Enough of this, then; pour us some wine, daughter," the king said, and Gwenhwyfar came shyly and poured wine into their cups. "Now run along, my girl, so that my guest and I may talk together."

Gwenhwyfar, dismissed, waited in the garden until a servant came out and called for the lord Lancelet's horse and armor. The horse he had ridden here and the horse her father had given him were brought to the door, and she watched from the shadow of the wall until she saw him ride away; then she stepped out and stood waiting. Her heart pounded-would he think her too bold? But he saw her and smiled, and the smile seized her very heart.

"Are you not afraid of that great fierce horse?"

Lancelet shook his head. "My lady, I do not believe the horse was ever foaled that I cannot ride."

She said, almost whispering, "Is it true that you control horses with your magic?"

He threw back his head with a ringing laugh. "By no means, lady; I have no magic. I like horses and I understand their ways and the way their minds work-that is all. Do I look to you like a sorcerer?"

"But-they say you have fairy blood," she said, and his laughter grew grave. He said, "My mother was indeed one of the old race who ruled this land before the Roman people ever came here, or even the northern Tribesmen. She is priestess on the Isle of Avalon, and a very wise woman."

"I can see that you would not want to speak ill of your mother," Gwenhwyfar said, "but the sisters on Ynis Witrin said that the women of Avalon were evil witches and served the devils ... ."

He shook his head, still grave. "Not so," he said. "I do not know my mother well; I was fostered elsewhere. I fear her, as much as I love. But I can tell you she is no evil woman. She brought my lord Arthur to the throne, and gave him his sword to stand against the Saxons-does that sound so evil to you? As for her magic-it is only the ignorant among them who say she is a sorceress. I think it well that a woman should be wise."

Gwenhwyfar hung her head. "I am not wise; I am very stupid. Even among the sisters, I learned only enough to read my way through the mass book, which they said was all I needed of learning, and then such things as women learn-cookery and herbs and simples and the binding of wounds-"

"For me, all that would be a greater mystery than the training of horses, which you think magic," Lancelet said, with his wide smile. Then he leaned down from his horse and touched her cheek. "If God is good and the Saxons hold off a few moons yet, I will see you again, when I come here in the High King's train. Say a prayer for me, lady."

He rode away, and Gwenhwyfar stood watching, her heart pounding, but this time the sensation was almost pleasant. He would come again, he wanted to come again. And her father had said she should be married to someone who could lead horses and men into battle; who better than the High King's cousin and his captain of horse? Was he thinking, then, to marry her to Lancelet? She felt herself blush with delight and happiness. For the first time she felt pretty and bold and brave.

But inside the hall, her father said, "A handsome man, this Elf-arrow, and good with horses, but far too handsome to be reckoned more than that."

Gwenhwyfar said, surprised at her own boldness, "If the High King has made him his first of captains, he must be the best of fighters!"

Leodegranz shrugged. "The King's cousin, he could hardly be left without some post in his armies. Has he tried to win your heart-or," he added, with the scowl that frightened her, "your maidenhead?"

She felt herself blushing again and was hopelessly angry at herself. "No, he is an honorable man, and what he has said to me is no more than he could have said in your presence, Father."

"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?

There was a step behind her and a tentative cough, and one of the young girls fostered in the nunnery said, "Lady, there are visitors for you in the outer room; one of them is a churchman, the Archbishop himself!"

Igraine put her embroidery aside. After all, it was not spotted; all the tears women shed, they leave no mark on the world, she thought in bitterness. "Why does the Archbishop, of all men living, wish to see me?"

"He did not tell me, lady, and I do not think he told the Mother Superior either," said the little girl, not at all unwilling to gossip for a minute, "but did you not send gifts to the church there at the time of the High King's crowning?"

Igraine had, but she did not think the Archbishop would have come here to speak of a past charity. Perhaps he wanted something more. Priests were seldom greedy for themselves but all priests, especially those from rich churches, were greedy for silver and gold for their altars.

"Who are the others?" she asked, knowing that the young girl was eager to talk.

"Lady, I do not know, but I do know that the Mother Superior wanted to forbid one of them, because"-her eyes grew wide-"he is a wizard and sorcerer, so she said, and a Druid!"

Igraine rose. "It is the Merlin of Britain, for he is my father, and he is no wizard, child, but a scholar trained in the crafts of the wise. Even the church fathers say that the Druids are good and noble men, and worship with them in harmony, since they acknowledge God in all things, and Christ as one of many prophets of God."

The little girl dropped a small curtsey, acknowledging correction, as Igraine put away the embroidery work and adjusted her veil smoothly around her face.

When she came into the outer room, she saw not only the Merlin and a strange, austere man in the dark dress which churchmen were beginning to adopt to set them off from seculars, but a third man she hardly recognized, even when he turned; for a moment it was as if she looked into Other's face.

"Gwydion!" she exclaimed, then, quickly amending, "Arthur. Forgive me; I forgot." She would have knelt before the High King but he reached out quickly and prevented her.

"Mother, never kneel in my presence. I forbid it."

Igraine bowed to the Merlin and to the dour, austere-looking Archbishop.

"This is my mother, Uther's queen," Arthur said, and the Archbishop responded, stretching his lips in what Igraine supposed was meant for a smile. "But now she has a higher honor than royalty, in that she is a bride of Christ."

Hardly a bride, Igraine thought, simply a widow who has taken refuge in his house. But she did not say so, and bowed her head.

Arthur said, "Lady, this is Patricius, Archbishop of the Isle of the Priests, now called Glastonbury, who has newly come there."

"Aye, by God's will," the Archbishop said, "having lately driven out all the evil magicians from Ireland, I am come to drive them forth from all Christian lands. I found in Glastonbury a corrupt lot of priests, tolerating among them even the common worship with the Druids, at which our Lord who died for us would have wept tears of blood!"

Taliesin the Merlin said in his soft voice, "Why, then, you would be harsher than Christ himself, brother? For he, I seem to remember, was greatly chided that he consorted with outcasts and sinners and even tax collectors, and such ladies as the Magdalen, when they would have had him a Nazarite like to John the Baptizer. And at last, even when he hung dying on his cross, he did promise the thief that that same night he would join him in Paradise-no?"

"I think too many people presume to read the divine Scriptures, and fall into just such errors as this," said Patricius sternly. "Those who presume on their learning will learn, I trust, to listen to their priests for the true interpretations."

The Merlin smiled gently. "I cannot join you in that wish, brother. I am dedicated to the belief that it is God's will that all men should strive for wisdom in themselves, not look to it from some other. Babes, perhaps, must have their food chewed for them by a nurse, but men may drink and eat of wisdom for themselves."

"Come, come!" Arthur interrupted with a smile. "I will have no controversies between my two dearest councillors. Lord Merlin's wisdom is indispensable to me; he set me on my throne."

"Sir," said the Archbishop, "God set you there."

"With the help of the Merlin," said Arthur, "and I pledged to him I would listen to his counsel always. Would you have me forsworn, Father Patricius?" He spoke the name with the North country accent of the lands where he had been fostered. "Come, Mother, sit down and let us talk."

"First let me send for wine to refresh you after your long ride here."

"Thank you, Mother, and if you will, send some, too, to Cai and Gawaine, who rode hither with me. They would not have me come unguarded. They insist on doing for me the service of chamberlains and grooms, as if I could not lift a hand for myself. I can do for myself as well as any soldier, with only the help of an ordinary groom or two, but they will not have it-"

"Your Companions shall have the best," Igraine said, and went to give orders for food and wine to be served the strangers and all their retinue. Wine was brought for the guests, and Igraine poured it.

"How is it with you, my son?" Looking him over, he seemed ten years older than the slightly built boy who had been crowned last summer. He had grown, it seemed, half a hand's span, and his shoulders were broader. There was a red seam on his face; it was already drawing cleanly together, God be praised ... well, no soldier could escape a wound or two.

"As you see, Mother, I have been fighting, but God has spared me," he said. "And now I come here on a peaceful mission. But how is it with you here?"

She smiled. "Oh, nothing happens here," she said. "But I had word from Avalon that Morgaine had left the Island. Is she at your court?"

He shook his head. "Why, no, Mother, I've hardly a court worth the name," he said. "Cai keeps my castle-I had to force it on him, he'd rather ride with me to war, but I bade him stay and keep my house secure. And two or three of Father's old knights, too old to ride, are there with their wives and youngest sons. Morgaine's at the court of Lot-Gawaine told me as much when his brother came south to fight in my armies, young Agravaine. He said Morgaine had come to attend on his mother; he'd only seen her a time or two, but she was well and seemed in good spirits; she plays on the harp for Morgause, and keeps the keys of her spice cupboard. I gather Agravaine was quite charmed with her." A look of pain passed over his face, and Igraine wondered at it but said nothing.

"God be thanked that Morgaine is safe among kindred. I have been frightened for her." This was not the time, certainly not with churchmen present, to inquire whether Morgaine had borne a child. "When did Agravaine come south?"

"It was early in the fall, was it not, Lord Merlin?"

"I believe it was."

Then Agravaine would have known nothing; she herself had seen Morgaine and never guessed. If indeed it had been so with Morgaine, and not a fantasy born of her own imaginings.

"Well, Mother, I came to speak of women's affairs, at that-it seems I should be married. I have no heir but Gawaine-"

"I like not that," Igraine said. "Lot has been waiting for that all these many years. Don't trust his son behind you."

Arthur's eyes blazed with anger. "Even you shall not speak so of my cousin Gawaine, Mother! He is my sworn Companion, and I love him as the brother I never had, even as I love Lancelet! If Gawaine wished for my throne, he need only have relaxed his vigilance for five minutes, and I would have a split neck, not this slash on my face, and Gawaine would be High King! I would trust him with life and honor!"

Igraine was amazed at his vehemence. "Then I am glad you have so loyal and trusty a follower, my son." She added, with a caustic smile, "That must be a grief indeed to Lot, that his sons love you so well!"

"I know not what I have done that they should wish me so well, but they do, for which I consider myself blessed."

"Aye," Taliesin said, "Gawaine will be staunch and loyal to death, Arthur, and beyond if God wills."

The Archbishop said austerely, "Man cannot presume to know God's will-"

Taliesin ignored him and said, "More trusty even than Lancelet, Arthur, though it grieves me to say so."

Arthur smiled, and Igraine thought, with a pang at heart, he has all of Uther's charm, he too can inspire great loyalty in his followers! How like his father he is! Arthur said, "Come, I will chide even you, Lord Merlin, if you speak so of my dearest friend. Lancelet too I would trust with my life and my honor."

Merlin said, with a sigh, "Oh, yes, with your life you may trust him, I am sure. ... I am not sure he will not break in the final test, but certainly he loves you well and would guard your life beyond his own."

Patricius said, "Certainly Gawaine is a good Christian, but I am not so sure about Lancelet. A time will come, I trust, when all these folk who call themselves Christian and are not may be revealed as the demon worshippers they are in truth. Whosoever will not accept the authority of Holy Church about the will of God are even as Christ says-'Ye who are not for me are against me.' Yet all over Britain there are those who are little better than pagans. In Tara I dealt with these, when I lighted the Paschal fires for Easter on one of their unholy hills, and the king's Druids could not stand against me. Yet even in the hallowed Isle of Glastonbury, where the sainted Joseph of Arimathea walked, I find the very priests worshipping a sacred well! This is heathendom! I will close it if I must appeal to the Bishop of Rome himself!"

Arthur smiled and said, "I cannot imagine that the Bishop of Rome would have the slightest idea what is going on in Britain."

Taliesin said gently, "Father Patricius, you would do a great disservice to the people of this land if you close their sacred well. It is a gift from God-"

"It is a part of pagan worship." The eyes of the Archbishop glowed with the austere fire of the fanatic.

"It comes from God," the old Druid insisted, "because there is nothing in this universe which does not come from God, and simple people need simple signs and symbols. If they worship God in the waters which flow from his bounty, how is that evil?"

"God cannot be worshipped in symbols which are made by man-"

"There you are in total agreement with me, my brother," said the Merlin, "for a part of the Druid wisdom lies in the saying that God, who is beyond all, cannot be worshipped in any dwelling made by human hands, but only under his own sky. And yet you build churches and deck them richly with gold and silver. Wherefore, then, is the evil in drinking from the sacred springs which God has made and blessed with vision and healing?"

"The Devil gives you your knowledge of such things," Patricius said sternly, and Taliesin laughed.

"Ah, but God makes doubts and the Devil too, and in the end of time they will all come to him and obey his will."

Arthur interrupted, before Patricius could answer, "Good fathers, we came here not to argue theology!"

"True," said Igraine, relieved. "We were speaking of Gawaine, and Morgause's other son-Agravaine, is it? And of your marriage."

"Pity," Arthur said, "that since Lot's sons love me well, and Lot-I doubt it not-is eager to have his household heir with me to the High Kingship, that Morgause has not a daughter, so that I could be his son-in-law and he would know that his daughter's son was my heir."

"That would suit well," Taliesin said, "for you are both of the royal line of Avalon."

Patricius frowned. "Is not Morgause your mother's sister, my lord Arthur? To wed with her daughter would be little better than bedding your own sister!"

Arthur looked troubled. Igraine said, "I agree; even if Morgause had a daughter, it is not even to be thought of."

Arthur said, plaintively, "I should find it easy to be fond of a sister of Gawaine. The idea of marrying a stranger doesn't please me all that much, and I wouldn't think the girl would be pleased either!"

"It happens to every woman," Igraine said, and was surprised to hear herself-was she still bitter over what was so long past? "Marriages must be arranged by those with wiser heads than any young maiden could have."

Arthur sighed. He said, "King Leodegranz has offered me his daughter -I forget her name-and has offered, too, that her dowry shall be a hundred of his best men, all armed and-hear this, Mother-each with the good horses he breeds, so that Lancelet may train them. This was one of the secrets of the Caesars, that their best cohorts fought on horseback; before them, none but the Scythians ever used horses except to move supplies and sometimes for riders to send messages. If I had four hundred men who could fight as cavalry-well, Mother, I could drive the Saxons back to their shores yelping like their own hounds!"

Igraine laughed. "That hardly seems reason to marry, my son. Horses can be bought, and men hired."

"But," Arthur said, "Leodegranz is of no mind to sell. I think he has it in his mind that in return for this dowry-and it is a kingly dowry, doubt not-he would like it well to be bound by kinship's ties to the High King. Not that he is the only one, but he has offered more than any other will offer.

"What I wished to ask you, Mother-I am unwilling to send any ordinary messenger to tell the king that I'll take his daughter and he should bundle her up like a package and send her to my court. Would you go and give my answer to the king, and escort her to my court?"

Igraine started to nod her agreement, then remembered that she had taken vows in this place. "Can you not send one of your trusty men, Gawaine or Lancelet?"

"Gawaine is a wencher. I am not so sure I want him within reach of my bride," Arthur said, laughing. "Let it be Lancelet."

The Merlin said somberly, "Igraine, I feel you should go."

"Why, Grandfather," Arthur said, "has Lancelet such charms that you fear my bride will love him instead?"

Taliesin sighed. Igraine said quickly, "I will go, if the abbess of this place gives me leave." The Mother Superior, she thought, could not refuse her leave to attend her son's wedding. And she realized that after years of being a queen, it was not easy to sit quietly behind walls and await tidings of the great events moving in the land. That was, perhaps, every woman's lot, but she would avoid it as long as she could.

4

Gwenhwyfar felt the familiar nausea gripping the pit of her stomach; she began to wonder if before they set forth she would have to run at once to the privy. What would she do if the need came on her after she had mounted and ridden out? She looked at Igraine, who stood tall and composed, rather like the Mother Superior of her old convent. Igraine had seemed kind and motherly on that first visit, a year ago, when the marriage had been arranged. Now, come to escort Gwenhwyfar to her bridal, she seemed stern and demanding, with no trace of the terror that gripped at Gwenhwyfar. How could she be so calm? Gwenhwyfar ventured, in a small voice, peering at the waiting horses and litter, "Aren't you afraid? It's so far-"

"Afraid? Why, no," said Igraine, "I have been to Caerleon many times, and it's not likely the Saxons are on the road to war this time. Travelling in winter is troublesome, with mud and rain, but better that than fall into the hands of the barbarians."

Gwenhwyfar felt the shock and shame gripping her, and clenched her fists, looking down at her sturdy, ugly travelling shoes.

Igraine reached out and took her hand, smoothing the small fingers. "I had forgotten, you have never been from home before, except to and from your convent. You were in Glastonbury, were you not?"

Gwenhwyfar nodded. "I wish I were going back there-"

She felt Igraine's sharp eyes on her for a moment, and quailed; perhaps the lady would know she was unhappy at marrying her son, and come to dislike her ... but Igraine only said, holding her hand firmly, "I was not happy when I went first to be wedded to the Duke of Cornwall, I was not happy until I held my daughter in my arms. But I had scarce completed my fifteenth year; you are almost eighteen, are you not?"

Clinging to Igraine's hand, Gwenhwyfar felt a little less panic; but even so, as she stepped outside the gate, it seemed that the sky overhead was a vast menace, threatening, low, filled with rainclouds. The path before the house was a sea of mud where the horses had been trampling. Now they were being drawn up into riding order with more men, it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, than she had ever seen together in her life, shouting and calling to each other, the horses neighing and the yard full of confusion. But Igraine held her hand tightly and Gwenhwyfar, shrinking, followed her.

"I am grateful that you came to escort me, lady-"

Igraine smiled. "I am all too worldly-I like a chance to travel beyond convent walls." She made a long step to avoid a pile of horse dung which steamed in the mud. "Mind your step, there, child-look, your father has set aside these two fine ponies for us. Do you like riding?"

Gwenhwyfar shook her head, and whispered, "I thought I could ride in a litter-"

"Why, so you can, if you wish," Igraine said, looking at her wonderingly, "but you will grow very weary of it, I should think. When my sister Viviane went on her travels, she used to wear men's breeches. I should have found you a pair, though at my age it would hardly be seemly."

Gwenhwyfar blushed scarlet. "I couldn't," she said, shaking, "it's forbidden for a woman to put on the clothes of a man, so it says in Holy Writ-"

Igraine chuckled. "The Apostle seemed to know little of the North country. It is hot where he lived," she said, "and I have heard that the men in that country where our Lord lived knew nothing of breeches, but wore long gowns as some Roman men did and do still. I think it meant only that women were not to wear the garb of some particular man, not that they were not to wear clothing fashioned in a man's style. And certainly my sister Viviane is the most modest of women; she is a priestess of Avalon." Gwenhwyfar's eyes were wide. "Is she a witch, madam?"

"No, no, she is a wise-woman, learned in herbs and medicines, and having the Sight, but she has sworn a vow never to hurt man nor beast. She does not even eat flesh food," Igraine said. "She lives as austerely as any abbess. Look," she said, and pointed, "there is Lancelet, Arthur's chief Companion. He has come to escort us, and to bring back the horses and men-" Gwenhwyfar smiled, feeling a blush spread to her cheeks. She said, "I know Lancelet, he came to show my father what he could do with the horses."

Igraine said, "Aye; he rides like one of those centaurs the ancients used to speak of, half horse and half man!"

Lancelet swung down from his horse. His cheeks were as crimson with the cold as the Roman cloak he wore; the collar was turned high around his face. He bowed to the ladies.

"Madam," he said to Igraine, "are you ready to ride?"

"I think so. The princess's luggage is already loaded on that cart, I think," Igraine said, looking at the bulky wagon loaded high and covered with skins: a bed frame and furnishings, a great carved chest, a large and a small loom, pots and kettles.

"Aye. I hope it does not get mired in all this mud," Lancelet said, looking at the yoke of oxen hauling it. "It is not that wagon I am worried about, but the other-the king's wedding gift to Arthur," he added, without enthusiasm, looking at the second, much larger cart. "I would have thought it better to have a table built for the King's house in Caerleon, if Uther had not left tables and furniture enough-not that I begrudge my lady her bride furniture," he added, with a quick smile at Gwenhwyfar that made her cheeks glow, "but a table, as if my Lord Arthur had not enough furniture for his hall?"

"Ah, but that table is one of my father's treasures," said Gwenhwyfar. "It was a prize of war from one of the kings of Tara, where my grandsire fought him and carried off his best mead-hall table ... it is round, you see, so a bard can sit at the center to sing to them, or the servants pass round to pour wine or beer. And when he entertained his fellow kings he need not set one higher than another ... so my father thought it fitting for a High King, who must also seat his well-born Companions without preferring one above the other."

"It is truly a king's gift," Lancelet said politely, "but it takes three yoke of oxen to haul it, lady, and God alone knows how many joiners and carpenters to put it together again when we have come there, so that instead of travelling at the pace of a company of horse we must plod along at the pace of the slowest ox. Ah well, the wedding cannot begin until you get there, my lady." He cocked up his head, listened and shouted, "I will come in a minute, man! I cannot be everywhere at once!" He bowed. "Ladies, I must get this army moving! Can I help you to your horses?"

"I think Gwenhwyfar wants to travel in the litter," said Igraine.

Lancelet said, with a smile, "Why, it is as if the sun went behind a cloud then-but you do as you will, lady. I hope you will shine out on us again another day perhaps."

Gwenhwyfar felt pleasantly embarrassed, as she always did when Lancelet made his pretty speeches. She never knew whether he was serious or whether he was teasing her. Suddenly, as he rode away, she felt afraid again. The horses towering around her, the hordes of men coming and going -it was as if they really were the army Lancelet had called them, and she no more than an unregarded piece of luggage, almost a prize of war. Silent, she let Igraine help her into the litter, which was covered with cushions and a fur rug, and she curled up in a corner of it.

"Shall I leave the curtains of the litter open so we can have some light and air?" Igraine asked, settling herself comfortably in the cushions.

"No!" said Gwenhwyfar in a choking voice. "I-I feel better with them closed."

With a shrug, Igraine closed the curtains. She looked out through a crack, watching the first of the horsemen ride out, the wagons swing into line. A kingly dowry, indeed, all these men. Armed horsemen, with weapons and gear, to be added to Arthur's armies-it was almost like what she had heard of a Roman legion.

Gwenhwyfar's head was on the pillows, her face white, her eyes shut.

"Are you sick?" Igraine asked in wonder.

Gwenhwyfar shook her head. "It's just-so big-" she said. "I'm- I m afraid," she whispered.

"Afraid? But my dear child-" Igraine broke off, and after a moment said, "Well, you'll feel better soon."

Gwenhwyfar, her arms crossed over her eyes, hardly knew it when the litter began moving; she had willed herself into a state of half-sleep in which she could hold the panic at bay. Where was she going, under that huge all-covering sky, over the wide moors and through so many hills? The knot of panic in her belly pulled tighter and tighter. All round her she heard the sounds of horses and men, an army on the march. She was merely part of the furniture of the horses and men and their gear and a mead table. She was only a bride with all that properly belonged to her, clothes and gowns and jewels and a loom and a kettle and some combs and hackles for spinning flax. She was not herself, there was nothing for herself, she was only some property of a High King who had not even bothered to come and see the woman they were sending along with all the horses and gear. She was another mare, a brood mare this time for the High King's stud service, hopefully to provide a royal son.

Gwenhwyfar thought she would smother with the rage that was choking her. But no, she must not be angry, it was not seemly to be angry; the Mother Superior had told her in the convent that it was a woman's proper business to be married and bear children. She had wanted to be a nun and stay in the convent and learn to read and make beautiful letters with 1 her clever pen and brush, but that was not suitable for a princess; she must obey her father's will as if it were the will of God. Women had to be' especially careful to do the will of God because it was through a woman I that mankind had fallen into Original Sin, and every woman must be aware 1 that it was her work to atone for that Original Sin in Eden. No woman could ever be really good except for Mary the Mother of Christ; all other women were evil, they had never had any chance to be anything but evil. This was her punishment for being like Eve, sinful, filled with rage and rebellion against the will of God. She whispered a prayer and willed herself into semiconsciousness again.

Igraine, resigning herself to riding behind closed curtains although| craving fresh air, wondered what in the world was wrong with the girl. She had not said a word against the marriage-well, she, Igraine, had not rebelled against her marriage to Gorlois, either; remembering the angry and terrified child she had been, she sympathized with Gwenhwyfar. But, why should the girl huddle behind curtains instead of going with her head up to meet her new life? What was she afraid of? Did Arthur seem such monster? It was not as if she were marrying an old man, three times her age; Arthur was young, quite ready to give her honor and respect.

They slept that night in a tent pitched on a carefully chosen dry spot listening to the winds and the rain moaning and pelting down. Igraine wok once in the night to hear Gwenhwyfar whimper.

"What is the matter, child? Are you sick?"

"No-lady, do you think Arthur will like me?"

"There is no reason he should not," Igraine said gently. "You certainly know you are beautiful."

"Am I?" In her soft voice, it sounded only naive, not the self-conscious or coy plea for compliment or reassurance that it would have been in another. "Lady Alienor said my nose was too big, and that I had freckles like a cowherd."

"Lady Alienor-" Igraine reminded herself to be charitable; Alienor was not much older than Gwenhwyfar, and had borne four children in six years. "I think perhaps she is a little shortsighted. You are lovely indeed. You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen."

"I don't think Arthur cares for beauty," Gwenhwyfar said. "He did not even send to inquire if I were cross-eyed or one-legged or had a squint or a harelip."

"Gwenhwyfar," said Igraine gently, "every woman is wedded for her dowry, but a High King, too, must marry as his councillors bid him. Do you not think he is lying wakeful of nights, wondering what fortune the lottery has cast him, and that he will not greet you with gratitude and joy because you bring him beauty and good temper and learning as well? He was resigned to taking whatever he must, but he will be all the happier when he discovers that you are not-what was it?-harelipped or pockmarked or cross-eyed. He is young, and has not much experience with women. And Lancelet, I am sure, has told him that you are beautiful and virtuous."

Gwenhwyfar let out her breath. "Lancelet is Arthur's cousin, is he not?"

"True. He is son to Ban of Benwick by my sister, who is the Great Priestess of Avalon. He was born in the Great Marriage-know you anything of that? In Less Britain, some of the people call for the old pagan rites," Igraine said. "Even Uther, when he was made High King, was taken to Dragon Island and crowned by the old rites there, though they did not demand of him that he marry the land; in Britain, that is done by the Merlin, so that he is sacrifice for the King if need be ... ."

Gwenhwyfar said, "I did not know these old pagan rites were still known in Britain. Was-was Arthur crowned so?"

"If he was," said Igraine, "he has not told me. Perhaps by now things have changed, and he is content that the Merlin should be only his chiefest of councillors."

"Do you know the Merlin, lady?"

"He is my father."

"Is it so?" Gwenhwyfar stared at her in the dark. "Lady, is it true that when Uther Pendragon came to you before you were wedded to him, he came to you by the Merlin's arts in the magical disguise of Gorlois, so that you lay with him thinking he was Duke of Cornwall and you still a chaste and faithful wife?"

Igraine blinked; she had heard rumors of tales that she had borne Uther's son with unseemly haste, but this story she had never heard. "They say that?"

"Sometimes, lady. There are bards' tales about it."

"Well, it is not true," said Igraine. "He wore Gorlois's cloak and bore Gorlois's ring which he had taken when they fought-Gorlois was traitor to his High King and his life forfeit. But whatever tales they tell, I knew perfectly well that it was Uther and no other." Her throat closed; even now, it seemed only as if Uther were still alive somewhere, away on campaign.

"You loved Uther? It was not, then, the Merlin's magic?"

"No," Igraine said, "I loved him well, though I think at first he chose to marry me because I was of the old royal line of Avalon. And so, you see, a marriage made for the good of the kingdom can come to be happy. I loved Uther; I could wish just such good fortune for you, that you and my son may come to love one another that way."

"I hope that too." Gwenhwyfar clutched again at Igraine's hand. To Igraine the fingers felt small and soft, easily crushed, unlike her own strong, competent ones. This was not a hand for tending babes or wounded men, but for fine needlework or prayer. Leodegranz should have left this child in her convent, and Arthur sought elsewhere for a bride. Things would go as God had ordained; she was sorry for Gwenhwyfar's fright, but she was also sorry for Arthur, with a bride so childish and unwilling.

Yet, she herself had been no better when she was sent to Gorlois; perhaps the girl's strength would grow with the years.

With the first rays of the sun the camp was astir, making ready for the day's march that would bring them to Caerleon. Gwenhwyfar looked white and weak and when she tried to get up, she turned on her side and retched. For a moment Igraine entertained an uncharitable suspicion, then put it aside; the girl, cloistered and timid, was ill with fright, no more. She said briskly, "I told you the closed litter would make you queasy. Today you must get on your horse and take the fresh air, or we shall have you coming to your bridal with pale cheeks instead of roses." She added to herself, And if I must ride behind closed curtains for another day I shall certainly go mad; that would be a wedding to remember indeed, with a bride sick and pale, and the mother of the bridegroom raving. "Come, if you will get up and ride, Lancelet shall ride with you, to gossip with you and cheer you."

Gwenhwyfar braided her hair, and even gave some thought to the arranging of her veil; she ate little, but she did sip a little barley beer and put a bit of bread in her pocket, saying that she would eat it later, as she rode.

Lancelet had been out and about since first light. When Igraine suggested, "You must ride with my lady. She is moping, she has never been from home before," his eyes lighted up and he smiled. "It will be my pleasure, madam."

Igraine rode alone behind the young people, glad of the solitude for her own thoughts. How handsome they were-Lancelet so dark and spirited and Gwenhwyfar all golden and white. Arthur was fair, too, their children would be dazzling. She realized with some surprise that she was looking forward to being a grandmother. It would be pleasant to have little children about, to pet them and play with them, but children who were not her own, over whom she need not worry and fret and trouble herself. She rode in a pleasant daydream; she had grown used to daydreaming a great deal in the convent. Looking ahead to the young people riding side by side, she saw that the girl sat her horse upright and had some color in her face and was smiling. Igraine had done right, to get her out into the air.

And then she saw how they were looking at each other.

Dear God! Uther looked so at me when I was Gorlois's wife-as if he were starving and I were food high out of his reach ... . What can possibly come of it if they love one another? Lancelet is honorable, and Gwenhwyfar, I would swear, virtuous, so what can possibly come of it except misery? Then she reproved herself for her suspicions; they were riding at a decent distance from one another, they did not seek to touch hands, they were smiling because they were young and it was a fair day; Gwenhwyfar rode to her wedding, and Lancelet brought horses and men to his king, his cousin, and friend. Why should they not be happy and talk with one another gaily and joyously? I am an evil-minded old woman. But she still felt troubled.

What will come of this? Dear God, would it be traitorous to you to pray for a moment of the Sight? And then she wondered-was there yet any honorable way for Arthur to get out of this marriage? For the High King to wed a woman whose heart was already given, that would be a tragedy. Britain was filled with maidens ready to love him and wed him. But the dowry price was paid, the bride had left her father's house, the subject kings and liegemen were assembling to see their young King married.

Igraine resolved to speak to the Merlin. As Arthur's chiefest councillor, perhaps he could yet prevent this marriage-but could even he prevent it without war and ruin? It would be a pity, too, for Gwenhwyfar to be publicly rejected like this, in the presence of all Britain. No, it was too late, the wedding must take place as it was fated. Igraine sighed and rode on, her head lowered and all the beauty gone from the bright day. She told herself, angrily, that all her doubts and fears were meaningless, an idle old woman's imaginings; or that all of these fantasies were sent of the Devil to tempt her into using the Sight she had renounced, and becoming again a tool of wickedness and sorcery.

Yet as she rode, her eyes kept returning to Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet, and to the almost visible haze that seemed to hover between them, an aura of hunger and desire and longing.

They arrived at Caerleon shortly before sunset. The castle stood on a hill, the site of an old Roman fort, and some of the old Roman stonework was still in place-it looked, Igraine thought, very much as it must have looked in Roman days. For a moment, seeing the slopes covered with tents and people, she wondered dizzily if the place were under siege, but then she realized that all these folk must have come to see the High King married. Seeing the crowd, Gwenhwyfar had turned pale and terrified again; Lancelet was trying to arrange the long draggled column into some vestige of dignity, and Gwenhwyfar put her veil down over her face and rode silent by Igraine.

"It is a pity they must all see you worn and travel-weary," Igraine agreed, "but look, there is Arthur, come out to meet us."

The girl was so weary she hardly raised her head. Arthur, in a long blue tunic, his sword in its preciously worked crimson scabbard swinging at his side, had stopped to speak for a moment to Lancelet, at the head of the column; then, die crowding men and riders separating as he walked through them, he came toward Igraine and Gwenhwyfar.

He bowed to his mother. "Had you a good journey, madam?" But he had raised his eyes to Gwenhwyfar, and Igraine saw his eyes widen at her beauty, and could almost read the younger girl's thoughts.

Yes, I am beautiful, Lancelet thinks me beautiful, will my lord Arthur be pleased with me?

Arthur held out his hand to support her as she dismounted; she tottered a little, and he stretched out both arms to her.

"My lady and wife, welcome to your home and to my house. May you be happy here, and may this day be as joyous for you as for me."

Gwenhwyfar felt the crimson rising in her cheeks. Yes, Arthur was handsome, she told herself fiercely, with that fair hair and the serious, level grey eyes. How different he seemed from Lancelet's madcap gaiety and mischief! And how differently he looked at her-Lancelet looked at her as if she were the statue of the Virgin on the altar at church, but Arthur was looking at her soberly, tentatively, as if she were a stranger and he was not yet sure whether friend or foe.

She said, "I thank you, my husband and my lord. As you can see, I have brought you the promised dowry of men and horses-"

"How many horses?" he asked quickly. Gwenhwyfar was confused. What did she know about his precious horses? Did he have to make it so clear that it was the horses and not herself which he awaited in this wedding business? She drew herself to her full height-she was taller than some men, and for a woman she was a good height-and said with dignity, "I do not know, my lord Arthur, I have not counted them. You must ask your captain of horse. I am sure the lord Lancelet could tell you their number, to the last mare and the last foal at suck."

Oh, good girl, Igraine thought, seeing the color rise in Arthur's pale cheeks at the reproof. He smiled, ruefully. "Forgive me, my lady, no one expects of you that you should concern yourself with such things. I am sure Lancelet will tell me all of this at the proper time. I was thinking, also, of the men who came with you-it seems fit that I should welcome them as my new subjects, as well as welcoming their lady and my queen." For a moment he looked almost as young as he was. He looked around at the milling crowd of men, horses, carts, oxen, and drovers, and spread his hands helplessly. "In all this hullabaloo, I doubt they could hear me anyway. Allow me to conduct you to the castle gates." He took her hand and led her along the path, searching for the driest places. "I am afraid this is a dismal old place. It was my father's stronghold, but I never lived here after I was old enough to remember. Perhaps some year, if the Saxons let us alone for a time, we can find some place better suited for our home, but for the moment this must suit."

As he led her through the gates Gwenhwyfar reached out and touched the wall. It was thick, secure Roman stone, piled high and standing as if it had been there since the beginning of the world; here all was safe. She ran her finger almost lovingly along the wall. "I think it is beautiful. I am sure it will be safe-I mean, I am sure I will be happy here."

"I hope so, lady-Gwenhwyfar," he said, using her name for the first time, speaking it with a strange accent. She wondered suddenly where he had been reared. "I am very young to be in charge of all these-all these men and kingdoms. I will be glad to have a helpmeet." She heard his voice tremble as if he were afraid-but what in the world could a man have to be afraid of? "My uncle by marriage-Lot, King of Orkney-he is married to my mother's sister, Morgause, and Lot has said that his wife rules as well as he, when he is absent in war or council. I am willing to do you such honor, lady, and let you rule at my side."

Panic clutched again at Gwenhwyfar's stomach. How could he expect that of her? How could it be a woman's place to rule? What did she care what the wild barbarians, these northern Tribesmen, did, or their barbarian women? She said, in a shaky little voice, "I could never presume so far, my lord and my king."

Igraine said firmly, "Arthur, my son, what are you thinking of? The girl has been riding for two days and she is exhausted! This is no time to plot the strategy of kingdoms, with the mud of the road still on our shoes! I beg you, turn us over to your chamberlains, and there will be time enough to acquaint yourself with your bride tomorrow!"

Arthur's skin, Gwenhwyfar thought, was fairer than her own; this was the second time she had seen him blush like a scolded child. "I am sorry, Mother; and you, my lady." He raised his arm, signalling, and a dark, slender young man, with a scarred face and a pronounced limp, came unevenly toward them.

"My foster-brother, Cai, and my chamberlain," Arthur said. "Cai, this is Gwenhwyfar, my lady and queen."

Cai bowed to her, with a smile. "I am at your service."

"As you can see," Arthur said, "my lady has brought her furniture and belongings. Lady, I welcome you to your own house. Give Cai whatever orders seem good to you, about where to bestow your things. For now, I beg you give me leave to go; I must see to the men and horses and gear." He bowed low again, and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that she could see relief on his face. She wondered if he was disappointed in her, or whether his only interest in this marriage was really in the dowry of horses and men, as she had thought. Well, she had been prepared for that; but still, some welcome for her personally would have been pleasant. She realized that the dark, scarred young man he called Cai was waiting expectantly for her word. He was gentle and deferential-she need not be afraid of him.

She sighed, reaching out again to touch the strong walls around her as if for reassurance and to steady her voice, so that when she spoke she would sound like a queen. "In the greatest of carts, sir Cai, there is an Irish mead-hall table. It is my father's wedding gift to my lord Arthur. It is a prize of war, and very old and very valuable. See to it that it is assembled in Arthur's largest feasting hall. But before that, please see to it that a room is made ready for my lady Igraine, and someone to wait on her tonight." Distantly she was surprised-she thought to herself that she sounded quite like a queen. Nor did Cai sound at all reluctant to accept her as one. He bowed very low, and said, "It shall be done at once, my lady and queen."

5

All through the night, groups of travellers had been assembling before the castle; it was barely daylight when Gwenhwyfar looked out to see the whole slope of the hill, leading up to the castle, covered with horses and tents and with crowds of men and women.

"It looks like a festival," she said to Igraine, who had shared her bed on this last night of her maidenhood, and the older woman smiled.

"When the High King takes a wife, child, that is as much a festival as anything happening in this island. Look, those men are the followers of Lot of Orkney." She thought, but did not say aloud, Perhaps Morgaine will be with them. As a young woman she had voiced every thought that crossed her mind, but no longer.

How strange it was, Igraine thought; all through the childbearing years, a woman is taught to think first and only of her sons. If she thinks of her daughters at all, it is only that when they are grown, they will go forth into the hands of another, they are being reared for another family. Was it only that Morgaine had been her firstborn, always closest to her heart? Arthur had returned physically after his long absence, but as all men do, he had grown so far from her that there was no longer any way to reach across that distance. But to Morgaine-she had discovered this at Arthur's crowning-she was bound with a tie of the soul which would never break. Was it only that Morgaine had shared her own heritage of Avalon? Was this why every priestess longed to bear a daughter, who would follow in her footsteps and never be lost to her?

"There are so many people," Gwenhwyfar said. "I did not know there were so many people in all of Britain."

"And you to be High Queen over them all-it is frightening, I know," said Igraine. "I felt so when I was married to Uther."

And for a moment it seemed to her that Arthur had chosen ill in his queen. Gwenhwyfar had beauty, yes, and good temper, and learning, but a queen must be able to take her place at the forefront of the court. Perhaps Gwenhwyfar was all too shy and retiring.

When you put it into the simplest terms, the queen was the king's lady; not only his hostess and keeper of his house-any chamberlain or housekeeper could do that-but, like the priestess of Avalon, a symbol of all the realities of life, a reminder that life was more than fighting and war and dominion. A king, when all was said and done, fought for the protection of those who were unable to fight for themselves, the childbearing women and little children and old people, aged men and grandmothers. Among the Tribes, indeed, the stronger women had fought at the side of the men-there had been, of old, a battle-college kept by women-but from the beginning of civilization it had been the work of men to hunt for food and to keep off invaders from the hearth-fire where their pregnant women and little children and old folk were sheltered; and the work of women to keep that hearth safe for them. As the King was joined to the High Priestess in the symbolic marriage to the land in token that he would bring strength to his kingdom, so the Queen, in a similar joining to the King, created a symbol of the central strength behind all the armies and the wars-the home and the center for which the men rallied their strength ... . Igraine shook her head impatiently. All this of symbols and inner truths was fit, perhaps, for a priestess of Avalon, but she, Igraine, had been queen enough without any such thoughts, and there would be time enough for Gwenhwyfar to think of these things when she was an old woman and no longer needed them! In these civilized days, a queen was not a priestess over villagers tending their barley fields, any more than a king was the great hunter who ranged among the deer!

"Come, Gwenhwyfar, Cai left serving-women to wait on you, but as your husband's mother it is suitable that I should dress you for your wedding, since your own mother cannot be here to make you ready on this day."

The younger woman looked like an angel when she was clothed; her fine hair floated like spun gold in the sunlight, almost dimming the radiance of the golden garland she had put on. Her dress was of a white woven stuff, as fine as spiderweb; Gwenhwyfar told Igraine, with shy pride, that the fabric had been brought from a far country, further even than Rome, and was more costly than gold. Her father had gotten a length for the altar stone of their church and a little piece to hold a holy relic, and he had given her a piece, too, of which she had made her wedding gown. There was more for a holiday tunic for Arthur-it was her own wedding gift to him.

Lancelet came to conduct them to the early mass which would precede the wedding; afterward all the day could be given to feasting and revelry. He was resplendent in the crimson cloak he had worn before, but he was dressed for riding.

"Do you go from us, Lancelet?"

"No," he said soberly, but he was looking only at Gwenhwyfar. "As one of the entertainments of this day, the new horsemen-and Arthur's cavalry-will display what they can do: I am one of the horsemen who will show you these games this afternoon. Arthur feels it is time to make his plans known to his people."

And again Igraine saw that hopeless, transfixed look in his eyes when he looked on Gwenhwyfar, and the brilliance of the girl's smile as she looked up to him. She could not hear now what they were saying to each other -she had no doubt it was innocent enough. But they needed no words. Igraine felt again the despairing awareness that this would come to no good, but only to misery.

They walked down through the corridors, joined as they went by serving-people, noblemen, all those clustering to the early mass. On the steps of the chapel they were joined by two young men who wore, like Lancelet himself, long black feathers in their caps; Cai, she recalled, had worn one too. Was it some badge of Arthur's Companions?

Lancelet asked, "Where is Cai, brother? Should he not be here to escort my lady to the church?"

One of the newcomers, a big, sturdy man who, Gwenhwyfar thought, had nevertheless a look of Lancelet, said, "Cai, and Gawaine too, are dressing Arthur for his wedding. Indeed, I had thought you would be among them, you three are like brothers to Arthur. He sent me to take their place, as the lady Igraine's kinsman-madam," he said to Igraine, bowing, "can it be that you do not recognize me? I am the son of the Lady of the Lake. My name is Balan, and this is our foster-brother Balin."

Gwenhwyfar nodded courteously to them. She thought: Can this big, coarse Balan truly be Lancelot's brother? It is as if a bull should call himself brother to the finest of southern stallions! Balin, his foster-brother, was short and red-faced, with hair as yellow as a Saxon's, and bearded like a Saxon too. She said, "Lancelet, if it is your will to be with my lord and king-"

"I think you ought to go to him, Lancelet," said Balan with a laugh. "Like all men about to wed, Arthur is mad with nervousness. Our lord may fight like Pendragon himself on the field of battle, but this morning when he is being readied for his bride, he seems no more than the boy he is!"

Poor Arthur, thought Gwenhwyfar, this marriage is more of an ordeal for him than for me-at least I have nothing to do but obey the will of my father and king! A ripple of amusement went over her, quickly stifled; poor Arthur, he would have had to take her for the good of his kingdom, even if she really had been old or ugly or pockmarked. It was just another of his painful duties, like leading his men into battle against the Saxons. At least he knew what he could expect of the Saxons! She said gently, "My lord Lancelet, would you rather be at my lord Arthur's side?"

His eyes told her clearly that he did not want to leave her; she had become, in only a day or two, adept at reading those messages unspoken. She had never exchanged with Lancelet one word that could not have been shouted aloud in the presence of Igraine and her father and all the bishops of Britain assembled. But for the first time he seemed torn by conflicting desires.

"The last thing I wish is to leave your side, madam, but Arthur is my friend and my cousin-"

"God forbid that I should ever come between you kinsman," she said, and held out her small hand to him to kiss. "By this marriage you are my loyal kinsman too, and my cousin. Go to my lord the king and tell him-" She hesitated, startled at her own boldness; would it be seemly to say this? God help them all, within the hour she would be Arthur's wife, what did it matter if it sounded overbold, when what she spoke were words of proper concern for her own lord? "Tell him I gladly return to him his most loyal captain, and that I await him with love and obedience, sir."

Lancelet smiled. It seemed that smile stretched a string somewhere deep inside her, that she felt her own mouth moving with it. How could she feel so much a part of him? Her whole life seemed to have filtered down into the touch of his lips on her fingers. She swallowed, and suddenly she knew what it was she felt. In spite of her dutiful messages of love and obedience to Arthur, it seemed that she would sell her soul if time would only turn back and she could tell her father that she would marry no man but Lancelet. That was something as real as the sun around her and the grass under her feet, as real-she swallowed again-as real as Arthur, now being readied for the wedding, for which she must go to Holy Mass to prepare herself. Is it one of God's cruel jokes that I did not know this was what I felt until it was too late? Or is this some wicked trick of the fend, to seduce me from my duty to my father and to my husband? She did not hear what Lancelet said; she was only conscious that his hand had released hers and that he had turned his back and was walking away. She hardly heard the polite words of those two foster-brothers, Balin and Balan-which of them was the son of the priestess of the Lake, then? Balan; Lancelet's brother, but no more like him than a raven is like a great eagle.

She became aware that Igraine was speaking to her. "I leave you to the Companions, my dear. I wish to speak with the Merlin before the mass."

Belatedly, it occurred to Gwenhwyfar that Igraine was awaiting her permission to go. Already her rank as High Queen was a reality. She hardly heard her own words to Igraine as the older woman withdrew.

Igraine crossed the courtyard, murmuring excuses to the people she jostled, trying to reach Taliesin through the crowd. Everyone was clad in bright festival clothing, but he wore his usual somber grey robes. "Father-"

"Igraine, child." Taliesin looked down at her, and Igraine found it obscurely comforting that the old Druid spoke to her as he would have spoken to her when she was fourteen. "I had thought you would be in attendance upon our bride. How beautiful she is! Arthur has found himself a treasure. I have heard that she is clever, too, and learned, and also that she is pious, which will please the bishop."

"Father," Igraine appealed, lowering her voice so that no one in the crowd would hear, "I must ask you this-is there any honorable way for Arthur to avoid this marriage?"

Taliesin blinked in consternation. "No, I do not think so. Not when all is readied to join them together after the mass. God help us, have we all been deceived, is she barren, or unchaste, or-" The Merlin shook his head in dismay. "Unless she were secretly a leper, or actually with child by another man, there could be no way at all to stop it; and even then, no way without scandal or offense, or making an enemy of Leodegranz. Why do you ask, Igraine?"

"I believe her virtuous. But I have seen the way she looks at Lancelet and he at her. Can anything come of it but misery, when the bride is besotted with another, and that other the groom's dearest friend?"

The Merlin looked at her sharply; his old eyes were as seeing as ever. "Oh, it is like that, is it? I have always thought our Lancelet had too much good looks and charm for his own welfare. Yet he is an honorable lad, after all; it may be nothing but youthful fancies, and when the bridal pair are wedded and bedded, they will forget it, or think of it only with a little sadness, as something that might have been."

"In nine cases out of ten, I would say you were right," Igraine said, "but you have not seen them, and I have."

The Merlin sighed again. "Igraine, Igraine, I do not say you are wrong, but when all's done, what can we do about it? Leodegranz would find it such an insult that he would go to war against Arthur, and Arthur has already enough to challenge his kingship-or have you not heard of yonder northern king who sent word to Arthur that he had skinned the beards of eleven kings to make himself a cloak, and Arthur should send him tribute or he would come and take Arthur's beard too?"

"What did Arthur do?"

The Merlin said, "Why, he sent the older king word that as for his beard, it was scarce grown yet, and it would do him no good for his cloak; but that if he wanted it, he could come and try to take it, if he could find his way through the bodies of dead Saxons. And he sent him the head of one of the Saxons-he had just come back from a raiding party-and said its beard was better for lining a cloak than the beard of a friend at whose side he would rather be fighting. And finally he said he would send a fellow king a present, but he exacted no tribute from his friends, and paid none. So that all came to nothing; but as you can see, Arthur cannot afford more enemies, and Leodegranz would be a bad one. He'd better marry the girl, and I think I would say the same even if he'd found her in bed with Lancelet -which he hasn't and isn't likely to."

Igraine discovered that she was twisting her hands together. "What shall we do?"

The Merlin touched her cheek, very lightly. "We will do what we have always done, Igraine-what we must, what the Gods order. We will do the best we can. We are none of us embarked on this course for our own happiness, my child. You, who were reared in Avalon, you know that. Whatever we may do to try and shape our destiny, the end is with the Gods -or, as the bishop would no doubt prefer me to say, with God. The older I grow, the more I become certain that it makes no difference what words we use to tell the same truths."

"The Lady would not be pleased to hear you speak such words," said a dark, thin-faced man behind him, in dark robes which could have been those of a priest or a Druid. Taliesin turned half round and smiled.

"Nevertheless, Viviane knows they are true, as I do ... . Igraine, I do not think you know our newest of chief bards-I have brought him hither to sing and play for Arthur's wedding. Kevin, madam."

Kevin bowed low. Igraine noticed that he walked leaning on a carven stick; his harp in its case was carried by a boy of twelve or thirteen. Many bards or harpers who were not Druids were blind or lamed-it was rare that any ablebodied lad would be given time and leisure to learn such arts, in these days of war-but usually the Druids chose among those who were sound of body as well as being keen of mind. It was rare for a man with any deformity to be allowed into the Druid teachings-it was felt that the Gods marked inner faults in this way. But it would have been inexcusably rude to speak of this; she could only imagine that his gifts were so great that he had been accepted in despite of all else.

He had diverted her mind from her purpose, but when she thought back, Taliesin was right. There was no way to stop this wedding without scandal and probably war. Inside the wattle-and-daub building that was the church, lights blazed and the bell had begun to ring. Igraine walked into the church. Taliesin knelt stiffly down; so did the boy carrying Kevin's harp, but Kevin himself did not kneel-for a moment Igraine wondered if, not being a Christian, he was defying the services, as Uther had once seemed to do. Then she decided, seeing the awkwardness of his gait, that he probably had a stiff leg and could not bend the knee at all. She saw the bishop look his way, frowning.

"Listen to the words of Jesus Christ our Lord," the bishop began. "Behold, where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I among ye, and whatsoever thing ye ask in my name, so it shall be done ... ."

Igraine knelt, drawing her veil around her face, but she was conscious, nevertheless, of Arthur, who had come into the church with Cai and Lancelet and Gawaine, wearing a fine white tunic and a blue cloak, with no ornament but the slender golden coronet of his crowning, and the crimson and jewels in the scabbard of his great sword. It seemed as if, without eyes, she could see Gwenhwyfar, in her fragile white gown, like Arthur all white and gold, kneeling between Balin and Balan. Lot, greying and thin, knelt between Morgause and one of his younger sons; and behind him-it was as if a harp had sounded some high, forbidden note through the chanting of the priest. She raised her head, cautiously, and tried to see, knowing who knelt there. The face and form of Morgaine were hidden behind Morgause.

Yet it seemed that she could sense her there, like a wrong note in the harmony of the sacred service. After all these years, was she reading thoughts again? In any case, what was a priestess of Avalon doing in the church? When Viviane had visited her and Uther in the years of their marriage, the priestess had either absented herself from divine service, or attended, listening and watching with the polite, grave attention she would have given to a child playing at a feast for her dolls. Yet now she could see Morgaine- she had changed, she was thinner, more beautiful, simply clad in a dress of fine dark wool, with a proper white coif around her head. She was not doing anything; she knelt with her head bent and her eyes lowered, the picture of respectful attention. Yet even the priest, it seemed, could sense the disruption and impatience emanating from her; he stopped twice and looked at her, although there was no way he could have accused her of doing anything that was not completely seemly and proper, and so after a moment he went on with the service.

But Igraine's attention, too, had been distracted. She tried to keep her mind on the service, she murmured the proper responses, but she could not think about the priest's words, nor of her son who was being married, nor of Gwenhwyfar who was, she could sense without seeing, looking around under the cover of her veil for Lancelet at Arthur's side. Now she could think only of her daughter. When the service was over, and the wedding, she would see her, and know where she had gone and what had befallen her.

Then, raising her eyes just a moment, as the priest's man was reading aloud the story of the wedding in Cana, she looked round at Arthur; and she saw that his eyes, too, were fixed on Morgaine.

6

Seated among Morgause's ladies, Morgaine listened quietly to the services, her head bent and her face wearing a polite mask of respect. Inwardly she was all impatience. Such nonsense-as if a house built by the hands of man could be converted by the words of some priest into an abiding place for the Spirit which was not of man's making at all. Her mind ran unruly. She was weary of Morgause's court; now she was back in the mainstream of events, and it was as if she had been cast from a backwater of stagnant pond-water into the channel of a racing river. She felt alive again. Even at Avalon, quiet and secluded as it was, she had had the sense of being in touch with the flow of life; but among the women of Morgause she felt she was idle, stagnant, useless. Now she was moving once more, whereas since the birth of her son she had been standing still. She thought for a moment of her little son, Gwydion. He hardly knew her now; when she would have picked him up and petted him, he fought and struggled to go to his foster-mother. Even now, the memory of his small arms winding about her neck made her feel weak and regretful, but she forced the memory away. He did not even know he was her son, he would grow up to think himself one of Morgause's brood. Morgaine was content to have it so, but she could not stifle her reluctant sorrow.

Well, she supposed that all women felt such regret when they must leave their child; but all women must endure it, except for homekeeping women who were content to do for their babes what any foster-mother or servant girl could do, and have no greater work measured to their hands. Even a cowherd must leave her babes to tend her flocks; how much more so a queen or a priestess? Even Viviane had given up her children. As had Igraine.

Arthur looked manly and handsome; he had grown, his shoulders broadened-he was no longer the slender boy who had come to her with the deer's blood on his face. There had been power, not these tame mouthings of the doings of their God who had meddled about, turning water into wine, which would be blasphemy anyway to the gifts of the Goddess. Or did the tale mean that to the joining of man and woman in wedlock, the ferment of the Spirit would transform their coupling into a sacred thing, as in the Great Marriage? For Arthur's sake she hoped it would be so with this woman, whoever she was; she could see, from where she knelt behind Morgause, only a cloud of pale golden hair, crowned with the paler gold of a bridal coronet, and a white robe of some fine and precious fabric. Arthur raised his eyes to look on his bride, and his gaze fell on Morgaine. She saw his face change, and thought, with a stir of awareness, So, he recognized me. I cannot have changed so much as he has changed; he has grown from boy to man, and I-I was already a woman, and it has not changed me as much as that.

She hoped that Arthur's bride would love him, and that he would love her well. In her mind rang Arthur's desolate words, For all my life I will always remember you and love you and bless you. But it must not be so. He must forget, he must come to see the Goddess only in his chosen wife. There stood Lancelet beside him. How could the years have changed and sobered Arthur so much, and left Lancelet untouched, unchanged? No, he had changed too: he looked sad, there was a long scar on his face which ran up into his hair and left a small white streak in it. Cai was thinner and more stooped, his limp more pronounced; he looked on Arthur as a devoted hound looks at his master. Half hoping, half fearing, Morgaine looked about to see if Viviane had come to see Arthur wedded as she had seen him crowned. But the Lady of the Lake was not here. There was the Merlin, his grey head bent in what almost looked like prayer, and behind him, standing-a tall shadow with too much of sense to bend the knee to this stupid mummery-was Kevin the Bard; good for him!

The mass concluded; the bishop, a tall, ascetic-looking man with a sour face, was pronouncing the words of dismissal. Even Morgaine bent her head -Viviane had taught her to show at least outward respect to the manifestations of another's faith, since, as she said, all faith was of the Gods. The only head unbent in the church was that of Kevin, standing proudly erect. Morgaine wished she had the courage to get up and stand beside him, head unbowed. Why was Arthur so reverential? Had he not sworn a solemn oath to regard Avalon as well as the priests? Must a day come when she, or Kevin, must remind Arthur of the vow? Surely that white, pious church angel he was marrying would do nothing to help. They should have married Arthur to a woman of Avalon; it would not be the first time a sworn priestess had been joined to a king. The idea shook her, and she stifled her unease with a quick picture of Raven as High Queen. At least she would have the Christian virtue of silence ... Morgaine bent her head and bit her lip, suddenly afraid she would giggle aloud.

The mass came to an end; the people began to stream toward the doorway. Arthur and his Companions stayed where they were, and, at a gesture from Cai, Lot and Morgause approached him, Morgaine moving along behind them. She saw that Igraine and the Merlin and the silent harper remained as well. She raised her eyes and met her mother's glance; she knew, with something as poignant as the Sight, that except for the presence of the bishop she would even now be clasped in Igraine's arms. She flushed a little, turning away from Igraine's eager eyes.

She had thought as little as she could of Igraine, conscious only that in her presence she must guard the one thing Igraine must never know, who had fathered her child ... . Once, in that long desperate struggle which she could hardly remember, she thought she had cried aloud, like a child, for her mother, but she had never been sure. Even now, she feared any contact with the mother who had once had the Sight, who knew the ways of Avalon; Morgaine might manage to put aside all her childhood training and guilt, but would Igraine chide her for what had not, after all, been her own choice?

Lot now came to bend the knee before Arthur, and Arthur, his young face serious and kindly, raised Lot and kissed him on both cheeks. "I am glad you could come to my wedding, Uncle. I am glad I have so faithful a friend and kinsman to guard my northern shores, and your son Gawaine is my dear friend and closest Companion. And you, Aunt. I owe you a debt of thanks for giving me your son for so loyal a Companion."

Morgause smiled. She was, Morgaine thought, still beautiful-far more so than Igraine. "Well, sire, you will have cause to thank me again soon enough, for I have younger sons who talk of nothing but the time when they may come to serve the High King."

"They will be as welcome as their elder brother," Arthur said courteously, and looked past Morgause to where Morgaine knelt.

"Welcome, sister. At my crowning I made you a promise, which now I shall redeem. Come." He stretched out his hand to her. Morgaine rose, feeling the clasp of his hand and the tension in it. He did not meet her eyes, but led her past the others to where the white-clad woman knelt in the cloud of her golden hair.

"My lady," he said softly, and for a moment Morgaine was not sure to which of them he was speaking; he looked from one to the other, and as Gwenhwyfar rose and looked up, her eyes met Morgaine's in a moment of shocked recognition.

"Gwenhwyfar, this is my sister Morgaine, Duchess of Cornwall. It is my wish that she should be first among your ladies-in-waiting, as she is highest in rank here among them."

Morgaine saw Gwenhwyfar moisten her lips with her small pink tongue, like a kitten's. "My lord and king, the lady Morgaine and I have met.

"What? Where?" Arthur demanded, smiling.

Morgaine said, just as stiffly, "It was while she was at school in a nunnery on Glastonbury, my lord. She lost her way in the mists and blundered onto the shores of Avalon." As on that faraway day, it seemed suddenly as if something grey and dismal, like ash, had covered and choked the fine day. Morgaine felt, in spite of her fine decent gown and beautifully woven veil, as if she were some gross, dwarfish, earthly creature before the ethereal whiteness and precious gold of Gwenhwyfar. It lasted only a moment, then Gwenhwyfar stepped forward and embraced her, kissing her on the cheek as was seemly for a kinswoman. Morgaine, returning the embrace, felt that Gwenhwyfar was fragile as precious glass, unlike her own gnarled-wood solidness; felt herself shrinking back, shy and stiff, so that she might not feel Gwenhwyfar shrink from her. Her lips felt coarse against the rose-leaf softness of the other girl's cheek.

Gwenhwyfar said softly, "I shall welcome the sister of my lord and husband, my lady of Cornwall-may I call you Morgaine, sister?"

Morgaine drew a long breath and muttered, "As it pleases you, my lady." When she had said it, she knew that she sounded ungracious, but she did not know what she should have said instead. Standing next to Arthur, she looked up to see Gawaine regarding her with a faint frown. Lot was a Christian only because it was expedient, but Gawaine was genuinely devout in his blunt way. His disapproving glance stiffened Morgaine's back; she had as good a right to be here as Gawaine himself. It would be amusing to see some of these stiff-necked Companions of Arthur lose their proper manners around a Beltane fire! Well, Arthur had sworn to honor the people of Avalon as well as the Christians that might yet come about here at Arthur's court. Perhaps that was why she herself was here.

Gwenhwyfar said, "I hope we shall be friends, lady. I remember that you and the lord Lancelet set me on my way when I was lost in those dreadful mists-even now I shudder at the memory of that terrible place," she said, and raised her eyes to Lancelet, where he stood behind Arthur. Morgaine, attuned to the mood around them, followed her eyes and wondered why Gwenhwyfar spoke to him now; then realized that the other woman could not help it, she was bound as if on a string by Lancelet's eyes ... and Lancelet was looking at Gwenhwyfar as a hungry dog looks at a dripping bone. If Morgaine had to meet this pink-and-white precious creature again in Lancelet's presence, it was well for them both that it was just as Gwenhwyfar was about to be married to someone else. She sensed Arthur's hand still in hers, and that troubled her too; that bond, too, would be broken, when he had taken Gwenhwyfar to bed. Gwenhwyfar would become the Goddess to Arthur and he would not look at Morgaine anymore in that way that troubled her so. She was Arthur's sister, not his lover; she was the mother not of his son, but the son of the Horned One, and so it must be.

But I have not broken that bond, either. True, I was ill after my son was born, and I had no will to fall like a ripe apple into Lot's bed, so I played Lady Chastity herself wherever Lot could see me. But she looked at Lancelet, hoping to intercept the glance between his eyes and Gwenhwyfar's.

He smiled, but he looked past her. Gwenhwyfar took Morgaine's hand in one of hers, reached to Igraine with the other. "Soon you will be as my own sister and my own mother," she said, "for I have neither mother nor sister living. Come and stand beside me as we are joined in marriage, mother and sister."

Stiffen her heart as she might against Gwenhwyfar's charm, Morgaine was warmed by those spontaneous words, and she returned the pressure of the girl's warm little fingers. Igraine reached past Gwenhwyfar to touch Morgaine's hand, and Morgaine said, "I have not had time to greet you properly, my mother," and let go of Gwenhwyfar's hand for a moment to kiss Igraine. She thought, as for a moment the three of them stood in a brief embrace, All women, indeed, are sisters under the Goddess.

"Well, come then," said the Merlin pleasantly. "Let us have the marriage signed and witnessed, and then for feasting and revelry."

Morgaine thought the bishop looked sober, but he too said amiably enough, "Now that our spirits are all lifted up and in charity, indeed, let us make merry as is suitable for Christian folk on such a day of good omen."

Standing beside Gwenhwyfar at the ceremony, Morgaine sensed that the girl was trembling. Her mind went back to the day of the deer hunting. At least she herself had been stimulated and exalted by ritual, but even so she had been frightened, she had clung to the old priestess. Suddenly, with an impulse of kindness, she wished she could give to Gwenhwyfar, who after all had been convent-reared and had none of the old wisdom, some of the instruction given to the younger priestesses. Then she would know how to let the life currents of sun and summer and earth and life flood through her. She could truly become the Goddess to Arthur and he the God to her, so that their marriage would not be an empty form, but a true inner binding on all the levels of life.... She almost found herself searching for the words, then remembered that Gwenhwyfar was a Christian, and would not thank Morgaine for such teaching. She sighed, frustrated, knowing she would not speak.

She raised her eyes and met Lancelet's, and for a moment he held her glance; she found herself remembering that sun-flooded moment on the Tor, when they should have been bound as man and woman, Goddess to God . .. she knew he was remembering too. But he dropped his eyes and looked away, signing himself, as the priest had done, with the cross.

The simple ceremony was over. Morgaine affixed her name as witness to the marriage contract, noting how smooth and flowing her own hand was next to Arthur's sprawling signature, Gwenhwyfar's clumsy and childish letters-had the nuns of Glastonbury so little learning? Lancelet signed, too, and Gawaine, and King Bors of Brittany, who had come as witness, and Lot, and Ectorius, and King Pellinore, whose sister had been Gwenhwyfar's mother. Pellinore had a young daughter with him, whom he solemnly beckoned forward.

"My daughter, Elaine-your cousin, my lady and queen. I beg you to accept her service."

"I shall be happy for her company among my ladies," Gwenhwyfar said, smiling. Morgaine thought that Pellinore's daughter was very like Gwenhwyfar, pink and golden, though a little dimmer than Gwenhwyfar's bright radiance, and wearing simple linen dyed with saffron, which dulled the coppery gold of her hair. "What is your name, cousin? How old are you?"

"Elaine, my lady, and I am thirteen years old." She dropped a deep curtsey, so deep that she stumbled and Lancelet caught her to steady her. She blushed deeply and hid her face behind her veil. Lancelet smiled indulgently, and Morgaine felt a sickening pang of jealousy. He would not look at her, he would look only at these pale gold-white angels; no doubt he too thought her little and ugly. And at that moment all her kindness for Gwenhwyfar faded into anger, and she had to turn her face away.

Gwenhwyfar had to spend the next hours welcoming, it seemed, every king in the whole of Britain, and being presented to their wives, sisters, and daughters. When it came time to sit at the feast, in addition to Morgaine and Elaine and Igraine and Morgause, she had to show courtesy and graciousness to Flavilla, Arthur's foster-mother and mother of Sir Cai; to the queen of North Wales, who had her own name, Gwenhwyfar, but was dark and Roman-looking; and to half a dozen others. She whispered to Morgaine, "I do not know how I am ever to remember all their names! Shall I simply call them all 'my lady' and hope they don't know why?"

Morgaine whispered back, momentarily sharing the sense of fun in her voice, "That is one thing about being a High Queen, madam, no one will dare to ask you why! Whatever you do, they will think it well done! Or if they do not, they will not dare to tell you so!"

Gwenhwyfar giggled a little. "But you must call me by my name, Morgaine-not just madam. When you say madam, I look about for some stout old lady like Dame Flavilla, or King Pellinore's queen!"

At last the feast began. Morgaine had more appetite now than she had had at Arthur's crowning. She sat between Gwenhwyfar and Igraine, and ate with a good appetite; the abstemious ways of Avalon seemed far behind her. She even ate some meat, though she did not like it, and, since there was no water on the table and beer mostly for the servants, drank the wine she really disliked. It made her head swim a little, though it was not as fiery as the strong barley liquors common at the court of Orkney, which she hated and never touched.

After a time Kevin came forward to play, and the conversation died. Morgaine, who had not heard a fine harper since leaving Avalon, listened, letting the past slip away. Suddenly she longed for Viviane. Even when she raised her eyes and saw Lancelet-who, as Arthur's closest Companion, sat nearer to him than any other, even Gawaine his heir, and shared his dish -she thought of him only as the companion of those years at the Lake.

Viviane, not Igraine, is my real mother, and it was for her I cried out ... . She bent her head, blinking back tears she did not know how to shed.

The music died away, and she heard Kevin's rich voice. "We have another musician here," he said. "Will the lady Morgaine sing for this company?"

How, she wondered, did he know I was pining for the touch of my harp? "It will be a pleasure to play your harp, sir. But I have not touched a fine one for many years, only a makeshift at Lot's court."

Arthur said, and sounded ill-pleased, "What, my sister, sing like a hired musician for all these people?"

Kevin looked offended, as well he might, thought Morgaine. In a sudden rage, she rose from her seat, saying, "What the Master Harper of Avalon condescends to do, I am honored to do! In music, the Gods only are served!" She took the harp from his hand, seating herself on a bench. It was larger than her own harp and for a moment her hands fumbled on the strings; then she found the set and her hands moved more surely, playing a northern song she had heard at Lot's court. She was suddenly grateful for the wine that had cleared her throat; she heard her own voice rich and sweet -it had come back as strong as ever, though she had not recognized it till this moment. Her voice was contralto, deep and strong, trained by the bards at Avalon, and she was proud, again. Gwenhwyfar may be beautiful, but I have the voice of a bard.

And even Gwenhwyfar crowded close when she was done, to say, "Your voice is very lovely, sister. Did you learn to sing so well in Avalon?"

"Why yes, madam, music is sacred-did you not learn the harp in your nunnery?"

Gwenhwyfar shrank. "No, it is unseemly for a woman to raise her voice before the Lord ... ."

Morgaine chuckled. "You Christians are overfond of that word unseemly, especially when it relates to women," she said. "If music is evil, then it is evil for men as well; and if it is a good thing, should not women do all the good things they can do, to make up for their supposed sin at the beginning of the world?"

"Still, I would not have been allowed-once I was beaten for touching a harp," said Gwenhwyfar wistfully. "But you have cast a spell over us, and I cannot think but this magic is good."

Kevin said, "All the men and women of Avalon learn something of music; but few have such gifts as the lady Morgaine. A fine voice is born, not trained. And if it is a gift of God, then seems it to me that it is arrogant to look down and think little of such a gift, be it given to man or woman. We cannot believe God has made a mistake in giving such a gift to a woman, since God makes no mistakes, so we must accept it wherever it is found."

"I cannot argue theology with a Druid," said Ectorius, "but if I had a daughter born with such a gift, I would hold it a temptation, that she would be tempted to step beyond the place appointed to a woman. We are not told that Mary, the Mother of our Lord, sang or danced-"

The Merlin said softly, "Though we are told that when the Holy Ghost descended upon her, she lifted up her voice and sang, My soul hath magnified the Lord ..." But he said it in Greek: Megalynei he psyche1 mou ton Kyrion ... .

Only Ectorius and Lancelet and the bishop recognized the Greek words, although Morgaine too had heard them more than once. The bishop said firmly, "But she sang in the presence of God alone. Only Mary the Magdalene is said to have sung or danced before men, and only before our Redeemer saved her soul for God, for it was part of her wicked ways."

Igraine said with a flicker of mischief, "King David was a singer and played, we are told, upon the harp. Do you suppose he beat any of his wives or daughters for playing on the harp?"

Morgaine flashed, "If Mary of Magdala-I mind the story-played on the harp and danced, still she came to be saved, and we are nowhere told that Jesus told her to sit meekly and be silent! If she poured precious balm on the head of Jesus and he would not let his Companions rebuke her, he may well have enjoyed her other gifts as well! The Gods give of their best, not their worst, to men!"

Patricius said stiffly, "If this is the form of religion which is known here in Britain, we are well in need of such councils as our church has called together!" He scowled, and Morgaine, already regretting her hasty words, lowered her head-it was hardly suitable to pick a quarrel between Avalon and the church at Arthur's wedding. But why did Arthur not speak out? All at once everyone began to talk all together, and Kevin, taking the harp again, began to play a lively air, under cover of which the servants went around with fresh delicacies which nobody wanted by now.

After a time Kevin put by the harp, and Morgaine, as she would have done in Avalon, poured him wine and knelt to offer it to him. He smiled and took it, gesturing to her to rise and sit by him.

"Lady Morgaine, my thanks."

"It is my duty and my pleasure to serve such a bard, Master Harper. Are you recently come from Avalon? Is my kinswoman Viviane well?"

"Well, but much aged," he said quietly. "And, I think, pining for you -you should return."

Morgaine felt again the surge of unforgotten despair; she looked away from him. "I cannot. But give me news of my home."

"If you wish more news of Avalon you will have to go there. I have not returned myself for a year, since I am required to give news of all the kingdom to the Lady-Taliesin is too old now for a Messenger of the Gods."

"Well," Morgaine said, "you will have something to tell her of this marriage."

"I will tell her that you are alive and well," said Kevin, "since she has mourned you. She has not now the Sight to see for herself. And I shall tell her of her younger son who is Arthur's chiefest Companion; indeed," he said, his lips curving in a sarcastic smile, "watching him with Arthur, I think him like that youngest disciple who leaned at dinner upon the bosom of Christ ... ."

Morgaine could not keep back a small chuckle. "Yonder bishop would have you whipped for blasphemy, no doubt, if he heard you say so."

"Well, there sits Arthur like to Jesus with his Apostles, defending Christianity to all the land," Kevin said. "As for yonder bishop, he is an ignorant man."

"What, because he has no ear for music?" Morgaine had not realized how she had starved for the banter of casual equals like this; Morgause and the gossip of her ladies were so small, so bound by little things!

"I would say that any man without an ear for music is an ignorant ass indeed, since without it he does not speak but brays," Kevin retorted, "but it is more than that. Is this any time for a wedding?"

Morgaine had been so long away from Avalon that for a moment she did not know what he meant; but he pointed to the sky.

"The moon is waning from the full. This augurs ill for a wedding, and the lord Taliesin told them so. But the bishop would have it a little after the full so that all these people would have light to travel to their homes, and because it is the feast of one of their saints-I know not which! The Merlin spoke to Arthur as well, to tell him this marriage would bring him no joy-I know not why. But there was no honorable way to stop it, it seemed, all had gone too far."

Morgaine knew instinctively what the old Druid had meant; she too had seen the way in which Gwenhwyfar looked upon Lancelet. Was it a flash of the Sight which had caused her to shrink from Gwenhwyfar, that day upon Avalon?

She took Lancelet from me forever on that day, Morgaine thought, then, remembering that she had been under a vow to keep her maidenhood for the Goddess, looked within, in dull astonishment. Would she have been forsworn for his sake? She lowered her head in shame, almost fearing, for a moment, that Kevin could read her thoughts.

Viviane had said to her that a priestess must temper everything with her own judgment. It had been a right instinct, vows or no vows, which had led her to desire Lancelet ... would have done better, even by Avalon, to take Lancelet then; then would Arthur's queen have come to him with her heart untouched, for Lancelet would have formed that mystical bond with me, and the child I bore would have been born of the ancient royal line of Avalon ... .

But they had had other plans for her, and in the wreck of that she had left Avalon forever, borne a child who had destroyed any hope that she could ever give the Goddess a daughter to her shrine: after Gwydion, she could carry no other to life. If she had trusted her own instinct and judgment, Viviane would have been angry, but they would have found someone suitable for Arthur, somehow ... .

By doing right I did wrong; by obeying Viviane's word I helped with the wreck and disaster of this marriage, for wreck I now know it will be ... .

"Lady Morgaine," Kevin said gently, "you are troubled. Can I do anything to help you?"

Morgaine shook her head, biting back tears again. She wondered if he knew she had been given to Arthur in the kingmaking. She could not accept his pity. "Nothing, lord Druid. Perhaps I share your fears for this marriage made in a waning moon. I am concerned for my brother, no more. And I do pity the woman he has wedded." And as she spoke the words she knew they were true; for all her fear of Gwenhwyfar, not unmixed with hatred, she knew that she did pity her-marrying a man who did not love her, loving a man she could not wed.

If I take Lancelet from Gwenhwyfar, then I do my brother a service, and his wife as well, for if I take him away she will forget him. She had been trained to examine her own motives in Avalon, and now she cringed inwardly; she was not being honest with herself. If she took Lancelet from Gwenhwyfar, it would not be for her brother's sake nor for the sake of the kingdom, but purely and solely because she desired Lancelet herself.

Not for yourself. For the sake of another you could use your magic; but you must not deceive yourself. She knew love charms enough. It would be for Arthur's good! It would work to the advantage of the kingdom, she told herself repeatedly, if she took Lancelet from her brother's wife; but the unsparing conscience of a priestess kept saying: This you may not. It is forbidden to use your magic to make the universe do your will.

So, still, she would try; but she must do it unassisted, with no more than her own woman's wiles. She told herself fiercely that Lancelet had desired her once, without the aid of magic; she could certainly make him desire her again!

GWENHWYFAR WAS WEARY of the feasting. She had eaten more than she wanted, and although she had sipped only one glass of wine, she felt overly hot, and slid her veil back, fanning herself. Arthur had come to speak to many of his guests, moving slowly toward the table where she sat with the ladies, and finally reaching her; with him, Lancelet and Gawaine. The women slid along the benches, making room, and Arthur sat beside her.

"It is the first moment I have really had to speak to you, my wife." She held out her small hand to him. "I understand. This is more like a council than a wedding feast, my husband and my lord."

He laughed, somewhat ruefully. "All events in my life now seem to become so. A king does nothing in private. Well," he amended, smiling, seeing the flush that spread over her face, "almost nothing-I think there will be a few exceptions, my wife. The law requires that they must see us put to bed together, but what happens after that need concern no one but ourselves, I trust."

She lowered her eyes, knowing that he had seen her blush. Once again, with the flood of shame, she realized that she had forgotten him again, that she had been watching Lancelet and thinking, with the drowsy sweetness of a dream, how very much she wished it had been to him she had been joined in marriage this day-what damnable fate had made her a High Queen? His eyes fell on her with that hungry look, and she dared not look up at him. She saw him turn his eyes from her even before the shadow fell over them and the lady Morgaine stood there; Arthur made room for her at his side.

"Come and sit with us, my sister, there is always room for you here," he said, his voice so languorous that Gwenhwyfar wondered for a moment how much he had drunk. "When the feast has worn away a little, see, we have prepared something more for entertainment, perhaps something more stirring than the bard's music, beautiful though it is. I did not know you were a singer, my sister. I knew you were an enchantress, but not that you were a musician as well. Have you enchanted us all?"

"I hope not," Morgaine said, laughing, "else I would never dare sing again-what is that old saga, about the bard who sang the evil giants into a circle of ring stones, and there they stand, cold and stone to this day?"

"That one I have never heard," said Gwenhwyfar, "though in my convent there was a tale that these were evil folk who mocked the Christ on his way to his cross, and a saint raised his hand and turned them into crows who fly over the world crying out wailing jests forever ... and another tale of a saint who transformed a circle of sorceresses, at their evil rites, into a circle of stones."

Lancelet said lazily, "If I had leisure to study philosophy instead of being warrior or councillor or horseman, I think I would try to find who built the ring stones and why."

Morgaine laughed. "That is known in Avalon. Viviane could tell you if she would."

"But," said Lancelet, "what the priestesses and the Druids say may be no more truth than your pious nun's fables, Gwenhwyfar-forgive me, I should say, my lady and queen; Arthur, forgive me, I meant no disrespect to your lady, but I called her by her name when she was younger and not yet a queen-" but Morgaine knew that he was simply seeking an excuse to speak her name aloud.

Arthur yawned. "My dear friend, I do not mind if my lady does not. God forbid I should be the kind of husband who wishes to keep his wife locked away in a cage from all other human beings. A husband who cannot keep his wife's kind regards and faithfulness probably does not deserve them." He leaned over and took Gwenhwyfar's hand in his own. "I think this feasting long. Lancelet, how long before the riders are ready?"

"I think they will be ready soon," Lancelet said, deliberately looking away from Gwenhwyfar. "Does my lord and king wish me to go and see?"

Morgaine thought, He is torturing himself, he cannot bear to look on Gwenhwyfar with Arthur, he cannot bear to leave her alone with him. She said, deliberately making a joke of a truth, "I think, Lancelet, our bridal couple wishes to have a few moments to talk together alone. Why do we not leave them here and go down and see ourselves whether the riders are ready."

Lancelet said, "My lord-" and as Gwenhwyfar opened her mouth to protest, he said roughly, "Give me leave to go."

Arthur nodded permission, and Morgaine took his hand. He let her draw him along, but she saw him turn his head halfway, as if he could not take his eyes from Gwenhwyfar. Her heart was wrung; at one and the same time it seemed that she could not bear his pain, and that she would do anything to get him away so that she need not see him look at Gwenhwyfar. Behind her she heard Arthur say, "Until yesterday evening I had no idea that the fates, in sending me a bride, had sent me a beautiful one," and Gwenhwyfar answer, "But it was not the fates, my lord, it was my father." Before Morgaine could hear what Arthur answered, they were out of earshot.

"I remember," Morgaine said, "once, years ago, at Avalon, you spoke of cavalry as the key to victory over the Saxons-that and a disciplined army, like to the Romans. I suppose that is what you plan for these horsemen."

"It is true that I have been training them. I had not imagined that a woman would remember a point of military strategy, cousin."

Morgaine laughed. "I live under fear of the Saxons, like every other woman in these islands. I passed through a village once where a band of them had passed over, and every woman from little girls of five years old to old grandmothers in their nineties with no teeth and no hair had been raped. Whatever offers hope to rid us of them once and for all is meaningful to me, perhaps more than to men and soldiers, who need to fear only death."

"I had not thought of that," Lancelet said soberly. "Uther Pendragon's troops were not above scouring the countryside for willing women-nor are Arthur's-but in general, there is no rape. And I had forgotten, Morgaine, you were trained at Avalon and you think often on things which mean little or nothing to other women." He looked up and clasped her hand in his. "I had forgotten the harps of Avalon. I thought I hated the place, that I never wished to go back. And yet-sometimes-some little thing will take me back there. The sound of a harp. Sunlight on ring stones. The scent of apples and the sound of bees in the sun. Fish splashing in the lake, and the cries of water birds at sunset-"

"Do you remember," she asked softly, "the day we climbed the Tor?"

"I remember." With sudden bitterness he said, "I would to God you had not been sworn to the Goddess, that day."

She said in a low voice, "I have wished it almost as long as I can remember." Her voice suddenly broke, and Lancelet looked with apprehension into her eyes.

"Morgaine, Morgaine-kinswoman, I have never seen you weep."

"Are you like so many men, afraid of a woman's tears?"

He shook his head, and his arm went around her shoulders. "No," he confessed in a low voice, "it makes them seem so much more real, so much more vulnerable-women who never weep frighten me, because I know they are stronger than I, and I am always a little afraid of what they will do. I was always afraid of-Viviane." She sensed that he had been about to say my mother, and had shrunk from the words.

They were passing under the low lintel of the stables; the long line of horses, tied there, shadowed the day. There was a pleasant smell of hay and straw. Outside, she saw men moving back and forth, erecting piles of hay, standing up mannikins of stuffed leather, and men were coming in and out, saddling their horses.

Someone caught sight of Lancelet and shouted, "Will the High King and their lordships be ready for us soon, sir? We don't want to bring the horses out and keep them standing to get restless."

"Soon," Lancelet called back.

The soldier behind the horse resolved himself into Gawaine. "Ah, cousin," he said to Morgaine. "Lance, don't bring her in here, it's no place for a lady, a few of these damned beasts are still unbroken. Are you still resolved to take out that white stallion?"

"I'm resolved to have him ready for Arthur to ride into battle next time, if I break my own neck for it!"

"Don't jest about things like that," Gawaine said. "Who says I am jesting? If Arthur can't ride him, I'll ride him myself in battle, and I'll show him this afternoon in honor of the Queen!"

"Lancelet," Morgaine said, "don't risk your neck for that. Gwenhwyfar doesn't know one horse from another, she'd be as impressed if you rode a hobbyhorse from one end of the yard to another as by the feats of the centaur himself!"

The look he gave her was, for a moment, almost contemptuous, but she could read it clearly: How could she understand his need to show himself undamaged by this day?

"Go and get saddled, Gawaine, and give the word on the field, we'll be ready in half an hour," said Lancelet, "and ask Cai if he wants to start."

"Don't tell me Cai's going to ride, wi' that crippled leg o' his?" demanded one of the men who spoke in a strange accent. Gawaine turned on the stranger and said fiercely, "Would you grudge him that-the one military exercise where that leg makes no difference and he's not tied to the kitchens and the ladies' bowers?"

"Na, na, I see what ye mean," said the strange soldier, and turned to saddling his own horse. Morgaine touched Lancelet's hand; he looked down at her, the mischief back in his eyes. Here, she thought, arranging something, risking his neck, doing something for Arthur, he has forgotten about love, he is happy again. If he could only keep himself busy here, he would not need to moon after Gwenhwyfar or any other woman.

She said, "Show me this dangerous horse you are going to ride." He led her down between the rows of tied steeds. She saw the pale silvery nose, the long mane like linen floss-a big horse, tall as Lancelet himself across the shoulders. The creature tossed his head, and the snort was like a dream of dragons breathing fire.

"Oh, you beauty," said Lancelet, laying his hand alongside the horse's nose; he sidled and stepped away. He said to Morgaine, "This one I trained with my own hands to bit and stirrup-it was my wedding present to Arthur, who has no leisure to break a horse for his own use. I swore it would be ready on his wedding day, for him to ride, and gentle as a house pet."

"A thoughtful gift," said Morgaine.

"No, the only thing I could give," Lancelet said. "I am not rich. And anyway, he has no need of jewels or gold, he is showered with those things. This was a gift only I could give him."

"A gift of yourself," said Morgaine, and thought, How he loves Arthur; this is why he is so tormented. It is not that he desires Gwenhwyfar that tortures him; it is that he loves Arthur no less. If he were simply a wencher like Gawaine I would not even pity him; Gwenhwyfar is virtuous, and I could take pleasure in seeing her turn him away.

She said, "I would like to ride him. There is no horse I fear." He laughed. "Morgaine, you fear nothing, do you?"

"Oh, no, my kinsman," she said, suddenly sober, "I fear many things."

"Well, I am not as fearless even as you, I am afraid of battle and I fear the Saxons and I fear I will be killed before I have tasted all there is to life," he said. "And so I never dare shrink from any challenge ... . And I fear lest both Avalon and the Christians are wrong, and there should be no Gods and no Heaven and no afterlife, so that when I die I will perish forever. So I fear to die before I have savored my fill of life."

"It does not seem to me you have left much untasted," Morgaine said.

"Ah, but I have, Morgaine, there are so many things I long for, and whenever I pass one by I regret it so bitterly, and wonder what weakness or folly prevents me from doing what I will ... " he said, and suddenly he turned in the horse lanes and put his arms hungrily round her, pulling her close.

Desperation, she thought bitterly; it is not me he wants, it is a moment of forgetfulness of Arthur and Gwenhwyfar in one another's arms this night. His hands moved, with a detached, practiced deftness, over her breasts; he pressed his lips to hers, and she could feel the whole hard length of his body pushing against her. She stood in his arms, motionless, feeling languor and a rising hunger that was like pain; she was hardly conscious of her small movements, to fit her body against his. Her mouth opened under his lips, his hands were over her. But when he moved with her toward one of the piles of hay, she roused to a dim protest.

"My dear, you are mad, there are half a hundred of Arthur's soldiers and riders swarming in this stable-"

"Do you mind," he whispered, and she murmured, shaking with excitement, "No. No!" She let him push her down. Through the back of her mind, in bitterness, was the thought, a princess, Duchess of Cornwall, a priestess of Avalon, tumbled in the stables like some dairymaid, without even the excuse of the Beltane fires. But she closed it away from her mind and let his hands move on her as they would, unresisting. Better this than break Arthur's heart. She did not know whether it was her own thought or that of the man whose body was somehow all over hers, whose fierce furious hands were bruising her; his kisses were almost savage, driving into her mouth in a rage. She felt him pull at her dress and moved to loosen it for him.

And then there were voices, clamoring, shouting, a noise like hammering, a frightened scream, and suddenly a dozen voices were all yelling. "Captain! Lord Lancelet! Where is he? Captain!

"Down here, I thought-" One of the younger soldiers ran down between the horse lines. Swearing savagely under his breath, Lancelet thrust his body between Morgaine and the young soldier, while she buried her face in her veil and hunched herself, half-naked already, into the straw so that she would not be seen.

"Damnation! Can't I be out of the way for a moment-" "Oh, sir, come quickly, one of the strange horses-there was a mare in season, and two of the stallions began fighting, and I think one of them's broken a leg-"

"Hell and furies!" Lancelet was swiftly tucking garments into place, rising and towering over the lad who had interrupted them. "I'll come-"

The young man had caught sight of Morgaine; she hoped in a moment of horror that he had not recognized her-that would be a fine juicy morsel of gossip for the court indeed. Not as bad as what they do not know ... that I bore my brother's child.

"Did I interrupt anything, sir?" the young man said, trying to peer around Lancelet, almost sniggering. Morgaine wondered disconsolate, What will this do to his reputation? Or is it to a man's credit to be caught in the hay? Lancelet did not even answer; he shoved the youngster along before him, so that he almost fell. "Go and find Cai, and the farrier, get along with you." He came swiftly back, a whirlwind, kissed Morgaine who had staggered somehow to her feet. "Gods! Of all the damnable-" He pressed her hard against him, with hungry fingers, kissed her so hard that she felt the brand of it was scalding red on her face. "Gods! Tonight-swear it! Swear!"

She couldn't speak. She could only nod, dazed, numb, her whole body screaming for the interrupted fulfillment, as she saw him rush away. A minute or two later a young man came up to her deferentially and bowed, while soldiers began rushing back and forth and somewhere there was the terrible, almost human scream of a dying animal.

"Lady Morgaine? I am Griflet. The lord Lancelet sent me to escort you to the pavilions. He told me he had brought you down here to see the horse he is training for my lord the king, but that you had slipped and fallen in the hay, and that he was trying to see if you had hurt yourself when they began shrieking for him-when this fight broke out with King Pellinore's horse. And he begs you to excuse him and return to the castle-"

Well, she thought, at least it explained her kirtle crushed and stained with hay and her hair and headcloth filled with hayseed. She need not go before Gwenhwyfar and her mother looking like the woman in Scriptures, the one taken in adultery; young Griflet held out his arm and she leaned on it heavily, saying, "I think my ankle is twisted," and limped all the way up to the castle. It would explain the hay, if she had had a hurt and fallen hard. One part of her was glad of Lancelet's quick thinking; the other, desolate, cried out for him to acknowledge and shelter her.

Arthur had gone off with Cai to the stables, distressed at the accident to the horses. She let Gwenhwyfar fuss over her and Igraine send for cold water and linen strips to bandage her ankle, and she accepted a place at Igraine's side, in the shade, when horses and men rode out to display their exercises. Arthur made a little speech about the new legion of Caerleon which would revive the glories of the days of Rome, and save the countryside. His foster-father, Ectorius, was beaming. Then a dozen riders rode out, displaying the new skills with which the horses could stop in mid gallop, pull up, wheel, move together.

"After this," Arthur declared grandly, "no one will ever again say that horses are fit for nothing but to move wagons!" He smiled at Gwenhwyfar. "How do you like my knights, my lady? I have called them after the old Roman equites-noblemen who could own and fit out their own horse."

"Cai rides as well as a centaur," Igraine said to Ectorius, and the old man smiled with pleasure. "Arthur, you never did a kinder thing than when you gave Cai one of the best of the horses."

"Cai is too good a soldier, and too good a friend, to wither in the house," said Arthur decisively.

Gwenhwyfar said, "Is he not your foster-brother?"

"True. He was wounded in his first battle, and feared he would skulk at home with the women forever after that," said Arthur. "A frightful fate for a soldier. But on horseback he fights as well as any."

"Look," exclaimed Igraine, "the legion has smashed down that whole series of targets-I have never seen such riding!"

"I don't think anything could stand against that attack," said King Pellinore. "What a pity Uther Pendragon could not live to see this, my boy -excuse me-my lord and king-"

Arthur said warmly, "My father's friend may call me whatever he wishes, dear Pellinore! But the credit must go to my friend and captain, Lancelet."

Morgause's son Gaheris bobbed in a bow to Arthur. "My lord, may I go down to the stables and see them unsaddled?" He was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen or so.

"You may," said Arthur. "When will he come to join Gawaine and Agravaine at our side, Aunt?"

"This year, perhaps, if his brothers can teach him soldierly arts and keep him close," Morgause said, then raised her voice: "No! Not you, Gareth!" and made a snatch at the chubby six-year-old. "Gaheris! Bring him back here!"

Arthur spread his hands with a laugh. "Don't worry about it-boys run to stables like fleas to dogs. I have been told how I rode my father's stallion when I was scarce six years old! I don't remember; it was only a little before I went to be fostered with Ectorius," he said, and Morgaine shivered suddenly, remembering a fair-haired child lying like death and something like a shadow in a bowl of water-no, it was gone.

"Does your ankle pain you much, sister?" Gwenhwyfar asked solicitously. "Here, lean against me-"

"Gawaine will look after him," Arthur said offhandedly. "I think he's the best man we have at training the young knights and riders."

"Better than the lord Lancelet?" asked Gwenhwyfar. Morgaine thought, She only wants to speak his name. But it is me he wanted, not long ago, and tonight it will be too late ... better that than break Arthur's heart. I will tell Gwenhwyfar if I must.

Arthur said, "Lancelet? He's our best rider, though too much of a daredevil for my taste. The lads all adore him, of course-look, there's your little Gareth, Aunt, tagging after him like a puppy-they'll do anything for a kind word from him. But he's not as good at teaching the boys their business as Gawaine; he's too flamboyant and he likes to show off. Gawaine takes them slow and easy and makes them learn the art step by step, and they never get hurt through carelessness-Gawaine's my best arms master. Look, there's Lancelet on that horse he's training for me-" He burst into a laugh, and Igraine said, "That little devil!"

For Gareth had swung like a monkey from the saddle leather, and Lancelet, laughing, scooped up the boy in front of him on his saddle and broke into a fast gallop, racing directly up the hill toward the sheltered place where the royal party sat watching. They raced at breakneck speed straight toward them, so that even Arthur gasped and Igraine stepped back, her face white. Lancelet pulled up the horse so that it reared into the air and wheeled it round.

"Your horse, lord Arthur," he said with a flourish, holding the reins with one hand, "and your cousin. Aunt Morgause, take this little scapegrace and tan his breeches for him!" he added, letting Gareth slide down almost into Morgause's lap. "He could have been killed under the stallion's feet like that!"

Gareth heard not a word of Morgause's scolding, looking up at Lancelet, his blue eyes wide with adoration.

"When you get older," Arthur said, laughing, aiming a playful cuff at the child, "I will make you a knight and you shall ride out to conquer giants and evil raiders, and rescue fair ladies."

"Oh no, my lord Arthur," said the child, his eyes still fastened on the white horse which Lancelet was riding up and down. "The lord Lancelet shall make me a knight, and we will go on a quest together."

Ectorius chuckled and said, "Young Achilles has found his Patroclus, so it would seem."

"I am quite in the shade," Arthur said good-naturedly. "Even my new-made wife cannot take her eyes from Lancelet, and begs him to call her by her Christian name, and now little Gareth would rather be made knight by him! If Lance were not my closest friend, I should be mad with jealousy."

Pellinore was watching the rider cantering up and down. He said, "That damnable dragon is still hiding in a lake on my lands, and coming out to kill my tenants or their cows. Perhaps if I had a horse like that, who would stand to fight ... I think I will train a battle horse and go after it again. Last time I barely got away with my life."

"A dragon, sir?" asked little Gareth. "Did it breathe fire?"

"No, lad, but it had an almighty stench and a noise like sixty packs of hounds all baying together from his belly," said Pellinore, and Ectorius said, "Dragons do not breathe fire, my lad. That comes from the old way of calling a shooting star a dragon, for they have a long tail of fire-there may have been dragons once who breathed fire, but not in the memory of any living man."

Morgaine was not listening, though she wondered how much of Pellinore's tale was true, and how much exaggerated to impress the child. Her eyes were on Lancelet, putting the horse through its paces.

Arthur said to Gwenhwyfar, "I could never train a horse like that- Lancelet is training it to battle for me. Look, two months ago that one was wild as one of Pellinore's dragons, and now look at him!"

"He seems still wild to me," said Gwenhwyfar. "But then, I am afraid even of the gentlest horses."

"A horse to be ridden in battle must not be meek as a lady's palfrey," said Arthur. "He must have spirit-God in heaven!" he cried out, rising up suddenly. From somewhere there was a blur of white; a bird of some kind, a goose perhaps, had suddenly flapped upward, right under the horse's hooves. Lancelet, riding at ease, his vigilance relaxed, started as the horse reared upright with a frantic whicker; fought for control, slid off almost under the hooves; half senseless, managed to roll away.

Gwenhwyfar screamed. Morgause and the other ladies echoed the scream, while Morgaine, quite forgetting she was supposed to have an injured ankle, leaped up and ran toward Lancelet, dragging him out from under the horse's hooves. Arthur too dashed for the horse's bridle, grabbing it, wrestling the horse by main force away from where Lancelet sprawled unconscious. Morgaine knelt beside him, quickly feeling his temple, where a bruise already darkened and a trickle of blood mingled with the dust. "Is he dead?" Gwenhwyfar cried. "Is he dead?"

"No," Morgaine said with asperity. "Bring some cold water, and there ought to be some of that bandage linen left. He's broken his wrist, I think; he broke his fall with it so as not to break his neck! And the clout on his head-" She bent down, laying her ear against his chest, feeling the warm rise and fall of it. She took the basin of cold water Pellinore's daughter handed her, sponging his brow with a bit of linen. "Someone catch that goose and wring its neck-and give the goose boy a good thrashing. The lord Lancelet could have broken his head, or damaged the High King's horse."

Gawaine came and led the horse back to the stables. The near tragedy had dampened the festivities, and one by one the guests began to drift away to their own pavilions and quarters. Morgaine bound up Lancelet's head and his broken wrist, mercifully completing the work of splinting the wrist before he stirred and moaned and clutched at it in agony; then, in conference with the housekeeper, sent Cai for some herbs which would make him sleep and had him carried to bed. She stayed with him, though he did not know her, only moaned and stared about with eyes that refused to stay in focus. Once he stared at her, and muttered "Mother-" and her heart sank. After a while he fell into a heavy, restless sleep, and when he woke, he knew her.

"Morgaine? Cousin? What happened?"

"You fell off a horse."

"A horse? What horse?" he asked, confused, and when she told him he said positively, "That's ridiculous. I don't fall off horses," and dropped off to sleep again.

Morgaine sat beside him, letting him clutch at her hand, and felt that her heart would break. The mark of his kisses was still on her mouth, on her aching breasts. Yet the moment had passed, and she knew it. Even if he should remember, he would not want her; he had never wanted her, except to dull the agony of thinking of Gwenhwyfar and of his love for his king and cousin.

It was growing dark; far away in the castle she heard sounds of music again-Kevin was harping. There was laughter, singing, festivity. Suddenly the door opened, and Arthur himself, carrying a torch in his hand, came in.

"Sister, how does Lancelet?"

"He'll live; his head's too hard to break," she said with a hard flippancy.

"We wanted you among the witnesses when the bride was put to bed, as you witnessed the marriage contract," said Arthur. "But I suppose he should not be left alone, and I wouldn't want him left to a chamberlain, not even to Cai. He's fortunate he has you with him. You are his foster-sister, are you not?"

"No," said Morgaine, with unexpected anger.

Arthur came to the bedside and picked up Lancelet's limp hand. The injured man moaned, stirred, and looked up, blinking. "Arthur?"

"I'm here, my friend," said Arthur, and Morgaine thought she had never heard a man's voice so tender.

"Is your horse-all right?"

"The horse is fine. Damn the horse," Arthur said. "If you'd been killed, what good would a horse be to me?" He was almost weeping.

"How did it-happen?"

"A damned goose flew up. The goose boy's in hiding. I think he knows he'll be beaten within an inch of his life!"

"Don't do that," Lancelet said. "He's only a poor stupid creature without all his wits. He's not to blame that the geese are cleverer than he is, and one wandered loose. Promise me, Gwydion." She was astonished that he used the old name. Arthur pressed his hand, and bent down to kiss Lancelet on the cheek, carefully avoiding the bruised side.

"I promise, Galahad. Sleep, now."

Lancelet gripped his hand hard. "I came close to wrecking your wedding night, didn't I?" he said, with something Morgaine recognized as her own hard irony.

"Believe you did-my bride has wept so hard over you, I wonder what she would do if 7 had broken my head?" Arthur demanded, laughing.

Morgaine said fiercely, "Arthur, even if you are the King, he must be kept quiet!"

"Right." Arthur straightened. "I will send the Merlin to look in at him tomorrow; he should not be left alone tonight, though-"

"I'll stay with him," she said angrily.

"Well, if you are sure-"

"Go you back to Gwenhwyfar! Your bride is waiting for you!"

Arthur sighed, subdued. After a moment he said, "I don't know what to say to her. Or what to do."

This is ridiculous-does he expect me to instruct him, or to instruct his bride? At the look in his eyes she lowered her own. She said, very gently, "Arthur, it is simple. Do as the Goddess prompts you."

He looked like a stricken child. At last he said, hoarsely, fighting the words, "She-she isn't the Goddess. She's just a girl, and she's-she's frightened." After a moment he blurted out, "Morgaine, don't you know that I still-"

She could not bear what he might be going to say. "No!" she said violently, holding up her hand, commanding silence. "Arthur, remember one thing at least. To her you will always be the God. Come to her as the Horned One ... ."

Arthur crossed himself and shivered. He whispered at last, "God forgive me; this is the punishment ... " and fell silent. They stood, looking at each other, unable to speak. Finally he said, "Morgaine, I have no right -will you kiss me once?"

"My brother-" She sighed, stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. Then she signed his head with the sign of the Goddess. "Bless you," she whispered. "Arthur, go to her, go to your bride. I promise you, I promise in the name of the Goddess, it will be well, I swear it to you."

He swallowed-she saw the muscles in his throat move. Then he broke away from her eyes and muttered, "God bless you, sister." The door closed behind him.

Morgaine dropped down on a chair, and sat, unmoving, staring at Lancelet's sleep, tormented by pictures in her mind. Lancelet's face, smiling at her in sunlight on the Tor. Gwenhwyfar, water-draggled, her skirts soaked, clinging to Lancelet's hand. The Horned God, his face smeared with deer's blood, drawing aside the curtain at the mouth of the cave. Lancelet's mouth frantic on her breasts-had it been only a few hours ago?

"At least," she muttered aloud fiercely, "he will not spend Arthur's bridal night dreaming of Gwenhwyfar." She laid herself down along the edge of the bed, pressing her body carefully against the hurt man's body; she lay there silent, not even weeping, sunk in a despairing misery too deep for tears. But she did not close her eyes that night, fighting the Sight, fighting dreams, struggling for the silence and the numb absence of thought she had been taught in Avalon.

And far away, in the furthest wing of the castle, Gwenhwyfar lay awake, looking in guilty tenderness at Arthur's hair shining in the moonlight, his chest that rose and fell with his quiet breathing. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

I want so much to love him, she thought, and then she prayed. "Oh, God, holy Mary Virgin, help me to love him as I ought to do, he is my king and my lord and he is so good, he deserves someone who will love him more than I can love." All around her, it seemed, the night breathed sadness and despair.

But why, she wondered. Arthur is happy. He has nothing with which to reproach me. Whence comes this sorrow in the very air?

7

On a day in late summer, Queen Gwenhwyfar, with several of her ladies, sat in the hall at Caerleon. It was afternoon and very hot; most of them were making a pretense of spinning, or of carding the last of that spring's wool for spinning, but the spindles moved sluggishly, and even the Queen, who was the best needlewoman among them, had ceased to set stitches in the fine altar cloth she was making for the bishop.

Morgaine laid aside the carded wool for spinning and sighed. At this season of the year she was always homesick, longing for the mists that crept in from the sea over the cliffs at Tintagel ... she had not seen them since she was a little child.

Arthur and his men, with the Caerleon legion, had ridden out to the southern coast, to examine the new fort that the Saxons of the treaty troops had built there. This summer had brought no raid, and it might well be that the Saxons, except for those who had made treaty with Arthur and were living peacefully in the Kentish country, would give up Britain for lost. Two years of Arthur's horse legion had reduced the Saxon fighting to a sporadic summer exercise; but Arthur had taken this season of quiet to fortify all the defenses of the coasts.

"I am thirsty again," said Pellinore's daughter, Elaine. "May I go, my lady, and ask for more pitchers of water to be sent?"

"Call Cai-he will attend to it," Gwenhwyfar said.

Morgaine thought: She has grown a great deal; from a scared and timid child she has become a queen.

"You should have married Cai when the King wished for it, lady Morgaine," said Elaine, returning from her errand and sitting down on the bench beside Morgaine. "He is the only man under sixty in the castle, and| his wife will never lie alone for half a year at a time."

"You are welcome to him, if you want him," Morgaine said amiably.

"I still wonder that you did not," Gwenhwyfar said, as if it were an | old grievance. "It would have been so suitable-Cai, the King's foster-brother and high in his favor, and you, Arthur's sister and Duchess of Cornwall in your own right, now that the lady Igraine never leaves her nunnery!"

Drusilla, daughter of one of the petty kings to the east, snickered. "Tell me, if the King's sister and brother marry, how is it other than incest?"

"Half-sister and foster-brother, you goose," said Elaine. "But tell me, lady Morgaine, was it only his scars and lameness that deterred you? Cai is no beauty, certainly, but he would be a good husband."

"I am not deceived by you," Morgaine retorted, pretending a good humor she did not feel-did these women think of nothing but marriages? "You care nothing for my wedded happiness with Cai, you merely wished for a wedding to break the monotony of the summer. But you should not be greedy. Sir Griflet was married to Meleas last spring, and that should be weddings enough for now." She glanced at Meleas, whose dress had already begun to grow tight over her pregnant body. "You will even have a babe to fuss and coo over this time next year."

"But you are long unmarried, lady Morgaine," said Alienor of Galis. "And you could hardly have hoped for a better match than the King's own foster-brother!"

"I am in no great haste to be wed, and Cai had no more mind to me than I to him."

Gwenhwyfar chuckled. "True. He has a tongue near as waspish as your own, and no sweet temper-his wife will need more patience than the saintly Brigid, and you, Morgaine, are ever ready with a sharp answer."

"And besides, if she should marry, she would have to spin for her household," Meleas said. "As usual, Morgaine is shirking her share of the spinning!" Her own spindle began to twirl again, and the reel sank slowly toward the floor.

Morgaine shrugged. "It is true I had rather card wool, but there is no more to card," she said, and reluctantly took up the drop spindle.

"You are the best spinner among us, though," said Gwenhwyfar. "Your thread is always even and never breaks. Mine breaks if one looks at"

"I have always been neat-handed. Perhaps I am simply tired of spinning, since my mother taught me when I was so young," Morgaine conceded, and began, reluctantly, to turn the thread in her fingers.

True-she hated spinning and shirked it when she could ... twisting, turning the thread in her fingers, willing her body to stillness with only her fingers twisting as the reel turned and turned, sinking to the floor . .. down and then up, twist and twist between her hands ... all too easy it was to sink into trance. The women were gossiping over the little affairs of the day, Meleas and her morning sickness, a woman who had come from Lot's court with scandalous tales of Lot's lechery ... I could tell them much if I would, not even his wife's niece escaped his lecherous hands.... It took me all my thought and sharp tongue to keep out of his bed; he cares not, maiden or matron, duchess or dairy maid, so it wears a skirt ... twist the thread, twist again, watch the spindle turning, turning. Gwydion must be a great boy by now, three years old, ready for a toy sword and wooden knights such as she had made for Gareth, instead of pet kittens and knucklebones. She remembered Arthur's weight on her lap when she was a little girl here at Caerleon in Uther's court ... how fortunate it was that Gwydion did not resemble his father; a small replica of Arthur at Lot's court would have made tongues wag indeed. Soon or late, someone would still put together reel and spindle and spin the right thread to the answer ... . Morgaine jerked her head up angrily. It was all too easy to fall into trance at the spinning, but she must do her share, there must be thread to weave this winter, and the ladies were making a cloth for banquets ... . Cai was not the only man under fifty in the castle; there was Kevin the Bard, who had come here with news from the Summer Country ... how slowly the spindle moved toward the floor ... twist, twist the thread, as if her fingers had life of their own, apart from her own life .. even in Avalon she had hated to spin ... in Avalon among the priestesses she had tried to take more than her share of the work among the dye pots, to avoid the hated spinning, which sent her mind roaming as her fingers moved ... as the thread turned, it was like the spiral dance along the Tor, round and round, as the world turned round the sun in the sky, though ignorant folk thought it was the other way ... . Things were not always as they seemed, it might be that the reel went round the thread, as the thread went round itself over and over, spinning like a serpent ... like a dragon in the sky... if she were a man and could ride out with the Caerleon legion, at least she need not sit and spin, spin, spin, round and round ... but even

the Caerleon legion went round the Saxons, and the Saxons went round them, round and round, as the blood went round in their veins, red blood flooding, flooding ... spilling over the hearth-

Morgaine heard her own shriek only after it had shattered the silence in the room. She dropped the spindle, which rolled away into the blood which flooded crimson, spilling, spurting over the hearth ... .

"Morgaine! Sister, did you prick your hand on the reel? What ails you?"

"Blood on the hearth-" Morgaine stammered. "See, there, there, just before the King's high seat, slain there like a slaughtered sheep before the King ... "

Elame shook her; dizzied, Morgaine passed her hand before her eyes. There was no blood, only the slow crawl of the afternoon sun.

"Sister, what did you see?" asked Gwenhwyfar gently.

Mother Goddess! It has happened again! Morgaine tried to steady her breathing. "Nothing, nothing ... I must have fallen asleep and dreamed for a moment."

"Didn't you see anything?" Calla, the fat wife of the steward, peered avidly at Morgaine. Morgaine remembered the last time, more than a year ago, when she had gone into trance over her spinning and foreseen that Cai's favorite horse had broken its leg in the stables and must have its throat cut. She said impatiently, "No, nothing but a dream-I dreamed last night of eating goose and I have not tasted it since Easter! Must every dream be a portent?"

"If you are going to prophesy, Morgaine," teased Elaine, "you should tell us something sensible, like, when will the men be home so we may have the wine warmed, or whether Meleas is making swaddling bands for a girl or a boy, or when the Queen will get pregnant!"

"Shut up, you beast," hissed Calla, for Gwenhwyfar's eyes had filled with tears. Morgaine's head was splitting with the aftermath of unsought trance; it seemed that little lights were crawling before her eyes, pale shining worms of color that would grow and spread over her whole field of vision. She knew she should let it pass, but even as that knowledge crossed her mind, she exploded, "I am so weary of that old jest! I am no village wise-woman, to meddle with birth charms and love potions and foretellings and spells. I am a priestess, not a witch!"

"Come, come," Meleas said peacefully. "Let Morgaine be. This sun is enough to make anyone see things that are not there; even if she did see blood spilt on the hearth, it is just as like that some lack-witted serving-man will overset a half-roasted joint here, and the red gravy spill down! Will you drink, lady?" She went to the bucket of water, dipped the ladle and held it out, and Morgaine drank thirstily. "I never heard that most prophecy came to aught-one might as well ask her when Elaine's father will finally catch and slay that dragon he goes off to pursue, in and out of season."

Predictably, the diversion worked. Calla jested, "If there was ever a dragon at all, and he was not merely seeking an excuse to go abroad from home when he was weary of the hearth!"

"If I were a man, and wedded to Pellinore's lady," Alienor said, "I might well prefer the company of a dragon I could not find, to the company of one in my bed."

"Tell me, Elaine," asked Meleas, "is there truly a dragon, or does your father follow it because it is simpler than seeing to his cows? Men need not sit and spin when there is war, but when there is peace, they may grow weary of the fowlyard and the pastures, I suppose."

"I have never seen the dragon," Elaine said. "God forbid. But something takes the cows from time to time, and once I did see a great slime trail in the fields, and smell the stench; and a cow lay there quite eaten away, and covered with a foul slime. Not the work of a wolf, that, nor even a glutton."

"Cows vanishing," jeered Calla. "The fairy folk are not, I suppose, too good Christians to steal a cow now and then, when the deer are not to be found."

"And speaking of cows," Gwenhwyfar said firmly, "I think I must ask Cai whether there is a sheep or a kid for slaughter. We need meat. Should the men come home this night or tomorrow, we cannot feed them all on porridge and buttered bread! And even the butter is beginning to fail in this heat. Come with me, Morgaine. I would that your Sight could tell me when we shall have rain! All of you, clear the thread and wool from the benches here, and put the work away. Elaine, child, take my embroidery work to my chamber and see that nothing spots it."

As they went toward the hallway, she said, low, "Did you truly see blood, Morgaine?"

"I dreamed," repeated Morgaine stubbornly.

Gwenhwyfar looked at her sharply, but there was real affection between them sometimes, and she did not pursue the subject. "If you did, God grant it be Saxon blood, and spilt far from this hearth. Come, let us ask Cai about the stock kept for meat. It is no season for hunting, and I have no wish to have the men about and hunting here when they come again." She yawned. "I wish the heat would break. We might yet have a thunderstorm -the milk was soured this morning. I should tell the maids to make clabber cheese with what's left of it, not throw it to the pigs."

"You are a notable housewife, Gwenhwyfar," Morgaine said wryly. "I would not have thought of that, so that it was out of my sight; but the smell of curd cheese clings so to the dairies! I would rather have the pigs well fattened."

"They are fat enough in this weather, with all the acorns ripe," said Gwenhwyfar, looking at the sky again. "Look, is that a flash of lightning?" Morgaine followed her eyes, seeing the streak of glare across the sky. "Aye. The men will come home wet and cold, we should have hot wine ready for them," she said absentmindedly, then started, as Gwenhwyfar blinked.

"Now do I believe, indeed, that you have the Sight-certainly there is no sound of hooves nor no word from the watchtower," Gwenhwyfar said. "I will tell Cai to be sure there is meat, anyway." And she went along the yard, while Morgaine stood, pressing her aching head with one hand.

This is not good. At Avalon she had learned to control the Sight, not let it slip upon her unawares, when she was not attending ... . Soon she would be a village witch indeed, peddling charms and prophesying boy- or girl-children and new lovers for the maidens, from sheer boredom at the pettiness of life among the women. The gossip bored her to spinning, the spinning beguiled her into trance ... . One day, no doubt, I would sink low enough to give Gwenhwyfar the charm she wants, so that she may bear Arthur a son ... barrenness is a heavy burden for a queen, and only once in these two years has she shown any sign of breeding.

Yet she found Gwenhwyfar's company, and Elaine's, endurable; most of the other women had never had a single thought beyond the next meal or the next reel of thread spun. Gwenhwyfar and Elaine had had some learning, and occasionally, sitting at ease with them, she could almost imagine herself peacefully among the priestesses in the House of Maidens. The storm broke just before sunset-there was hail that clattered in the courtyard and bounced on the stones, there was drenching rain; and when the watchtower called down the news of riders, Morgaine never doubted that it was Arthur and his men. Gwenhwyfar called for torches to light the courtyard, and shortly after, the walls of Caerleon were bulging with men and horses. Gwenhwyfar had conferred with Cai and he had slaughtered not a kid, but sheep, so there was meat roasting and hot broth for the men. Most of the legion camped all through the outer court and the field, and like any commander, Arthur saw to the encampment of his men and the stabling of their horses before he came into the courtyard where Gwenhwyfar awaited him.

His head was bandaged under his helmet, and he leaned a little on Lancelet's arm, but he brushed away her anxious query.

"A skirmish-Jute raiders along the coast. The Saxons of the treaty troops had already cleaned most of them away before we came there. Ha! I smell roast mutton-is this magic, when you did not know we were coming?"

"Morgaine told me you would come, and there is hot wine as well," said Gwenhwyfar.

"Well, well, it is a boon to a hungry man to have a sister who is gifted with the Sight," said Arthur, with a jovial smile at Morgaine which rasped on her aching head and raw nerves. He kissed her, and turned back to Gwenhwyfar.

"You are hurt, my husband, let me see to it-"

"No, no, I tell you it is nothing. I never lose much blood, you know that, not while I bear this scabbard about me," he said, "but how is it with you, lady, after these many months? I had thought ... "

Her eyes filled slowly with tears. "I was wrong again. Oh, my lord, this time I was so sure, so sure ... "

He took her hand in his, unable to express his own disappointment in the face of his wife's pain. "Well, well, we must certainly get Morgaine to give you a charm," he said; but he watched, his face momentarily setting into grim lines, as Meleas welcomed Griflet with a wifely kiss, holding her young swollen body proudly forward. "We are not yet old folk, my Gwenhwyfar."

But, Gwenhwyfar thought, I am not so young either. Most of the women I know, save for Morgaine and Elaine who are yet unwedded, have great boys and girls by the time they are twenty; Igraine bore Morgaine when she was full fifteen, and Meleas is fourteen and a half, no more! She tried to look calm and unconcerned, but guilt gnawed within her. Whatever else a queen might do for her lord, her first duty was to give him a son, and she had not done that duty, though she had prayed till her knees ached.

"How does my dear lady?" Lancelet bowed before her, smiling, and she held him out her hand to kiss. "Once again we return home and find you only more beautiful than ever. You are the only lady whose beauty never fades. I begin to think God has ordered it so, that when all other women age and grow old and thick and worn, you shall be ever beautiful."

She smiled at him and felt comforted. Perhaps it was just as well that she was not pregnant and ugly ... she saw that he looked on Meleas with a faint scornful smile, and she felt that she could not bear to be ugly before Lancelet. Even Arthur looked shabby, as if he had slept in the same crumpled tunic all through the campaign, and wrapped himself, in mud and rain and weather, in his fine, much-worn cloak; but Lancelet looked as crisp and new, his cloak and tunic as well brushed, as if he had dressed himself for an Easter feast-his hair trimmed and combed smooth, his leather belt polished, and even the eagle feathers in his cap standing up dry and unwilted. He looked, Gwenhwyfar thought, more like a king than Arthur himself did.

As the serving-maidens carried round platters of meat and bread, Arthur drew Gwenhwyfar to his side.

"Come sit here between Lancelet and me, Gwen, and we will talk- it seems long since I heard a voice that was not rough and male, or smelled the scent of a woman's gown." He passed his hand over her braid. "Come you too, Morgaine, and sit by me-I am weary of campaigning, I want to hear small gossip, not the talk of the camp!" He bit into a chunk of bread with eager hunger. "And it is good to eat new-baked bread; I am tired of hard-baked army bread, and meat gone bad by keeping!"

Lancelet had turned to smile at Morgaine.

"And you, how is it with you, kinswoman? I suppose there is no news from the Summer Country, or from Avalon? There is another here who is eager to hear it, if there is-my brother Balan rode with us."

"I have no news from Avalon," said Morgaine, feeling Gwenhwyfar watching her-or was she looking at Lancelet? "But I have not seen Balan for many years-I suppose he would have later news than mine?"

"He is there," Lancelet said, gesturing toward the men in the hall. "Arthur bid him to dine here as my kinsman, and it would be a kindness in you, Morgaine, to take him a cup of wine from the high table. Like all men, he too is eager for a welcome from some woman, even if it be a kinswoman and not a sweetheart."

Morgaine took one of the drinking cups, horn bound with wood, that sat on the high table, and beckoned a servant to pour wine into it; then she raised it between her hands and went around the table among the knights. She was pleasantly conscious of their regard, even though she knew they would look like this at any well-bred, finely dressed woman after so many months of campaign; it was not a particular compliment to her beauty. At least Balan, who was a cousin, almost a brother, would not eye her so hungrily.

"I greet you, kinsman. Lancelet, your brother, sent you some wine from the King's table."

"I beg you to sip it first, lady," he said, then blinked. "Morgaine, is it you? I hardly knew you, you have grown so fine. I think of you always in the dress of Avalon, but you are like to my mother, indeed. How does the Lady?"

Morgaine set the cup to her lips-mere courtesy at this court, but perhaps stemming from a time when gifts from the King were tasted before a guest, when the poisoning of rival kings was not unknown. She handed it to him, and Balan drank a long draught before looking up at her again.

"I had hoped to have news of Viviane from you, kinsman-I have not returned to Avalon for many years," she said.

"Aye, I knew that you were in Lot's court," he said. "Did you quarrel with Morgause? I hear that is easy done by any woman ... ."

Morgaine shook her head. "No; but I wished to be far enough away to stay out of Lot's bed, and that is not easy done. The distance between Orkney and Caerleon is hardly far enough."

"And so you came to Arthur's court to be waiting-woman to his queen," said Balan. "It is a more seemly court than that of Morgause, I dare say. Gwenhwyfar guards her maidens well, and makes good marriages for them, too-I see Griflet's lady is already big with her first. Has she not found you a husband, kinswoman?"

Morgaine forced herself to say gaily, "Are you making an offer for me, sir Balan?"

He chuckled. "You are all too close kin to me, Morgaine, or I should accept your offer. But I heard some gossip that Arthur had intended you for Cai, and that seemed a good match to me, since you have left Avalon after all."

"Cai had no more mind to me than I to him," said Morgaine sharply, "and I have never said I would not return to Avalon, but only on that day when Viviane sends for me to come thither."

"When I was but a lad," Balan said-and for a moment, his dark eyes resting on Morgaine, she thought that indeed she could see the resemblance to Lancelet even in this great coarse man-"I thought ill of the Lady-of Viviane, that she did not love me as it was fit for a mother to do. But I think better of it now. As a priestess, she could not have had leisure to rear a son. And so she gave me into the hands of one who had no other work than that, and she gave me my foster-brother Balin ... . Oh, yes, as a lad I felt guilty about that too, that I cared more for Balin than for our Lancelet, who is of my own flesh and blood. But now I know Balin is truly my own heart's brother, and Lancelet, though I admire him for the fine knight he is, will always be a stranger to me. And too," Balan said seriously, "when Viviane gave me up to Dame Priscilla for fostering, she put me into a household where I would come to know the true God apd Christ. It seems to me strange, that if I had dwelt in Avalon with my own kin, I should be a heathen, even as Lancelet is ... ."

Morgaine smiled a little. "Well," she said, "there I cannot share your gratitude, for I think it ill done of the Lady that her own son should abandon her Gods. But even Viviane has often said to me that men should have such manner of religious and spiritual counsel as liked them best, that which she could give, or other. Had I been truly pious and Christian at heart, no doubt, she would have let me live by the faith which was strong in my heart. Yet, though I was reared till I was eleven by Igraine, who was as good a Christian as any, I think perhaps it was ordained that I should see the things of the spirit as they come to us from the Goddess."

"Balin would be able to argue that with you better than I," said Balan, 'for he is more pious than I and a better Christian. I should probably say to you what no doubt the priests have said, that there is only one true faith in which man and woman may trust. But you are my kinswoman, and I know my mother to be a good woman, and I have faith that even Christ will take her goodness into account on the last day. As for the rest, I am no priest and I see not why I should not leave all those matters to the priests who are schooled in them. I love Balin well, but he should have been a priest, not a warrior, if he is so tender of faith and conscience." He looked toward the high table and said, "Tell me, foster-sister, you know him better than I-what lies so heavy on our brother Lancelet's heart?"

Morgaine bent her head and said, "If I knew, Balan, it is not my secret to tell."

"You are right to bid me mind my own affairs," said Balan, "but I hate seeing him miserable, and miserable he is. I thought ill of our mother, as I said, because she sent me so young from home, but she gave me a loving foster-mother, and a brother of my own age, reared at my side and as one with me in all things, and a home. She did less well by Lancelet. He was never at home-neither in Avalon nor yet at the court of Ban of Ben-wick, where he was dragged up as just another of the king's unregarded bastards ... . Viviane did ill by him indeed, and I wish Arthur would give him a wife, so he might have a home at last."

"Well," said Morgaine lightly, "if the King wishes me to wed Lance-let, he need only name the day."

"You and Lancelet? Are you not too close kin for that?" Balan asked, then thought for a moment. "No, I suppose not-Igraine and Viviane were but half-sisters, and Gorlois and Ban of Ben wick are not in any way akin. Though some of the church folk say foster-kin should be treated as blood kin for marriage ... well, Morgaine, I will drink to your wedding with pleasure on that day Arthur gives you to my brother, and bids you love him and care for him as Viviane never did! And neither of you need leave court-you the Queen's favorite lady and Lancelet our King's dearest friend. I hope it comes to pass!" His eyes dwelt on her with kindly concern. "You too are well past the age when Arthur should give you to some man."

And why should it be for the King to give me, as if I were one of his horses or dogs? Morgaine wondered, but shrugged; she had lived long in Avalon, she forgot at times that the Romans had made this the common law, that women were the chattels of their menfolk. The world had changed and there was no point in rebelling against what could not be altered.

Soon after she began to skirt the edges of the great mead table which had been Gwenhwyfar's wedding gift to Arthur. The great hall here in Caerleon, large as it was, was not really large enough; at one point she had to clamber over the benches because the table pushed them so close to the wall, to get by the great curve of it. The pot boys and kitchen boys, too, had to sidle past with their smoking platters and cups.

"Is Kevin not here?" asked Arthur. "Then we must have Morgaine to sing for us-I am hungry too for harps and all the things of civilized men. I am not surprised the Saxons spend all their time in making war. I have heard the dismal howling of their singers, and they have no reason to stay home!"

Morgaine asked one of Cai's helpers around the castle to fetch her harp from her chamber. He had to climb around the curve of the bench, and lost his footing; only the quickness of Lancelet, reaching out to steady boy and harp, kept the instrument from falling.

Arthur frowned. "It was good of my father-in-law to send me this great round mead table," he said, "but there is no chamber in Caerleon large enough for it. When the Saxons are driven away for good, I think I must build a hall just to hold it!"

"Then will it never be built." Cai laughed. "To say 'when the Saxons are driven away for good' is like to saying 'when Jesus shall come again' or 'when Hell freezes' or 'when raspberries grow on the apple trees of Glastonbury.' "

"Or when King Pellinore catches his dragon," Meleas giggled.

Arthur smiled. "You must not make fun of Pellinore's dragon," he said, "for there is word it has been seen again, and he is off to find it and slay it this time-indeed, he asked the Merlin if he knew any dragon-catching spells!"

"Oh, aye, it has been seen-like a troll on the hills, turned to stone by daylight, or the ring stones dancing on the night of the full moon," Lancelet gibed. "There are always people who see whatever vision they will -some see saints and miracles, and some see dragons or the old fairy folk. But never did I know of living man or woman who had seen either dragon or fairy."

Morgaine remembered, against her will, the day in Avalon when she had gone searching for roots and herbs and strayed into the strange country where the fairy woman had spoken with her and had sought to foster her child ... what, indeed, had she seen? Or had it been only the sick fantasy of a breeding woman?

"You say that, when you were yourself fostered as Lancelet of the Lake?" she asked quietly, and Lancelet turned round to her. He said, "There are times when that seems unreal to me-is it not so for you, sister?"

She said, "It is true indeed, but at times I am homesick for Avalon ... ."

"Aye, and I too, kinswoman," he said. Never since that night of Arthur's marriage, by word or look had he implied that he had ever felt anything more for her than for a childhood companion and foster-sister. She had thought she had long accepted the pain of that, but it struck her anew as his dark, beautiful eyes met hers in such kindness.

Soon or late, it must seem even as Balan said: we are both unmarried, the King's sister and his best friend ... .

Arthur said, "Well, when the Saxons are driven away for good-and do not laugh as if that were a fabulous event! It can be done, now, and I think they know it-then I shall build myself a castle, and a great hall big enough for even this table. I have already chosen the site-it is a hill fort which was there long before Roman times, looking down on the Lake itself, and near to your father's island kingdom, Gwenhwyfar. You know the place, where the river flows into the Lake-"

"I know," she said. "When I was a small child I went there one day to pick strawberries. There was an old ruined well, and we found elf bolts there. The old folk who lived on the chalk had left their arrows." How strange, Gwenhwyfar thought, to remember that there had been a time when she had liked to go abroad under the wide, high sky, not even caring whether there was a wall or the safety of an enclosure; and now she grew sick and dizzy if she went out from the walls, where she could not see or touch them. Sometimes now she felt the lump of fear in her belly even when she walked across the courtyard, and had to hurry to touch the safety of the wall again.

"It is an easy place to fortify," Arthur said, "though I hope, when we are done with the Saxons, we may have leisure and peace in this island."

"An ignoble wish for a warrior, brother," said Cai. "What will you do in time of peace?"

"I will call Kevin the Bard to make songs, and I will break my own horses and ride them for pleasure," Arthur said. "My Companions and I will raise our sons without putting a sword in every little hand before it is full grown to manhood! And I need not fear they will be lamed or slain before they are full grown. Cai-would it not be better if you need not have been sent to war before you were old enough to guard yourself? Sometimes I feel it wrong that it was you, not I, who was lamed, because Ectorius wanted me kept safe for Uther!" He looked with concern and affection at his foster-brother, and Cai grinned back at him.

"And," said Lancelet, "we will keep the arts of war alive by holding games, as they did in the days of the ancients, and crown the winner of the games with laurel wreaths-what is laurel, Arthur, and does it grow in these islands? Or is it only in the land of Achilles and Alexander?"

"The Merlin could tell you that," Morgaine said, when Arthur looked perplexed'. "I know not either, but whether or no we have laurel, there are plants enough to make wreaths for the victors at your games."

"And we will give garlands to harpers too," Lancelet said. "Sing, Morgaine."

"I had better sing for you now," Morgaine said, "for I do not suppose, when you men hold your games, you will let women sing." She took up the harp and began to play. She was sitting nearly where she had been sitting this afternoon when she saw blood spilled forth on the King's hearth ... would it truly come to pass, or was it fantasy? Why, indeed, should she think she still possessed the Sight? It never came upon her now save in these unwelcome trances ... .

She began to sing an ancient lament which she had heard at Tintagel, a lament of a fisherwoman who had seen the boats swept out to sea. She knew that she held them all with her voice, and in the silence of the hall she fell to singing old songs of the islands, which she had heard at Lot's court: a legend of the seal woman who had come out of the sea to find a mortal lover, songs of the solitary women herders, songs for spinning and for carding flax. Even when her voice grew weary they called for more, but she held up her hand in protest.

"Enough-no, truly, I can sing no more. I am hoarse as any raven."

Soon after, Arthur called the servants to extinguish the torches in the hall and light the guests to bed. It was one of Morgaine's tasks to see that the unmarried women who waited on the Queen were safely put to sleep in the long loft room behind the Queen's own chamber, at the opposite end of the building from the soldiers and armsmen. But she lingered a moment, her eyes on Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, who were bidding Lancelet good night.

"I have told the women to prepare the best spare bed for you, Lancelet," said Gwenhwyfar, but he laughed and shook his head.

"I am a soldier-it is my duty to see horses and men bedded safe for the night before I sleep."

Arthur chuckled, his arm around Gwenhwyfar's waist. "We must get you married, Lance, then you will not spend your nights so cold. I made you my captain of horse, but you need not spend your nights lying down among them!"

Gwenhwyfar felt a pain within her breast as she met Lancelet's eyes. It seemed to her that she could almost read his thoughts, that he would say aloud again, as he had said once, My heart is so full of my queen I have no room therefor any other lady.... She held her breath, but Lancelet only sighed and smiled at her, and she thought, No, lama wedded wife, a Christian woman, it is sin even to think such thoughts; I must do penance. And then, feeling her throat so tight she could not swallow, she felt the thought come unbidden. Penance enough that I must be apart from the one I love ... and she gasped aloud, so that Arthur turned startled eyes on her.

"What is it, love, have you hurt yourself?"

"A-a pin pricked me," she said, and turned her eyes away, pretending to hunt for the pin at the folds of her dress. She saw Morgaine watching her, and bit her lip. She is always watching me ... and she has the Sight; does she know all my sinful thoughts? Is that why she looks on me so scornfully?

Yet Morgaine had never shown her anything but a sister's kindness. And when she had been pregnant, in the first year of their marriage-when she had taken a fever and miscarried the child within five months-she could not bear to have any of her ladies about her, and Morgaine had cared for her almost like a mother. Why, now, was she so ungrateful?

Lancelet bade them good night again, and withdrew. Gwenhwyfar was almost painfully conscious of Arthur's arm around her waist, the frank eagerness in his eyes. Well, they had been apart a long time. But she felt a sudden, sharp resentment. Not once, since that time, have I been pregnant -can he not even give me a child?

Oh, but surely that was her own fault-one of the midwives had told her it was like a sickness in cattle when they cast their calves unborn, time after time, and sometimes women took that sickness too, so they could not carry a child more than a month or two, three at the most. Somehow, through carelessness, she must have taken that illness, gone perhaps into the dairy at the wrong time, or drunk of milk from a cow who had cast her calf, and so the life of her lord's son and heir had been forfeit, and it was all her doing. ... Torn with guilt, she followed Arthur into their chamber.

"It is more than a jest, Gwen," said Arthur, sitting to draw off his leather hose. "We must get Lancelet married. Have you seen how all the lads run to him, and how good he is with them? He should have sons of his own. I have it, Gwen! We will marry him to Morgaine!"

"No!" The word was torn from her before she thought, and Arthur looked at her, startled.

"What is the matter with you? Does it not seem perfect, the right choice? My dear sister and my best friend? And their children, mark you, would be next heirs to our throne in any case, if it should be that the Gods send us no children ... . No, no, don't cry, my love," he begged, and Gwenhwyfar knew, humiliated and shamed, that her face had twisted with weeping. "I meant not to reproach you, my dearest love, children come when the Goddess wills, but only she knows when we will have children, or if we will ever have them at all. And although Gawaine is dear to me, I have no will to put a son of Lot on the throne if I should die. Morgaine is my own mother's child, and Lancelet my cousin-"

"Surely it cannot matter to Lancelet whether or no he has sons," said Gwenhwyfar. "He is fifth-or is it sixth-son to King Ban, and bastard-born at that."

"I never thought to hear you, of all people, reproach my kinsman and dearest friend with his birth," Arthur said. "And he is no ordinary bastard, but son to the grove and the Great Marriage-"

"Pagan harlotries! If I were King Ban, I would clean all such sorcerous filth from my kingdom-and so should you!"

Arthur shifted uneasily, clambering under the bed cover. "Lancelet would have little cause to love me if I drove his mother from this kingdom. And I am sworn to honor Avalon, by the sword they gave me at my kingmaking."

Gwenhwyfar looked at the great sword Excalibur, where it hung over the edge of the bed in its magical scabbard covered with mystical symbols that seemed to shine with pale silver and mock at her. She put out the light and lay down beside Arthur, saying, "Our Lord Jesus would safeguard you better than any such wicked enchantments. You did not have to do with any of their vile Goddesses and sorcery before you were made King, did you? I know such things were done in Uther's day, but this is a Christian land!"

Arthur shifted uneasily and said, "There are many folk in this land, the Old People who dwelt here long before Rome came to us-we cannot take their Gods from them. And-what befell before my crowning-well, that touches you not, my Gwenhwyfar."

"Men cannot serve two masters," said Gwenhwyfar, surprised at her own daring. "I would have you altogether a Christian king, my lord."

"I owe allegiance to all my people," said Arthur, "not those alone who follow Christ-"

"It seems to me," said Gwenhwyfar, "that those are your enemies, not the Saxons. The true warfare for a Christian king is only against those who do not follow Christ."

Arthur laughed uneasily at that. "Now do you sound like the bishop Patricius. He would have us Christianize the Saxons rather than putting them to the sword, so that we may live at peace with them. For my part I am like to the priests who were here in the older days, who were asked to send missionaries to the Saxons-know you what they said, my wife?"

"No, I have never heard-"

"They said, they would send no missionaries to the Saxons, lest they be forced to meet them in peace, even before God's throne." Arthur laughed heartily, but Gwenhwyfar did not smile, and after a time he sighed.

"Well, think on it, my Gwenhwyfar. It seems to me the best possible marriage-my dearest friend and my sister. Then would he be my brother and his sons my heirs ... ."

In the darkness his arms went round her, and he added, "But now we must strive to make it come to pass that we will need no other heirs, you and I, my love, but those you can give to me."

"God grant it," whispered Gwenhwyfar, moving into his arms, and tried to close away everything out of her mind but Arthur, here in her arms.

MORGAINE, lingering after she had seen the women to bed, stood near the. window, restless. Elaine, who shared her bed, murmured to her, "Come and sleep, Morgaine; it is late, you must be weary."

She shook her head. "I think it is the moon that has gotten into my blood tonight-I am not sleepy." She was unwilling to lie down and close her eyes; even if she had not the Sight, it was her imagination which would torment her. All round her the newly returned men joined with their wives -she thought, with a wry smile in the darkness, it is like to Beltane in Avalon ... even the soldiers who were not wedded, she was sure, had somehow found women for this night. Everyone, from the King with his wife down to the stablemen, lay in someone's arms tonight, except for the Queen's maidens; Gwenhwyfar thought it her duty to guard their chastity, even as Balan had said. And I am guarded with the Queen's maidens.

Lancelet, at Arthur's wedding ... that had come to nothing, through no fault of their own. And Lancelet has stayed away from the court as often as he might ... no doubt, so that he need not see Gwenhwyfar in Arthur's arms! But he is here now ... and like herself, he was alone this night, among soldiers and horsemen, no doubt dreaming of the Queen, of the one woman in the kingdom he could not have. For surely every other woman at court, wedded or maiden, was as willing to have him as she herself. Save for bad fortune at Arthur's wedding, she would have had him; and honorable as he was, if he^had made her pregnant, he would have married her.

Not that it is likely I would have conceived, with the harm I suffered at Gwydion's birth ... but I need not have told him that. And I could have made him happy, even if I could not bear him a son. There was a time he wanted me, before ever he saw Gwenhwyfar, and after too ... save for mischance, I would have made him forget her in my arms ... .

And I am not so undesirable as that ... when I was singing tonight, many of the knights looked on me with desire ... .

I could make Lancelet desire me ... .

Elaine said impatiently, "Will you not come to bed, Morgaine?"

"Not yet awhile ... I think I will walk a little out of doors," said Morgaine, though this was forbidden to the Queen's women, and Elaine shrank back, with that timidity which so exasperated Morgaine. She wondered if Elaine had caught it from the Queen like a fever, or a new fashion in wearing veils.

"Are you not afraid with all the men encamped about?" Morgaine laughed. "Well, think you not I am weary of lying alone?" But she saw that the jest offended Elaine and said, more gently, "I am the King's sister. None would touch me against my will. Do you really think me so tempting no man could resist me? I am six-and-twenty, not a dainty young virgin like yourself, Elaine."

Morgaine lay down, without undressing, beside Elaine. In the darkness and silence, as she had feared, her imagination-or was it the Sight?-made pictures: Arthur with Gwenhwyfar, men with women all round her throughout the castle, joined in love or simple lust.

And Lancelet, was he alone too? Memory attacked her again, more intense than imagination, and she remembered that day, bright sunlight on the Tor, Lancelet's kisses running that first awakening knife-sharp through her body; and the bitterness of regret that she was pledged elsewhere. And then, when Arthur was wedded to Gwenhwyfar, and he had come near to tearing off her clothes and having her there in the stables-he had wanted her then ... .

Now, sharp as the Sight, the picture came to her mind, Lancelet walking in the courtyard, alone, his face empty with loneliness and frustration ... I have not used the Sight nor my own magic to draw him to me in selfish purpose ... if came to me unsought ... .

Silently, moving quietly so as not to waken the younger girl, she freed herself from Elaine's arm, slid gently from the bed. She had taken off only her shoes; she stooped now to draw them on, then silently went from the room, moving as noiselessly as a wraith from Avalon.

If it is a dream born of my own imagination, if he is not there, I will walk a little in the moonlight to cool my fever and then go back to my bed, there will be no harm done. But the picture persisted in her mind and she knew that Lancelet was there alone, like herself wakeful.

He too was of Avalon... the sun tides run in his blood too.... Morgaine, slipping quietly out of the door past the drowsing watchman, cast a glance at the sky. The moon, a quarter full, flooded down brightly into the stone-flagged space before the stables. No, not here; around to the side ... . For a moment Morgaine thought, He is not here, it was a dream, it was my own fantasy. She almost turned about to go back to her bed, suddenly flooded with shame; suppose the watchman should come upon her here, and all would know that the King's sister crept about the house after all honest folk were asleep, no doubt bent on harlotries-

"Who is it? Stand, show yourself!" The voice was low and harsh; Lancelet's voice. Suddenly, for all her exultation, Morgaine was afraid; her Sight had shown truly, but what now? Lancelet's hand had gone to his sword; he looked very tall and thin in the shadows.

"Morgaine," she said softly, and he let his hand fall from his sword. "Cousin, is it you?"

She came out of the shadows, and his face, keen and troubled, softened as he looked at her.

"So late? Did you come to seek me-is there trouble within? Arthur -the Queen-"

Even now he thinks only of the Queen, Morgaine thought, and felt it like a tingling in her fingertips and the calves of her legs, anger and excitement. She said, "No, all is well-as far as I know. I am not privy to the secrets of the royal bedchamber!"

He flushed, just a shadow on his face in the darkness, and looked away from her. She said, "I could not sleep ... how is it you ask me what I am doing here when you yourself are not in your bed? Or has Arthur made you his night watchman?"

She could sense Lancelet smile. "No more than you. I was restless when all around me slept-I think perhaps the moon has gotten into my blood." It was the same phrase she had used to Elaine, and somehow it struck her as a good omen, a symbol that their minds worked in tune and that they responded one to the call of the other as a silent harp vibrates when a note on another is struck.

Lancelet went on, speaking softly into the darkness at her side, "I am restless these nights, thinking of so many nights of battle-" "And you wish yourself back in battle like all soldiers?" He sighed. "No. Although perhaps it is unworthy of a soldier to dream early and late of peace."

"I do not think so," Morgaine said softly. "For what do you make war, except that peace may come for all our people? If a soldier loves his trade overmuch, then he becomes no more than a weapon for killing. What else brought the Romans to our peaceful isle, but the love of conquest and battle for its own sake?"

Lancelet smiled. "Your father was one of those Romans, cousin. So was mine."

"Yet I think more of the peaceful Tribes, who wanted no more than to till their barley crops in peace and worship the Goddess. I am of my mother's people-and yours."

"Aye, but those mighty heroes of old we spoke of before-Achilles, Alexander-they all felt war and battle the proper business of a man, and even now, in these islands, it has come to be that all men think of battle first and peace as no more than a quiet and womanly interlude." He sighed. "These are heavy thoughts-it is no wonder sleep is far from us, Morgaine. Tonight I would give all the great weapons ever forged, and all the gallant songs of your Achilles and Alexanders for an apple from the branches of Avalon ... ." He turned his head away. Morgaine slipped her hand within his own.

"So would I, cousin."

"I do not know why I am homesick for Avalon-I did not live long there," Lancelet said, musing. "And yet I think it is the fairest place on all earth-if indeed it is on this earth at all. The old Druid magic, I think, took it from this world, because it was all too fair for us imperfect men, and must be like a dream of Heaven, impossible ..." He recalled himself with a little laugh. "My confessor would not like to hear me say these things!"

Morgaine chuckled, low. "Have you become a Christian then, Lance?"

"Not a good one, I fear," he said. "Yet their faith seems to me so simple and good, I wish I could believe it-they say: believe what you have not seen, profess what you do not know, that is more virtuous than believing what you have seen. Even Jesus, they say, when he rose from the dead, chided a man who would have thrust his hands into the Christ's wounds to see that he was not a ghost or a spirit, for it was more blessed to believe without seeing."

"But we shall all rise again," said Morgaine, very low, "and again and again and again. We do not come once and go to Heaven or their Hell, but live again and again until we are even as the Gods."

He lowered his head. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dimness of the moonlight, she could see him clearly, the delicate line of temple curving inward at the eye, the long, narrow sweep of the jaw, the soft darkness of his brows and his hair curling over it. Again his beauty made a pain in her heart. He said, "I had forgotten you were a priestess, and you believe ... ."

Their hands were clasped lightly; she felt his stir within her own and loosed it. "Sometimes I do not know what I believe. Perhaps I have been too long away from Avalon."

"Nor do I know what I believe," he said, "but I have seen so many men die, and women and little children in this long, long war, it seems that I have been fighting since I grew tall enough to hold a sword. And when I see them die, I think faith is an illusion, and the truth is that we all die as the beasts die, and are no more ever-like grass cut down, and last year's snow."

"But these things too return again," Morgaine whispered.

"Do they? Or is this the illusion?" His voice sounded bitter. "I think perhaps there is no meaning in any of it-all the talk of Gods and the Goddess are fables to comfort children. Ah, God, Morgaine, why are we talking like this? You should go to your rest, cousin, and so should I-'

"I will go if you wish it," she said, and even as she turned away, happiness surged through her because he reached for her hand.

"No, no-when I am alone I fall prey to these fancies and wretched doubts, and if they must come I would rather speak them aloud so I can hear what folly they are. Stay with me, Morgaine-"

"As long as you wish," she whispered, and felt tears in her eyes. She reached out and put her arms around his waist; his strong arms tightened about her, then loosened, remorsefully.

"You are so little-I had forgotten how little you are-I could break you with my two hands, cousin ... ." His hands strayed to her hair, which she had bundled loose under her veil. He stroked it; twined an end of it around his fingers. "Morgaine, Morgaine, sometimes it seems to me that you are one of the few things in my life which is all good-like one of those old fairy folk they tell of in legends, the elf-woman who comes from the unknown land to speak words of beauty and hope to a mortal, then departs again for the islands of the West and is never seen again-"

"But I will not depart," she whispered.

"No." At one side of the flagged yard there was a block where sometimes men sat waiting for their horses; he drew her toward it and said, "Sit here beside me-" then hesitated. "No, this is no place for a lady-" and started to laugh. "Nor was the stable that day-do you remember, Morgaine?"

"I thought you had forgotten, after that devil horse threw you-"

"You should not call him devil. He has saved Arthur's life in battle more than once, and Arthur would think him guardian angel instead," Lancelet said. "Ah, that was a day of wretchedness. I would have wronged you, cousin, to take you like that. I have often longed to beg your pardon and hear you grant me forgiveness and say you bore me no malice-"

"Malice?" She looked up at him and felt suddenly dizzied by the rush of intense emotion. "Malice? Only, perhaps, to those who interrupted us-

"Is it so?" His voice was soft. He took her face between his hands and bent, deliberately, laying his lips against hers. Morgaine let herself go soft against him, opening her mouth beneath his lips. He was clean-shaven, in the Roman fashion, and she felt the prickly softness of his face against her cheek, the warm sweetness of his tongue probing her mouth. He drew her closer, almost lifting her from her feet, making a soft murmuring sound. The kiss went on until she finally, reluctantly, had to move her mouth to breathe, and he laughed softly, a sound of wonder.

"So here we are again ... it seems we have been here before ... and this time I will cut off the head of any that interrupts us ... but we stand here kissing in the stable yard like serving-man and kitchen wench! What now, Morgaine? Where do we go?"

She did not know-there was not any place, it seemed, secure for them. She could not take him to her room where she slept with Elaine and four of Gwenhwyfar's maidens, and Lancelet himself had said he preferred to sleep among the soldiers. And something at the back of her mind told her that this was not the way; the King's sister and the King's friend should not go seeking a hayloft. The proper way, if truly they felt this about each other, was to wait until dawn and ask Arthur's permission to marry ... .

Yet in her heart, hidden away so that she need not look at it, she knew that this was not what Lancelet wanted; in a moment of passion he might desire her indeed, but no more. And for a moment of passion, would she entrap him into a lifelong pledge? The way of the tribal festivals was more honest, that man and woman should come together with the sun tides and moon tides in their blood, as the Goddess willed; and only if they wished, later, to share a home and rear children was marriage thought upon. She knew in her heart, too, that she had no real wish to marry Lancelet or any other-even though she felt, for his own sake, and Arthur's, and even for Gwenhwyfar's, it would be best to remove him from the court.

But that was a fleeting thought. She was dizzy with his closeness, the sound of his heart pounding against her cheek-he wanted her; there was not, now, in his heart, any thought of Gwenhwyfar or anyone but herself.

Let it be with us as the Goddess wills, man and woman-

"I know," she whispered, and caught at his hand. Around behind the stables and the forge there was a path leading to the orchard. The grass was thick and soft and sometimes the women sat there on a bright afternoon.

Lancelet spread his cloak in the grass. Around them was the indefinable scent of green apples and grass, and Morgaine thought, Almost, we might be in Avalon. With that trick he had of catching up her thoughts, he murmured, "We have found ourselves a corner of Avalon this night-" and drew her down beside him. He took off her veil, stroking her hair, but he seemed in no haste for more, holding her gently, now and again leaning down to kiss her on cheek or forehead.

"The grass is dry-no dew has fallen. Like enough there will be rain before morning," he murmured, caressing her shoulder and her small hands. She felt his hand, sword-callused and hard, so hard that it startled her to remember he was full four years younger than she was herself. She had heard the story-he had been born when Viviane thought herself well beyond childbearing. His long fingers could encircle her whole hand and conceal it there; he toyed with her fingers, playing with her rings, moving his hand to the breast of her gown, and unlacing it there. She felt dizzied, shaken, passion sweeping through her like the tide surging in and covering a beach, so that she went under and drowned in his kisses. He murmured something that she could not hear, but she did not ask what he had said, she was beyond listening to words.

He had to help her out of her gown. The dresses worn at court were more elaborate than the simple robes she had worn as a priestess, and she felt clumsy, awkward. Would he like her? Her breasts seemed so soft and limp, they had been so since Gwydion's birth; she remembered how they had been when he first touched her, tiny and hard.

But he seemed to notice nothing, fondling her breasts, taking the nipples between his fingers and then, gently, between his lips and his teeth. Then she lost thought altogether, nothing existing in the world for her except his hands touching her, the pulse of awareness in her own fingers running down the smoothness of his shoulders, his back, the fine dark softness of the hair there ... somehow she had thought the hair on a man's chest would be wiry and coarse, but it was not so with him, it was soft and silky as her own hair, curling so fine and close. In a daze she remembered that the first time for her had been with a youth no more than seventeen who scarce knew what he was about, so that she had had to guide him, to show him what to do ... and for her that had been the only time, so that she came almost virgin to Lancelet. ... In a rush of grief she wished that for her it was the first time, so that it might have been so blissful for her to remember; it should have been like this, this was how it should have been. ... She moved her body against his, clinging in entreaty, moaning, she could not bear, now, to wait any longer ... .

It seemed he was not yet ready, though she was all alive to him, her body flowing with the pulse of life and desire in her. She moved against him, hungry, her mouth avid, entreating. She whispered his name, begging now, almost afraid. He went on kissing her gently, his hands moving to stroke and soothe her, but she did not want to be soothed now, her body was crying out for completion, it was starvation, agony. She tried to speak, to beg him, but it came out a sobbing whimper.

He held her gently against him, still stroking her. "Hush, no, hush, Morgaine, wait, no more now-I do not want to hurt or dishonor you, never think that-here, lie here by me, let me hold you, I will content you ... " and in despair and confusion she let him do what he would, but even while her body cried out for the pleasure he gave her, a curious anger was growing. What of the flow of life between their two bodies, male and female, the tides of the Goddess rising and compelling them? Somehow it seemed to her that he was stemming that tide, that he was making her love for him a mockery and a game, a pretense. And he did not seem to mind, it seemed to him that this was the way it should be, so that they were both pleasured ... as if nothing mattered but their bodies, that there was no greater joining with all of life. To the priestess, reared in Avalon and attuned to the greater tides of life and eternity, this careful, sensuous, deliberate lovemaking seemed almost blasphemy, a refusal to give themselves up to the will of the Goddess.

And then, in the depths of mingled pleasure and humiliation she began to excuse him. He had not been reared as she was in Avalon, but thrown about from fosterage to court to military camp; he had been a soldier almost as long as he had been old enough to lift a sword, his life had been spent in the field, perhaps he did not know, or perhaps he was accustomed only to such women as would give him no more than a moment's ease for his body, or such women as wanted to toy with love-making and give nothing ... he had said, I do not want to hurt or dishonor you, as if he truly believed there could be something wrong or dishonorable in this coming together. Spent, now, he was turned a little away from her, but he was still touching her, toying with her, drawing his fingers through the fine hair at her thighs, kissing her neck and breasts. She closed her eyes, holding herself to him, angry and desolate-well, well, perhaps it was no more than she deserved, she had played the harlot in coming to him like this, perhaps it was no more than her due that he should treat her as one ... and she was so besotted that she had let him take her like this, she would have let him do whatever he would, knowing that if she asked for more she would lose even this, and she longed for him, she still hungered for him with an intolerable ache that would never be wholly slaked. And he wanted her not at all ... still in his heart he hungered for Gwenhwyfar, or for some woman he could have without giving more of himself than this empty touching of skins ... a woman who could be content to give herself and ask nothing more of him than pleasure. Through the ache and hunger of her love, a faint strain of contempt was threading, and it was the greatest agony of all-that she loved him no less, that she knew she would love him always, no less than at this moment of hunger and despair.

She sat up, drawing her gown toward her, fastening it over her shoulders with shaking fingers. He sat silent, watching her, stretching out his hands to help her adjust it. After a long time he said sorrowfully, "We have done wrong, my Morgaine, you and I. Are you angry with me?"

She could not speak; her throat was too tight with pain. At last she said, straining her voice to form the words, "No, not angry," and she knew that she should raise her voice and scream at him, demand what he could not give her-nor any woman, perhaps.

"You are my cousin, my kinswoman-but there is no harm done-" he said, and his voice was shaking. "At least I have not that to blame myself- that I could bring you to dishonor before all the court-I would not do so for the world-believe me, cousin, I love you well-"

She could not keep back her sobs now. "Lancelet, I beg you, in the name of the Goddess, speak not so-what harm is done? It was in the way of the Goddess, what we both desired-"

He made a gesture of distress. "You speak so, of the Goddess and such heathen things ... . Almost you frighten me, kinswoman, when I would keep myself from sin, and yet I have looked on you with lust and wickedness, knowing it was wrong." He drew on his clothes with trembling hands. At last he said, almost choking, "The sin seems to me more deadly, I suppose, than it is-I would you were not so like to my mother, Morgaine-"

It was like a blow in the face, like a cruel and treacherous blow. For a moment she could not speak. Then, for an instant, it seemed that the full rage of the Goddess angered possessed her and she felt herself rising, towering, she knew it was the glamour of the Goddess coming upon her as it had done in the Avalon barge; she felt herself, small and insignificant as she was, looming over him, and saw the powerful knight, the captain of the King's horse, shrink away small and frightened, as all men are small in the sight of the Goddess.

"You are-you are a contemptible fool, Lancelet," she said. "You are not even worth cursing!" She turned and fled from him, leaving him sitting there with his breeches half-fastened, staring after her in astonishment and shame. She felt her heart pounding. Half of her had wanted to scream at him, shrewish as a skua gull; the other half wanted to break down and weep in agony, in despair, begging for the deeper love he had denied her and rejected, refusing the Goddess in her ... . Fragments of thought flickered in her mind, an old tale of the Goddess surprised and refused by a man and how the Goddess had had him torn to shreds by the hounds who ran hunting with her ... and there was sorrow that she had what she had dreamed of all these long years and it was dust and ashes to her.

A priest would say this was the wages of sin. I heard such, often enough, from Igraine's house priest before I went to be fostered in Avalon. At heart am I more of a Christian than I know? And again it seemed to her that her heart must break from the wreck and disaster of her love.

In Avalon this could never have come to pass-those who came to the Goddess in this way would never have so refused her power ... . She paced up and down, a raging fire unslaked in her veins, knowing that no one could possibly understand how she felt except for another priestess of the Goddess. Viviane, she thought with longing, Viviane would understand, or Raven, or any of us reared in the House of Maidens ... what have I been doing all these long years, away from my Goddess?

MORGAINE SPEAKS ...

Three days later I got leave from Arthur to depart from his court and ride to Avalon; I said only that I was homesick for the Isle and for Viviane, my foster-mother. And in those days I had no speech with Lancelet save for the small courtesies of every day when we could not avoid meeting. Even in those I marked that he would not meet my eyes, and I felt angry and shamed, and went out of my way that I might not come face to face with him at all.

So I took horse, and rode eastward through the hills; nor did I return to Caerleon for many years, nor knew I anything of what befell in Arthur's court ... but that is a tale for another time.

8

In the summer of the next year, the Saxons were massing off the coast, and Arthur and his men spent all the year in gathering an army for the battle they knew must come. Arthur led his men into battle and drove the Saxons back, but it was not the decisive battle and victory for which he had hoped; they were damaged indeed, and it would take them more than a year to recover, but he had not enough horses and men to defeat them firmly and for all time, as he hoped to do. At this battle he took a wound, which seemed not serious; but it festered and inflamed and he had to spend much of the autumn bedfast-the first snow flurries were coming over the walls of Caerleon before he could walk a little about the courtyard, leaning on a stick, and he would bear the scars to his grave.

"It will be full spring before I can sit a horse again," he observed gloomily to Gwenhwyfar, who stood close to the courtyard wall, her blue cloak wrapped tight around her.

"It may well be," Lancelet said, "and longer, my dear lord, if you take cold in your wound before it is full healed. Come within doors, I beg you -look, there is snow on Gwenhwyfar's cloak."

"And in your beard, Lance-or is that only the first grey?" Arthur asked, teasing, and Lancelet laughed.

"Both, I suppose-there you have the advantage of me, my king, your beard is so fair the grey will not show when it conies. Here, lean on my arm."

Arthur would have waved him away, but Gwenhwyfar said, "No, take his arm, Arthur, you will undo all our fine leechcraft if you fall-and the stones are slippery underfoot, with this snow melting as it comes down."

Arthur sighed and leaned on his friend's arm. "Now have I had a taste of what it must be like to be old." Gwenhwyfar came and took his other arm, and he laughed. "Will you love me and uphold me like this when indeed there is grey in my beard and hair and when I go on a stick like the Merlin?"

"Even when you are ninety, my lord," said Lancelet, laughing with him. "I can see it well, Gwenhwyfar holding you by one arm and I by the other as our ancient steps totter toward your throne-we will all be ninety or thereabout!" Abruptly he sobered. "I am troubled about Taliesin, my lord, he grows feeble and his eyes are failing. Should he not go back to Avalon and rest his last years in peace?"

"No doubt he should," said Arthur. "But he says he will not leave me alone, with only the priests for councillors-"

"What better councillors than the priests could you have, my lord?" Gwenhwyfar flared. She resented the unearthly word Avalon; it frightened her to think that Arthur was sworn to protect their heathenish ways.

They came into the hall where a fire was burning, and Arthur made a gesture of annoyance as Lancelet eased him into his chair. "Aye, set the old man by the fire and give him his posset-I marvel that you let me wear shoes and hose instead of a bedgown!"

"My dear lord-" Gwenhwyfar began, but Lancelet laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't fret yourself, kinswoman, all men are so, peevish when they are ill-he knows not when he is well off, being nursed by fair women and tended with dainty foods and clean linen and those possets he scorns. ... I have lain with a wound in a field camp, nursed by a sour old man too lame to fight, and lying in my own shit because I could not shift myself and no one came near to help me, with nothing brought but some sour beer and hard bread to soak in it. Stop grumbling, Arthur, or I shall try to see to it that you nurse your wound in manly fashion as befits a true soldier!"

"Aye, and he would do it, too," said Arthur, with an affectionate smile at his friend. "You go not in much fear of your king, Prince Galahad-" He took the horn spoon from his wife's hand and began to eat the concoction of warmed wine with bread and honey soaked in it. "Aye, this is good and warming-it has spices in it, has it not, those same spices you bade me send for from Londinium ... ."

Cai came to them, when Arthur had finished, and said, "So, how goes the wound after an hour of walking on it, my lord? Is there still much pain?"

"Not as much as the last time, and that is all I can say," Arthur said. "It is the first time I have known what real fear was, fear I might die with my work still undone."

"God would not have it so," Gwenhwyfar said.

Arthur patted her hand. "I told myself that, but a voice within kept saying to me that this was the great sin of pride, fearing that I or any man could not be spared from what God wishes to be done-I have thought long about such things while I lay unable to set foot to the ground."

"I cannot see that you have so much undone, save for the final victory over the Saxons, my lord," said Cai, "but now you must go to your bed, you are weary with the out of doors."

When Arthur was stretched out on the bed, Cai took his clothes away and examined the great wound which still, faintly, oozed matter through the cloths. Cai said, "I will send for the women, and you must have hot cloths on this again-you have strained it. It is well you did not break it open while you were walking." When the women had brought steaming kettles and mixed the compresses of herbs and hot water, laying folded cloths upon the wound so hot that Arthur winced and roared, Cai said, "Aye, but you were lucky even so, Arthur. Had that sword struck you a hand span to one side, Gwenhwyfar would have even more cause to grieve, and you would be known far and wide as the gelded king ... as in that old legend! Know you not the tale-the king wounded in the thigh and as his powers fade, so fades the land and withers, till some youth comes who can make it spring fertile anew ... ."

Gwenhwyfar shuddered, and Arthur said testily, shifting in pain under the heat of the compress, "This is no tale to tell a wounded man!"

"I should think it would make you more aware of your good fortune, that your land will not wither and be sterile," Cai said. "By Easter, I dare say, the Queen's womb could be quick again, if you are fortunate-"

"God grant it," Arthur said, but the woman winced and turned away. Once again she had conceived, and once again all had gone awry, so quickly that she had scarce known she had been with child-would it be so always with her? Was she barren, was it the punishment of God on her that she did not strive early and late to bring her husband to be a better Christian?

One of the women took away the cloth and would have replaced it; Arthur reached for Gwenhwyfar. "No, let my lady do it, her hands are gentler-" he said, and Gwenhwyfar took the steaming hot cloth-so hot it was she burned her fingers, but she welcomed the pain as penance. It was her fault, all her fault; he should put her away as barren, and take a wife who could give him a child. It was wrong that he should ever have married her-she had been eighteen, and already past her most fruitful years. Perhaps ...

If only Morgaine were here, I would indeed beseech her for that charm which could make me fruitful ... .

"It seems to me now that we have need of Morgaine's leechcraft," she said. "Arthur's wound goes not as it should, and she is a notable mistress of healing arts, as is the Lady of Avalon herself. Why do we not send to Avalon and beseech one of them to come?"

Cai frowned at her and said, "I do not see that there is need of that. Arthur's wound goes on well enough-I have seen much worse come to full healing."

"Still, I would be glad to see my good sister," said Arthur, "or my friend and benefactor, the Lady of the Lake. But from what Morgaine has told me, I do not think I will see them together ... ."

Lancelet said, "I will send a message to Avalon and beg my mother to come, if you will have it, Arthur," but it was at Gwenhwyfar he looked, and their eyes met for a moment. In these months of Arthur's illness, it seemed he had been ever at her side, and such a rock of strength to her that she knew not what she would have done without him; in those first days, when none believed that Arthur could live, he had watched with her, tireless, his love for Arthur making her ashamed of her thoughts. He is Arthur's cousin, even as Gawaine, he stands as near to the throne, the son of Igraine's own sister; if aught came to Arthur, then would he be as much a king as we have need of... in the old days the king was naught but the husband of the queen ... .

"Shall we send, then, for the Lady Viviane?" Gwenhwyfar asked.

"Only if you have a wish to see the Lady," said Arthur, with a sigh. "I think now, all I need is a greater share of that patience to which the bishop counselled me when I spoke last with him. God was good to me indeed, that I lay not thus disabled when the Saxons first came, and if he goes on showing me his grace, I will be able to ride when they come again. Gawaine is off gathering the men to the north, is he not, for Lot and Pellinore?"

"Aye." Lancelet laughed. "He has told Pellinore that his dragon must wait till we have dealt with the white horse ... he must bring all his men and come when we summon him. And Lot will come too, though he grows old-he will not let pass any chance that the kingdom might still go to his sons."

It will go to his sons indeed, if I give Arthur no son, Gwenhwyfar thought; it seemed that every word anyone spoke, of whatever matter, was an arrow, a taunt aimed into her heart for failing the first duty of a queen. Arthur liked her well, they could have been happy, could she only have felt free for one moment of the guilt of her childlessness. Almost, for a time, she had welcomed this wound, for he could not think of lying with any woman, and there was no reproach to her; she could care for him and cosset him, have him to herself as a wife could so seldom do when her husband belonged not to her but to a kingdom. She could love him, and not think always of her guilt; when he touched her, think of their love, not only of her fear and her desperate hope, This time will he at last get me with child; and if he does, will it go well with me or will I cast forth the precious hope of the kingdom? She had cared for him, nursed him night and day as a mother nurses a sickly child, and when he began to grow strong she had sat beside him, talked to him, sung to him-though she had not Morgaine's sweet voice for singing -gone herself to the kitchens and cooked for him such things as a sick man might be tempted to eat, so that he would put on flesh after the ghastly sickness and wasting away of the early summer.

Yet what good is all my care if I do not ensure that there will be an heir to his kingdom?

"I would that Kevin were here," Arthur said. "I would like to hear some music-or Morgaine; we have no fitting minstrels at court now!"

"Kevin has gone back to Avalon," Lancelet said. "The Merlin told me he had gone for some priestly doings there, so secret he could tell me no more-I wonder the priests allow these Druid mysteries to go on in a Christian land."

Arthur shrugged. "I command no man's conscience, King or no."

Gwenhwyfar said sternly, "God will be worshipped as he wills, Arthur, not as men choose, and therefore he sent the Christ to us."

"But he sent him not to this land," Arthur said, "and when the holy Joseph came to Glastonbury, and thrust his staff there in the earth and it bloomed, then the Druids welcomed him and he did not scorn to share their worship."

"Bishop Patricius says that is an evil and heretical tale," Gwenhwyfar insisted, "and the priests who worship in common with the Druids should be stripped of their priesthood and driven forth as he drove the Druids themselves!"

"He will not do it during my time," said Arthur firmly. "I have sworn my protection to Avalon." He smiled and stretched out his hand to where the great sword Excalibur hung in its crimson-velvet scabbard. "And you have reason to be grateful for that magic, Gwenhwyfar-had I not had this scabbard about me, nothing could have saved me. Even as it was, I came near to bleeding to death, and only its magic stanched the bleeding. Would I not be worse than an ingrate if I betrayed their goodwill?"

"You believe that?" Gwenhwyfar asked. "You would put magic and sorceries above God's will?"

"Why, sweetheart," Arthur said, and touched her fair hair, "do you believe that anything man can do is in despite of God's will? If this scabbard kept me indeed from bleeding to death, then it could not have been God's will that I should die. It seems to me that my faith is closer to God than yours, if you fear that some wizard could undo what God wishes. We are all in God's hands."

Gwenhwyfar looked quickly at Lancelet; there was a smile on his face, and it seemed for a moment that he was mocking them, but it passed and the woman thought it must have been no more than a little shadow. "Well, if you wish for music, Arthur, Taliesin will come and play for you, I suppose; though he grows old and his voice is nothing for singing, his hands still have great skill at harping."

"Call for him, then," said Arthur, and laughed. "In Scripture we are told that the old King Saul called for his young harper to play and ease his mind, but here I am, a young king who has need of his old harper to play and cheer his soul!"

Lancelet went in search of the Merlin, and when he came with his harp, they sat for a long time in the hall listening to the music.

Gwenhwyfar thought of Morgaine, playing there. Would that she were here, to give me a charm-but not before my lord recovers ....nd then, looking across the fire at Lancelet, she felt sinking in her body. He sat on a bench, leaning back and listening to the music, his hands tucked behind his head, his long legs stretched out to the fire. The other men and women had gathered close to listen to the music; Elaine, Pellinore's daughter, had been bold enough to come and crowd onto the bench beside Lancelet, but he sat without paying any heed to her.

Lancelet would be the better for a wife. I should bestir myself and write to King Pellinore, that he should give Elaine to Lancelet; she is my cousin and not unlike me, she is marriageable-but she knew she would not; she told herself it would be time enough for that on the day Lancelet told them that he was seeking to be wedded.

If Arthur should not recover ...

Oh, no, no, never will I think of that ... . She crossed herself in secret. But, she thought, it was long since she had been in Arthur's arms, and it was likely he could not give her a child anyway ... . She found herself wondering what it would be like to lie with Lancelet-could he give her the child she wished for? Suppose she took Lancelet as lover? She knew there were women who did such things ... Morgause now made no secret of it; now that she was past childbearing, her harlotries were as scandalous as Lot's wenching. She felt the color creeping up in her cheeks and hoped no one had seen as she looked at Lancelet's hands lying quiet in his lap and wondered what it would be like to feel them caressing her-no, she dared not think of that.

When women took lovers they must take care not to be made pregnant, not to bear a child who could disgrace them or bring shame on their husbands, so if she was barren then it would not matter ... it would be her good fortune.... In God's name, how could she, a chaste and Christian woman, have such evil thoughts? Once before she had thought this, and when she told it in confession, the priest had said only that it was no more than reason that with her husband so long sick, her thoughts should turn to such things; she must not feel guilty, but pray much and care for her husband and think only that it was harder still for him. And Gwenhwyfar had known that this was good and sensible and kindly counsel, but she felt he had not understood it in full, just how sinful a woman she was and how evil and foul her thoughts. Otherwise, surely, he would have berated her, and given her heavy penance, and then she would have felt better and more free ... .

Lancelet would never reproach her that she was barren-

She became aware that someone had spoken her name, and raised her head in confusion as if her thoughts were open to all.

"No, no more music, my lord Merlin," Arthur said. "Look, it grows dark, and my lady is asleep where she sits. She is worn out with nursing me, most likely ... . Cai, have the men set the dinner, but I will go to my bed and have some meat there."

Gwenhwyfar rose, went to Elaine, and asked her to take her place in the hall; she would stay with her lord. Cai went to see to the servants, and Lancelet stayed to give Arthur a hand as he limped, with the help of his stick, to his chamber. Lancelet helped to settle Arthur in bed as tenderly as any nurse.

"If he needs anything in the night, see that you have them call for me, you know where I sleep," he said low, to Gwenhwyfar. "I can lift him more easily than any other-"

"Oh, no, no, I think there will be no need now," she said, "but I thank " you.

He was so tall as he stood next her; he laid his hand gently on her cheek. "If you want to go and sleep among your women, I will stay and watch with him-you look as if you were wanting a long night of unbroken sleep. You are like a nursing mother who has no rest till her babe can sleep through the night without stirring. I can care for Arthur-there is no need for you to watch with him now! I can stay in the room within earshot."

"You are so good to me," she said, "but I would rather be near him."

"But send for me if he needs me. Do not try to lift him yourself," Lancelet said, "promise me, Gwenhwyfar."

How sweet her name sounded on his lips; sweeter than when he said my queen or my lady. ... "I promise you, my friend."

He bent, gave her just the flicker of a light kiss on her forehead. "You look so overwearied," he said. "Go you to bed and sleep well." His hand lingered still a moment on her cheek and when he took it away she felt as if her cheek would be cold and ache as if she had a toothache there. She went and laid herself down beside Arthur.

For a time she thought he slept. But at last he said into the darkness, "He has been a good friend to us, has he not, my wife?"

"No brother could have been kinder."

"Cai and I were reared as brothers, and I love him well, but it is true what they say, blood is thicker than water, and blood kin brings a closeness I had not imagined till I came to know some of my own blood...." Arthur shifted in bed, uneasily, sighing. "Gwenhwyfar, there is something I would say to you-"

She was frightened, her heart pounding-had he seen Lancelet kiss her, would he charge her with unfaithfulness?

He said, "Promise me that you will not weep again, I cannot bear it. I swear it to you, I have no thought of reproaching you-but we have been wedded now for many years, and only twice in that time have you had even the hope of a child-no, no, I beg you, do not cry, let me speak," he pleaded. "It may be that it is not your fault, but mine. I have had other women, as do all men. But though I never made any attempt to conceal who I was, not in all these years has any woman come to me, nor her kinfolk, and said, such and such a woman bore you a bastard child. It may be that it is I whose seed has no life, so that when you conceive, the child comes not even to quickening ... ."

She lowered her head, letting the curtain of her hair hide her face. Did he reproach himself as well?

"My Gwenhwyfar, listen to me-a child there must be for this kingdom. If it should come about at any time that you give a child to the throne, be assured that I will never question. So far as I am concerned, any child you bear, I will acknowledge it mine and bring it up as my heir."

She thought that the burning in her face would make her burst into flame. Could he think her capable of betraying him? "Never, never could I do so, my lord and my king-"

"You know the ways of Avalon-no, my wife, do not interrupt me, let me speak-where when a man and woman come together in this wise, the child is said even to be born of the God. Gwenhwyfar, I would like it well if God sent us a child, whoever should work God's will in fathering him-do you understand me? And if it should so happen that the one who so did the will of heaven were my dearest of friends and the closest of kinsmen to me, then would I bless him, and the child you bore. No, no, do not weep, I will say no more," he said, sighing, reaching out his arms to her, letting her lie against his shoulder. "I am not worthy that you should love me so well."

After a time he slept, but Gwenhwyfar lay awake, tears rolling down her face. Oh, no, she thought, my dear love, my dearest lord, it is I who am not worthy of your love, and now you have all but given me leave that I should betray you. Suddenly and for the first time in her life she envied both Arthur and Lancelet. They were men, they lived lives of activity, they must go out into the world and risk death or worse in battle, but men were free of these terrifying decisions. Whatever thing she did, whenever she made any decision, however small, if it was of more weight than kid or dried beef for dinner, then was that weight on her soul, that from what she should decide the fate of kingdoms could rest. Now it was her own choice, and not simply the will of God, that she should give an heir to the kingdom or no; one who was of Uther Pendragon's blood or-or otherwise. How could she, a woman, make that decision? Gwenhwyfar pulled the fur coverlet over her head and curled herself into a ball and lay there.

Only this evening she had sat there and watched Lancelet listening to the harper, and the thought had come stealing into her mind. She had loved him long, but now she began to know it was that she desired him; in her heart she was no better than Morgause, who played the whore when she would, with her husband's knights and even, the story was whispered in scandal, with handsome pages or servant men. Arthur was so good, and she had come to love him well; she had found safety here in Caerleon. It was not to be borne that the folk about the castle and countryside might come to whisper scandal of her as they did of Morgause.

Gwenhwyfar wished to be good, to keep her soul clean and her virtue whole, but also it meant much to her that people should see her virtue and think of her as a good and spotless queen; she herself knew nothing evil of Morgaine, for instance, she had lived at her side for three years, and Morgaine was, so far as she knew, as virtuous as herself. Yet it was rumored that Morgaine was a witch because she had lived in Avalon, and had some wisdom and knowledge of healing herbs and of sendings, and so the people of the court and of the country roundabout had whispered that Morgaine was in league with the fairy folk or the Devil; and even she herself, knowing Morgaine as she did, sometimes wondered how what so many people said could be all untrue.

And tomorrow she must face Lancelet and go about her work by Arthur's side, knowing that he had all but given her leave-how could she ever again look into Lancelet's eyes? He was of the blood of Avalon, he was son to the Lady of the Lake, it could be that he too could read thoughts a little, that he could see into her eyes and know what she was thinking.

And then anger, so violent that it frightened her, swept through her trembling body like a flood. Gwenhwyfar, lying there angry and afraid, thought that she would never dare to go out of doors again for fear of what she might choose to do. Every woman in the court wanted Lancelet-yes, even Morgaine herself; she had seen her sister-in-law looking at him, and for that reason, when once a long time ago Arthur had said they should marry, she had been distressed-Lancelet would surely find Morgaine too bold. And perhaps they had quarrelled, for the last day or two before Morgaine had departed for Avalon, she noted that they spoke less to each other than usual, and did not turn their eyes to each other.

She missed Morgaine, yes ... but all in all she was glad Morgaine was not at court, and she would not send to Tintagel to hear news of her if she was there. She fancied herself repeating to Morgaine what Arthur had just said; she would die of shame, and yet she suspected that Morgaine would laugh at her: Morgaine would surely say it was for her to choose whether or no she would take Lancelet as a lover; or perhaps, even, that it was for Lancelet to say.

Then it was as if a burning flame passed through her, like the fires of hell, that she might offer herself to Lancelet and he might say to her no. Then, surely, she would die of shame. She did not know how she could ever bear to look at Lancelet again, or at Arthur, or at any of her ladies who had never been so tempted. Even to the priests she would think it shame to speak about this, for they would know Arthur was less a Christian than he ought to be. How could she ever bear to go out of doors again, or to leave the safe, protected space of this very room and this very bed? Here, nothing wrong could come to her or harm her.

She did feel somewhat ill. Tomorrow she would tell her ladies that, and they would think only, as Lancelet would think, that she was overwearied with nursing Arthur night and day. She would continue to be, as she was always, a good and virtuous queen and a Christian woman-she could never even think of being anything else. Arthur was distressed from his wound and his long inactivity, that was all; when he was well and sound he could never think such a thing, and no doubt he would be grateful to her that she had not listened to his folly and had saved them both from a fearful sin.

But just as she was about to drop into an exhausted sleep, she remembered something that one of her women had said, long ago-it was a few days before Morgaine left the court. She had said that Morgaine should give her a charm.... Well, and so she should; if Morgaine enchanted her so that she had no choice but to love Lancelet, then she would be freed of that fearful choice ... . When Morgaine returns, she thought, I will speak of it to her. But Morgaine had not been at court now for almost two years, and it might be that she would never return.

9

I grow too old for these journeys, Viviane thought as she rode through the late-winter rain, head bowed, her cloak wrapped tight around her body. And then resentment surged through her: This should now be Morgaine's task, it is she who was to be Lady after me in Avalon.

Taliesin had told her, four years ago now, that Morgaine had been in Caerleon for Arthur's wedding, and had been given to Gwenhwyfar for one of her ladies, and had tarried there. The Lady of the Lake, waiting-woman to a queen? How dared Morgaine forsake her true and appointed path in this way? And yet when she had sent a message to Caerleon with word that Morgaine should return to Avalon, the messenger had returned to say that Morgaine had left the court ... they thought for Avalon.

But she is not in Avalon. Nor is she in Tintagel with Igraine, nor yet at the court of Lot in Orkney. Where then has she gone?

Some harm could have come to her on one of her solitary journeys. She might have been captured by one of the marauders or masterless men who throng the country-she might have lost her memory or have been raped, murdered, flung into a ditch somewhere and her bones never been found ... . Oh no, Viviane thought, if harm had come to her, I would surely have seen it in the mirror ... or with the Sight ... .

Yet she could not be certain. The Sight was erratic in her now, and often when she sought to see beyond, nothing came but a maddening grey fog before her eyes, the veil of the unknown which she dared not try to pierce. And Morgaine's fate was concealed somewhere within that veil.

Goddess, she prayed as she had done so often before, Mother, I have given you my life, bring back my child to me while I yet live ... but even as she spoke, she knew that there would be no answer, only grey rain like the veil of the unknown, the answer of the Goddess hidden in the unyielding sky.

Had it wearied her so much as this when last she made this journey, half a year ago? It seemed now to her that she had always ridden, before this, as lightly as a girl, and now the jolting of her donkey seemed to rattle every bone in her thin body, while the cold crept into her and gnawed at her with little icy teeth.

One of her escort turned back and said, "Lady, I can see the farmstead below. We will be there before nightfall, it seems."

Viviane thanked the man, trying not to sound as grateful as she felt. She could not betray weakness before her escort.

Gawan met her in the narrow barnyard as she was dismounting from her donkey, steadying her so that she did not step into the midden. "Welcome, Lady," he said, "as always, it is my pleasure to see you. My son Balin and your son will be here with the morrow-I sent to Caerleon that they might be here."

"Is it as grave as that, old friend?" Viviane asked, and Gawan nodded. He said, "You will scarcely know her, Lady. She is fallen away to nothing now, and if she eats or drinks ever so little, she says it is as if a fire were lighted in her vitals. It cannot be much longer now, for all your medicines."

Viviane nodded and sighed. "I feared as much," she said. "When this illness once has hold on anyone, it never lets loose its claw. Perhaps I can give her some ease."

"God grant it," said Gawan, "for the medicines you left us when you were last here do little now. She wakes and cries in the night like a little child, when she thinks the serving-women and I do not hear. I have not even the heart to pray that she shall be spared to us for any more suffering, Lady."

Viviane sighed again. When last she had come this way, half a year ago, she had left her strongest drugs and medicines, and she had half wished that Priscilla might take a fever in the autumn and die quickly, before the medicines lost their effect. There was little more that she could do. She let Gawan lead her into the house, seat her before the fire, and the serving-woman dished her up a hot bowl of soup from a kettle near the fire.

"You have been riding long in the rain, Lady," he said. "Sit and rest, and you shall see my wife after the evening meal-sometimes she sleeps a little at this time of day."

"If she can rest even a little, it is blessed, and I shall not disturb her," Viviane said, folding her chilled hands around the soup bowl, and letting herself slump down on the backless bench. One of the serving-women drew off her boots and cloak, another came with a warmed towel to dry her feet, and Viviane, turning her skirts back so that her bony knees felt the fire, rested for a moment in mindless comfort, forgetting her grim errand. Then a thin wailing cry was heard from an inner room, and the serving-woman started and trembled. She said to Viviane, "It is the mistress, poor thing- she must be awake. I hoped she would sleep till we had set the night meal. I must go to her."

"I will come too," said Viviane, and followed the woman to the inner chamber. Gawan was seated by the fire, and she saw the look of dread on his face as that thin cry died away.

Always before, since Priscilla had fallen ill, Viviane had found some trace in the woman of her old buxom prettiness, some resemblance to the jolly young woman who had fostered her son Balan. Now face and lips and faded hair were all the same yellowed grey, and even the blue eyes seemed faded, as if the sickness had leached all the color from the woman. When last she had come, too, Priscilla had been up and about a part of every day; now she could see that this woman had been bedfast for months ... half a year had made this much change. And always before, Viviane's medicines and herb potions had given ease and comfort and partial recovery. Now, she knew, it was too late for any further help.

For a moment the faded eyes drifted unfocused around the room, the lips moving faintly over the fallen-in jaw. Then Priscilla saw Viviane, blinked a little, and said in a whisper, "Is it you, Lady?"

Viviane went to her side and carefully took her withered hand. She said, "I am sorry to see you so ill. How is it with you, my dear friend?"

The faded, cracked lips drew back in a grimace which Viviane, for a moment, thought to be a movement of pain; then she realized it was meant for a smile. "I hardly know how it could be more ill," she whispered. "I think God and his Mother have forgotten me. Yet I am glad to see you again, and I hope to live long enough to look again on my dear sons and bless them ... ." She sighed wearily, trying to shift her body a little. "My back aches so with lying here, and yet whenever I am touched, it is like knives thrusting into me. And I am so thirsty, yet I dare not drink for fear of the pain ... ."

"I will make you as comfortable as I can," Viviane said, and, telling the servants what she wanted, she dressed the sores that came from lying in the bed and washed out Priscilla's mouth with a cooling lotion, so that even though she did not drink, her mouth would not torment her so with dryness. Then she sat near her, holding her hand, not troubling the sick woman with words. Some time after dark, there was a sound in the courtyard, and Priscilla, starting up again, her eyes feverish in the lamplight, cried out, "It is my sons!"

And indeed, after a little time, Balan and his foster-brother, Balin, Gawan's son, came into the room, stooping under the low ceiling.

"Mother," Balan said, and stooped to kiss Priscilla's hand, only then turning to Viviane to bow before her. "My lady."

Viviane reached out and touched her elder son's cheek. He was not as handsome as Lancelet, this one; he was a huge burly man, but his eyes were dark and fine like her own, or Lancelet's. Balin was smaller, a sturdy, grey-eyed man. He was, she knew, just ten days older than her own son. He looked as Priscilla had once looked, fair-haired and red-cheeked.

"My poor mother," he murmured, stroking Priscilla's hand, "but now the Lady Viviane has come to help you, then you will be well again very soon, will you not? But you are so thin, Mother, you must try to eat more and be strong and well again ... ."

"No," she whispered, "I shall never be strong more until I sup with Jesus in Heaven, dear son."

"Oh, no, Mother, you must not say so-" Balin cried, and Balan, meeting Viviane's eyes, sighed.

He said in so low a tone that neither Priscilla nor her son could hear, "He cannot see that she is dying, my lady-my mother. Always he insists that she can recover. I had truly hoped that she would go in the autumn, when we all took the fever, but she has always been so strong-" Balan shook his head, and his thick neck was flushed. Viviane saw that tears were standing in his eyes; he dashed them quickly away. And after a little, she said that they must all go out and let the sick woman rest again.

"Say farewell to your sons, Priscilla, and bless them," she said, and Priscilla's eyes brightened a little. "I would it should truly be farewell, before it grows worse-I would not have them see me as I was this morning," she murmured, and Viviane saw the terror in her eyes. She bent over Priscilla and said gently, "I think I can promise you no more pain, my dear, if that is how you wish it to end."

"Please," whispered the dying woman, and Viviane felt the clawlike hand tighten on hers in entreaty.

"I will leave you here with your sons, then," Viviane said gently, "for they are both your sons, my dear, even though you bore but one of them." She went out into the other room and found Gawan there.

"Bring me my saddlebags," she said; and when this had been done, she searched in a pocket for a moment. Then she turned to the man. "She is at ease for a moment now, but I can do little more, save to put an end to her suffering. I think this is what she wishes."

"There is no hope then-none at all?"

"No. There is nothing left for her but suffering, and I cannot think that your God wills it that she should suffer more."

Gawan said, shaken, "She has said often-that she wished she had had courage to throw herself into the river while she could still walk thither-"

"It is time, then, that she should go in peace," Viviane said quietly, "but I wanted you to know that whatever I do, it is by her own will-"

"Lady," Gawan replied, "I have trusted you always, and my wife loves you well and trusts you. I ask no more. If her sufferings end here, I know she will bless you." But his face was drawn with grief. He followed Viviane into the inner room again. Priscilla had been speaking quietly to Balin; now she released his hand, and he went, weeping, to his father. She held out her thin hand to Balan and said in her shaking voice, "You too have been a good son to me, my lad. Always look after your foster-brother, and I beg you to pray for my soul."

"I will, my mother," said Balan, and bent to embrace her, but she gave a. little trembling cry of pain and fear as he moved toward her, and so he only picked up her withered hand and pressed his fingers to it.

"Now I have your medicine for you, Priscilla," said Viviane. "Say good night, and sleep ... ."

"I am so weary," the dying woman whispered, "I shall be glad to sleep ... bless you, Lady, and your Goddess too ... ."

"In her name, who gives mercy," Viviane murmured, and held Pris-cilla's head up so that she could swallow.

"I am afraid to drink-it is bitter, and whenever I swallow anything there is pain-" Priscilla whispered.

"I swear to you, my sister, that when you have drunk this, there will be no more pain at all," Viviane said steadily, and tipped the cup. Priscilla swallowed and raised her weak hand to touch Viviane's face.

"Kiss me in farewell, too, Lady," she said, with that ghastly smile again, and Viviane pressed her lips to the skull-like brow.

I have brought life and now I come as the Death-crone ... . Mother, I do for her only what I would that one might do for me one day, Viviane thought, and shivered again, raising her eyes to meet Balin's frowning gaze.

"Come," she said quietly, "let her rest."

They went out into the other room. Gawan remained behind, his hand in his wife's; it was only fitting, Viviane thought, that he should remain with her.

The serving-women had set the evening meal and Viviane went to her place and ate and drank, for she was weary after the long ride.

"Have you ridden from Arthur's court at Caerleon all in this day, my boys?" she asked, then smiled-these "boys" were men!

"Aye, from Caerleon-" Balan said, "and a wretched ride it was, in cold and rain!" He helped himself to salt fish and spread butter on his bread, then handed the wooden dish to Balin. "You are eating nothing, my brother."

Balin shuddered. "I have not the heart to eat when our mother lies like that. But God be thanked now you have come, Lady, she will soon be all well again, will she not? Your medicines did her so much good last time, it was like a miracle, and now again she will be better, will she not?"

Viviane stared at him-was it possible that he did not understand? She said quietly, "The best end of all is that she might go to join her God in the hereafter, Balin."

He looked up at her, his ruddy face stricken. "No! She must not die," he cried. "Lady, tell me that you will help her, that you will not let her die-"

Viviane said severely, "I am not your God, and life and death are not in my keeping, Balin. Would you have her linger in such misery for much longer?"

"But you are skilled in all manner of magic lore," Balin protested angrily. "Why came you here, if not to cure her again? I heard you say but now, that you could put an end to her pain-"

"There is only one cure for such an illness as has taken your mother," Viviane said, laying a compassionate hand on Balm's shoulder, "and that is merciful."

"Balin, have done," Balan said, going to put his big callused hand on his foster-brother's. "Would you truly have her suffer more?"

But Balin jerked up his head and glared at Viviane. "So you used your sorcery tricks to cure her when it was honor to your evil fiend-Goddess," he shouted, "and now when you can get no more good of it you will let her die-"

"Be still, man," Balan said, and now his voice was rough and strained. "Marked you not-our mother blessed and kissed her farewell, it was what she wished for-"

But Balin was staring at Viviane, and then he raised his hand as if to strike her. "Judas!" he shouted. "You too betrayed with a kiss-" And he whirled and ran toward the inner room. "What have you done? Murderess! Foul murderess! Father! Father, here's murder and evil sorcery-!"

Gawan, white-faced, appeared in the chamber door, anxiously gesturing for silence, but Balin shoved him aside and burst into the room. Viviane followed, and she saw that Gawan had closed the dead woman's eyes.

Balin saw also, and he turned on her, shouting incoherently, "Murder! Treachery, sorcery-! Foul, murdering witch-!"

Gawan wrapped restraining arms around his son. "You will not speak so over your mother's very body to one she trusted and loved!"

But Balin raved and shouted, straining to come at Viviane. She tried to speak, to quiet him, but he would not hear. At last she went out into the kitchen and sat by the fire.

Balan came and took her hand and said, "I'm sorry he is receiving it in this way, my lady. He knows better, and when the shock is past he'll be grateful to you as I am-poor little mother, she suffered so, and now 'tis ended, and I bless you too." He lowered his head, trying not to sob aloud. "She was-was like mother to me too-"

"I know, my son, I know," Viviane murmured, patting his head as if he were the clumsy little boy he had been more than twenty years ago. "It's only right you should weep for your foster-mother, you would be heartless if you did not-" and he broke down and sobbed, kneeling at her side, his face buried in her lap.

Balin came and stood over them, his face drawn with fury. "You know she killed our mother, Balan, and yet you come to her for comfort?"

Balan raised his head, snuffling back sobs. "She did our mother's will. Are you such a fool you could not see-even with God's help our mother could not have lived another fortnight, do you grudge her that last pain she was spared?"

But Balin only cried desolately, "My mother, my mother is dead!"

"Be still, she was my foster-mother, my mother too," said Balan angrily, and then his face softened. "Ah, brother, brother, I grieve too, why should we quarrel? Come now, drink some wine, her suffering is ended and she is with God-better we should pray for her than be all at odds this way. Come, brother, come and eat and rest, you are weary too."

"No," cried Balin, "I will not rest under the roof that shelters the foul sorceress who slew my mother!"

Gawan came, pale and angry, and struck Balin across the mouth. He said, "Peace! The Lady of Avalon is our guest and our friend! You shall not sully the hospitality of this roof with such blasphemous words! Sit down, my son, and eat, or you will speak words we shall all regret!"

But Balin stared about him like a wild animal. "I will neither eat nor rest under this roof while it holds that-that woman."

Balan demanded, "Dare you offer insult to my mother?" And Balin cried, "You are all against me, then-I shall go forth from this roof which shelters my mother's slayer!" He turned his back and ran from the house. Viviane sank down in a chair, and Balan came to offer his arm and Gawan to pour her a cup of wine.

"Drink, Lady-and accept my apologies for my son," he said. "He is beside himself; he will come soon enough to sanity."

"Shall I go after him, Father, for fear he should do himself some hurt?" Balan asked, but Gawan shook his head.

"No-no, son, stay here with your mother. Words will do him little good now."

Trembling, Viviane sipped at her wine. She, too, was overcome with sorrow for Priscilla, and for the time when they had been young women together, each with her baby son in her arms.... Priscilla had been so pretty and merry, they had laughed together and played with their babies, and now Priscilla lay dead after a wasting illness, and Viviane's own hand had held the cup of her death. That she had done Priscilla's own will only eased her conscience, it did not blunt her sadness.

We were young together, and now she lies dead and I am old, old as the Death-crone's very self; and those pretty babies who played about our feet, one has grey in his own hair, and the other would kill me if he could, as afoul sorceress and murderer. ... It seemed to Viviane that her very bones rattled with an icy grief. She stood near to the fire, but still she shivered and could not get warm. She clutched her shawl about her, and Balan came and led her to the best seat, tucked a cushion behind her back, set a cup of heated wine in her hands.

"Ah, you loved her too," he said. "Don't trouble yourself about Balin, Lady, he will regain his reason in time. When he can think clear again, he'll know that what you did was great mercy to our mother-" He broke off, slow red creeping up his heavy jowls. "Are you angry with me, Lady, that still I think of my mother as she who died but now?"

"It is no more than reason," said Viviane, sipping at the hot wine, and caressing her son's hardened hand. Once, she thought, it had been so little and tender that she could enfold it within her own, like a curled rosebud, and now her own hand was quite lost within his. "The Goddess knows, she was more mother to you than ever I was."

"Aye, I should have known that you would understand that," said Balan. "Morgaine said as much to me when I saw her last at Arthur's court."

"Morgaine? Is she at Arthur's court now, my son? Was she there when you came away?"

Balan shook his head regretfully. "No, I saw her last-it was years gone, Lady. She left Arthur's court, let me think ... it was before Arthur had his great wound ... why, 'tis three years come Midsummer. I thought she was with you in Avalon."

Viviane shook her head and steadied herself against the arm of the high seat. "I have not seen Morgaine since Arthur's wedding." And then she thought, perhaps she is gone over the seas. She asked Balan, "What of your brother Lancelet? Is he at court or has he gone back to Less Britain?"

"He will not do that, I think, while Arthur lives," Balan said, "though he is not often at court now ..." and Viviane, with a fragment of the Sight, heard the unspoken words Balan bit back, unwilling to speak gossip or scandal: When Lancelet is at court, men mark how he never takes his eyes from Queen Gwenhwyfar, and twice he has refused Arthur when Arthur would have had him wedded. Balan went on hastily, "Lancelet has said he will set all things in order in Arthur's kingdom, and so he is always out and about the lands, he has killed more marauding brigands and raiding bands than any other of Arthur's Companions. They say of him that he is an entire legion in himself, Lady-" and Balan raised his head and looked ruefully at Viviane. "Your younger son, Mother, is a great knight, such a knight as that old Alexander of the legends. There are those who say, even, that he is a better knight than Arthur's self. I have brought no such glory on you, my lady."

"We all do such things as the Gods give us to do, my son," Viviane said gently. "I am only glad to see that you do not bear malice toward your brother for that he is a better knight than you."

Balan shook his head. "Why, that would be like bearing malice toward Arthur that I am not the King, Mother," he said. "And Lancelet is modest and good to all men, and pious as a maiden too-knew you not that he had become a Christian, Lady?"

Viviane shook her head. "It surprises me not," she said, with a trace of scorn she did not know would be in her voice until she had spoken. "Always your brother fears those things he cannot understand, and the faith of Christ is a fitting faith for slaves who think themselves sinners and humble-" Then she stopped herself and said, "I am sorry, my son. I meant not to belittle. I know it is your faith too."

Balan blinked and smiled. "Now has a miracle come to pass, madam, that you ask pardon of any for any word you ever spoke!"

Viviane bit her lip. "Is that truly how you see me, my son?"

He nodded. "Aye, ever you have seemed to me the proudest of women-and it seemed to me right that you should be exactly as you are," he said. And Viviane mocked herself that she had come to this, seeking a word of approval from her son! She cast about to find something new to speak of.

"You told me Lancelet has twice refused to marry? For what, do you think, is he waiting? Does he want more of a dowry than any maiden can bring him?"

Again it seemed that she heard Balan's unspoken thoughts: He cannot have the one he would have, for she is wedded to his king ... but her son said only, "He says he has no mind to marry any woman, and jests that he is fonder of his horse than he could be of any woman who could not ride with him into battle-he says in jest that one day he will take one of the Saxon shield maidens to wife. None can match him at arms, either, nor in the games Arthur holds at Caerleon. Sometimes he will take some handicap, ride without a shield, or change horses with another, so he will not have too much of the advantage. Balin challenged him once and won a course against him, but he refused a prize for it, because he found out it was because Lancelet's saddle girths broke."

"So Balin too is a courteous and good knight?" Viviane said.

"Oh, yes, Mother, you must not judge my brother by tonight," Balan said eagerly. "When he rode against Lancelet, truly I knew not which of them to cheer on. Lancelet offered him the prize, saying he had won it fairly, since he should not have lost control of his horse-so he said! But Balin would not take it, and they stood disputing with one another in courtesy like two heroes from the ancient sagas Taliesin used to tell us when we were lads!"

"So you can be proud of both your brothers," Viviane said, and the talk passed to other things, and after a little time she said she should go and help with the laying-out. But when she went into the chamber, she saw that the women were all in awe of her, and a priest had come, too, from the village. He welcomed her courteously indeed, but Viviane could tell by his words that he thought her one of the sisters from the nunnery nearby- indeed, her dark travel dress made her look so, and she had no wish to confront him this night. So, when they entreated her to go to the best guest bed, she went, and at last she slept. But all that she had spoken of with Balan seemed to come and go in her head, through her dreams, and at one moment it seemed that she saw Morgaine through grey and thinning mists, running away into a wood of strange trees and crowned with flowers such as never grew in Avalon, and she said in her dreams, and again to herself when she woke, I must delay no longer, I must seek for her with the Sight, or what remains to me of the Sight.

The next morning she stood by while Priscilla was laid in earth. Balin had returned and stood weeping by the graveside, and after the burial was done and the other folk had gone into the house to drink ale, she approached him and said gently, "Will you not embrace me and exchange forgiveness with me, foster-son? Believe me, I share your grief. We have been friends all our lives, Dame Priscilla and I, or would I have given her my own son to nurse? And I am your foster-brother's mother." She held out her arms, but Balin's face drew hard and cold, and he turned his back on her and walked away.

Gawan besought her to stay for a day or two and rest there, but Viviane asked for her donkey to be brought; she must return to Avalon, she said, and she saw that Gawan, though his hospitality had been sincere, was relieved-if someone had told the priest who she was, there might have been awkwardness he had no mind to, during his wife's funeral feast. Balan, too, asked, "Will you have me to ride with you to Avalon, madam? There are sometimes brigands and evil folk on the road."

"No," she said, giving him her hand and smiling. "I look not as if I had gold about me, and the men who ride with me are of the Tribesmen -we could hide in the hills, should we be attacked. Nor am I any temptation to any man who might seek to take a woman." She laughed and said, "And with Lancelet questing to kill all the brigands in this country, it will soon be as it was said once it was, that a virgin of fifteen bearing a purse of gold might ride from one end of the land to the other with no man to offer her insult! Stay here, my son, and mourn your mother, and make peace with your foster-brother. You must not quarrel with him for my sake, Balan." And then she shuddered suddenly as if with cold, for a picture had come into her mind, and it seemed to her as if there was the clash of swords and her son bleeding from a great wound ... .

"What is it, Lady?" he asked her softly.

"Nothing, my son-only promise to me that you will not break the peace with your brother Balin."

He bent his head. "I will not, Mother. And I will tell him that you have said this, so he will not think you bear him any grudge, either."

"By the Lady, I do not," said Viviane, but still she felt icy cold, though the winter sun was warm on her back. "May she bless you, my son, and your brother too, though I doubt he wishes for the blessing of any God but his own. Will you take the Lady's blessing, Balan?"

"I will," he said, bending to kiss Viviane's hand, and he stood looking after her as she rode away.

She told herself, as she rode toward Avalon that surely what she had seen had come of her own weariness and fear; and in any case Balan was one of Arthur's Companions, and it could not be looked for, in this war with the Saxons, that he should escape a wound. But the picture persisted in her mind, that Balan and his foster-brother should somehow quarrel in her name, until at last she made a stern banishing gesture and willed to see her son's face no more in her mind till she should look on it again in the flesh!

She was troubled too about Lancelet. He was long past the age when a man should marry. Yet there were men enough who had no mind to women, seeking only for the companionship of their brothers and comrades under arms, and she had wondered often enough if Ban's son were one of them. Well, Lancelet should take his own road; she had consented to that when he left Avalon. If he professed great devotion to the Queen, no doubt, it was only that his comrades should not mock at him as a lover of boys.

But she dismissed her sons from her mind. Neither of them was as near to her heart as Morgaine, and Morgaine ... where was Morgaine? She had been disquieted before this, but now, hearing Balan's news, she feared for Morgaine's very life. Before this day was ended, she should send out messengers from Avalon to Tintagel, where Igraine dwelt, and northward to Lot's court where Morgaine might have gone to be with her child ... . She had seen the young Gwydion, once or twice, in her mirror, but had paid him little heed, as long as he grew and thrived. Morgause was kindly to all little children, having a brood of her own, and there would be time enough to look to Gwydion when he came of an age for fostering. Then should he come to Avalon ... .

With the iron discipline of years, she managed to put even Morgaine from her mind and to ride home to Avalon in a mood befitting a priestess who had just taken the part of the Death-crone for her oldest friend- sobered indeed, but without great grief, for death was only the beginning of new life.

Priscilla was a Christian. She believed she would now be with her God in Heaven. Yet she too will be born again on this imperfect world, to seek the perfection of the Gods, again and yet again ... . Balan and I parted as strangers, and so it must be. I am no more the Mother, and I should feel no more grief than when I ceased to be the Maiden for her ... yet her heart was filled with rebellion.

Truly, the time had come for her to give up her rulership of Avalon, that a younger woman might be Lady of the Lake and she herself no more than one of the wise-women, offering counsel and advice, but carrying no more that fearsome power. She had long known that the Sight was leaving her. Yet she would not lay down her power until she could place it in the hands of that one she had prepared to take it from her. She had felt that she could wait until Morgaine had outgrown her bitterness and returned to Avalon.

Yet if anything has befallen Morgaine ... and even if it has not, have I the right to continue as Lady when the Sight has left me?

For a moment, when she came to the Lake, she was so cold and wet that when the boat's crew turned to her to call down the mists, she could not force herself to remember the spell. Indeed it is time and more than time that I should lay down my powers ... . Then the words of power came back into her mind and she spoke them, but much of that night she lay wakeful, in dread.

When the morning had come, she studied the sky; the moon was darkening, and it would do no good to consult the mirror at this time. Will it ever profit me anything to look into that mirror again, now the Sight has departed from me? With iron discipline, she forced herself to say nothing of any of this to her attendant priestesses. But later that day she met with the other wise-women and asked them, "Is there anyone in the House of Maidens who is still virgin and has never yet gone to the grove or to the fires?"

"There is Taliesin's little daughter," said one of the women. For a moment Viviane was confused-surely Igraine was grown and wedded and widowed, mother of the High King in Caerleon, and Morgause too was wedded and the mother of many sons. Then she recalled herself and said, "I knew not that he had a daughter in the House of Maidens." A time had been, she thought, when no girl had been taken into the Maiden House without her own knowledge, and it had been her hand that had tested each one for the Sight and for her fitness for the Druid lore. But in the last years, she had let this slip from her.

"Tell me. How old is she? What is her name? When did she come to us?"

"Her name is Niniane," said the old priestess. "She is the daughter of Branwen-do you remember? Branwen said that Taliesin had fathered this child at Beltane fire. It seems it was only a little while ago, but she must be eleven or twelve, perhaps more. She was fostered away in the North somewhere, but she came to us five or six seasons ago. She is a good child and biddable enough, and there are not now so many maidens who come to us that we can afford to pick and choose among them, Lady! There are none now like Raven or your fosterling Morgaine. And where is Morgaine now, Lady? She should return to us!"

Viviane said, "She should return to us indeed," and felt ashamed to say that she did not even know where Morgaine was, or even whether she was alive or dead. How have I the insolence to be Lady of Avalon when I know not even the name of my successor, nor who dwells in the House of Maidens? But if this Niniane was daughter to Taliesin and to a priestess of Avalon, surely she must have the Sight. And even if she had it not herself, Viviane could compel her to see, if she was a maiden still.

She said, "See that Niniane is sent to me before dawn, three days from now," and, although she saw a dozen questions in the eyes of the old priestess, she marked with a certain satisfaction that she was still unquestioned Lady of Avalon, for the woman asked her nothing.

NINIANE CAME TO HER an hour before dawn, at the end of the moon-dark seclusion; Viviane, sleepless, had spent much of the night in restless self-questioning. She knew herself reluctant to set aside her own position of authority, yet if she could lay it into Morgaine's hands, she would do so without regrets. She turned over in her hand the little sickle knife which Morgaine had abandoned when she fled from Avalon, then put it aside and raised her face to look at Taliesin's daughter.

The old priestess, even as I myself, loses track of time; surely she is more than eleven or twelve. The girl was trembling in awe, and Viviane recalled how Morgaine too had trembled when she first saw her as Lady of Avalon. She said gently, "You are Niniane? Who are your parents?"

"I am Branwen's daughter, Lady, but I do not know my father's name. She said only that I was Beltane-gotten." Well, that was reasonable enough.

"How old are you, Niniane?"

"I shall have finished fourteen winters this year."

"And you, have you been to the fires, child?"

The girl shook her head. She said, "I have not been called thither."

"Have you the Sight?"

"Only a little, I think, Lady," she said, and Viviane sighed and said, "Well, we shall see, child; come with me," and she led the way out of her isolated house, upwards along the hidden path to the Sacred Well. The girl was taller than she herself, slender and fair-haired, with violet eyes-she was not unlike Igraine at that age, Viviane thought, though Igraine's hair had been nearer red than golden. Suddenly it seemed that she could see this Niniane crowned and robed as the Lady, and she shook her head impatiently, to clear it of unwanted vision. Surely this was only wandering daydream ... .

She brought Niniane to the pool, then stopped for a moment to look at the sky. She handed her the sickle knife which had been given to Morgaine when she had been made priestess, and said to her quietly, "Look into the mirror, my child, and see where she who held this dwells now."

Niniane looked at her hesitantly and said, "Lady, I told you-I have little of the Sight-"

Viviane suddenly understood-the girl was frightened of failure. "It does not matter. You will see with the Sight that once was mine. Be not afraid, child, but look for me into the mirror."

Silence, while Viviane watched the girl's bent head. In the surface of the pool it seemed only that wind came and ruffled the surface, as always. Then Niniane said in a quiet, wandering voice, "Ah, see ... she sleeps in the arms of the grey king ... " and was still.

What can she mean? Viviane could make nothing of the words. She wanted to cry out to Niniane, to force the Sight upon her undesired, yet she compelled herself, by the greatest effort of her life, to keep still, knowing that even her restless thoughts could blur the Sight for the maiden. She said, hardly above a whisper, "Tell me, Niniane, do you see that day when Morgaine shall return to Avalon?"

Again the empty silence. A little breeze-the dawn wind-had sprung up, and again the riffle of wind came and went across the glassy surface of the water. At last Niniane said softly, "She stands in the boat ... her hair is all grey now ... " and again she was still, sighing as if with pain.

"Do you see more, Niniane? Speak, tell me-"

Pain and terror crossed the girl's face and she whispered, "Ah, the cross ... the light burns me, the cauldron between her hands-Raven! Raven, will you leave us now?" She gave a sharp indrawn breath of shock and dismay, and crumpled fainting to the ground.

Viviane stood motionless, her hands clenched, and then, with a long sigh, she bent to raise the girl. She dipped her hand in the pool, sprinkled water on Niniane's slack face. After a moment the girl opened her eyes, stared at Viviane in fright, and began to cry.

"I am sorry, Lady-I could see nothing," she whimpered.

So. She spoke, but she remembers nothing of what she saw. I might well have spared her this, for all the good it has done. It was pointless to be angry with her-she had done no more than she was commanded. Viviane stroked the fair hair back from Niniane's forehead and said gently, "Don't cry; I am not angry with you. Does your head ache? So-go and rest, my child."

The Goddess bestows her gifts as she will. But why, Mother of all, do you send me to do your will with imperfect instruments? You have taken from me the power to do your will; why, then, have you taken from me the one who should serve you when I am no longer here? Niniane, her hands pressed to her forehead, went slowly down the path toward the House of Maidens, and after a time, Viviane followed.

Had Niniane's words been nothing but raving? She did not think so -she was sure the girl had seen something. But Viviane could make nothing of what Niniane had seen, and the girl's few attempts to put it into words meant nothing to Viviane. And now Niniane had forgotten it all, so that she could not be questioned further.

She sleeps in the arms of the grey king. Did that mean Morgaine was lying in the arms of death?

Would Morgaine return to them? Niniane had said only, She stands in the boat... so Morgaine would return to Avalon. Her hair is all grey now. So the return would not come soon, if at all. That, at least, was unequivocal.

The cross. The light burns me. Raven, Raven, the cauldron between her hands. That was certainly no more than delirium, an attempt to put some tenuous vision into words. Raven would bear the cauldron, the magical weapon of water and of the Goddess ... yes, Raven was empowered to handle the Great Regalia. Viviane sat staring at the wall of her chamber, wondering if this meant that now Morgaine was gone from them, Raven should bear the power of the Lady of the Lake. It seemed to her that there was no other way to interpret the girl's words. And even so, they might mean nothing.

Whatever I do now, I am in the dark-I might better have gone to Raven, who would have answered me only with silence!

But if Morgaine had indeed gone into the arms of death, or was lost to Avalon forever, there was no other priestess fit to carry the weight. Raven had given her voice to the Goddess in prophecy ... was the place of the Goddess to go unserved because Raven had chosen her silent path?

Viviane sat alone in her dwelling, staring at the wall, pondering Niniane's cryptic words again and again in her heart. Once she rose and went alone up the silent path to stare again into the unmoving waters, but they were grey, grey as the unyielding sky. Once indeed it seemed to her that something moved there, and Viviane whispered, "Morgaine?" and looked deep into the silence of the pool.

But the face that looked out at her was not Morgaine's face-it was still, dispassionate as the Goddess herself, crowned with bare wicker-withes ... .

... Is it my own reflection I see, or the Death-crone? ...

At last, weary, she turned away.

This I have known since first I trod the path-a time comes when there is only despair, when you seek to tear the veil from the shrine, and you cry out to her and know that she will not answer because she is not there, because she was never there, there is no Goddess but only yourself, and you are alone in the mockery of echoes from an empty shrine ... .

There is no one there, there was never anyone there, and all the Sight is but dreams and delusions ... .

As she trudged wearily down the hill, she saw that the new moon stood in the sky. But now it meant nothing to her save that this ritual silence and seclusion were done for the time.

What have I to do with this mockery of a Goddess? The fate of Avalon lies in my hands, and Morgaine is gone, and I am alone with old women and children and half-trained girls . .. alone, all alone! And I am old and weary and my death awaits me ... .

Within her dwelling the women had lighted a fire, and a cup of warmed wine sat steaming beside her usual chair so that she might break the moon-dark fast. She sank down wearily, and one of her attendant priestesses came silently to draw off her shoes and put a warm shawl about her shoulders.

There is no one but I. But I have still my daughters, I am not wholly alone. "Thank you, my children," she said, with unaccustomed warmth, and one of the attendants bowed her head shyly without speaking. Viviane did not know the girl's name-why am I thus neglectful?-but she thought she must be under a vow of silence for the time. The second said softly, "It is our privilege to serve you, Mother. Will you go to rest?"

"Not yet awhile," Viviane said, and then on an impulse said, "Go and ask the priestess Raven to attend me."

It seemed a long time before, with silent step, Raven came into the room. Viviane greeted her with a bending of the head, and Raven came and bowed, then, following Viviane's gesture, went to the seat across from Viviane's own. Viviane handed her the cup, still half filled with the hot wine, and Raven sipped, smiling thanks, and put it from her.

At last Viviane said in entreaty, "My daughter, you broke your silence once before Morgaine left us. Now I seek for her and she cannot be found. She is not in Caerleon, nor in Tintagel, nor with Lot and Morgause in Lothian ... and I grow old. There is none to serve. ... I ask of you as I would inquire of the oracle of the Goddess: will Morgaine return?"

Raven was silent. At last she shook her head and Viviane demanded, "Do you mean that Morgaine will not return? Or do you mean that you do not know?" But the younger priestess made an odd gesture of helplessness and questioning.

"Raven," said Viviane, "you know that I must lay down my place, and there is no other to bear it, none who has the old training of a priestess, none who has gone so far-only you. If Morgaine does not return to us, you must be Lady of the Lake. Your oath was given to silence, and you have borne it faithfully. Now it is time to lay it aside, and take from my hands the guardianship of this place-there is no other way."

Raven shook her head. She was a tall woman, slightly built, and, Viviane thought, no longer young; she was certainly ten years older than Morgaine-she must be nearing her fortieth year. And she came here as a little maiden with her breasts not yet budded. Her hair was long and dark, and her face dark and sallow, her eyes large beneath dark, thick brows. She looked worn and austere.

Viviane covered her face with her hands and said in a hoarse voice, through tears she could not shed, "I-cannot, Raven."

After a moment, her face covered, she felt a gentle touch on her cheek. Raven had risen and was bending over her. She did not speak, only took Viviane into a close embrace and held her for a moment, and Viviane, feeling the warmth of the younger woman pressed against her, began to sob, and felt that she would weep and weep with no will ever to cease. And at last, when in sheer exhaustion Viviane was silent, Raven kissed her on the cheek and went silently away.

10

Once Igraine had said to Gwenhwyfar that Cornwall was at the world's end. So it seemed to Gwenhwyfar-there might never have been such things as marauding Saxons or a High King. Or a High Queen. Here in this distant Cornish convent, even though on a clear day she could look out toward the sea and see the stark line of Tintagel castle, she and Igraine were no more than two Christian ladies. Gwenhwyfar thought, surprising herself, I am glad I came.

Yet when Arthur had asked her to go, she had been afraid to leave the enclosing walls of Caerleon. The journey had seemed a long nightmare to her, even the swift and comfortable ride along the Roman road south; when they left the Roman road and began to travel across the high, exposed moors, Gwenhwyfar had huddled in panic within her litter, hardly able to tell which was more of a terror to her, the high open sky or the long, long vistas of grass, treeless, where the rocks thrust up stark and cold like the very bones of the earth. Then for a time no living creature could be seen except the ravens that circled high, waiting for something to die, or, far away, one of the wild moorland ponies, stopping to throw up a shaggy head before bolting away.

Yet here in this distant Cornish convent, all was still and peaceful; a soft-toned bell rang the hours, and roses grew in the enclosed cloister garden and twined into crannies of the crumbling brick wall. Once it had been a Roman villa. The sisters had taken up the floor of one big room, they said, because it had portrayed some scandalous pagan scene-Gwenhwyfar was curious as to what it was, but no one told her and she was ashamed to ask. All around the edges of the room were lovely little tiled dolphins and curious fish, and at the center, common bricks had been laid. She sat there with the sisters sometimes in the afternoons and stitched at her sewing, while Igraine was resting.

Igraine was dying. Two months since, the message had come to Caerleon. Arthur had had to travel north to Eboracum to see to the fortification of the Roman wall there and could not go, nor was Morgaine there. And since Arthur could not go, and it could not be looked for that Viviane, at her age, could make the long journey, Arthur had begged Gwenhwyfar to go and stay with his mother; and after much persuasion she had agreed.

Gwenhwyfar knew little about tending the sick. Whatever illness had seized on Igraine, at least it was painless-but she was short of breath and could not walk far without coughing and gasping. The sister who cared for her said it was congestion in the lungs, yet there was no coughing of blood and she had no fever and flushing. Her lips were pale and her nails blue, and her ankles were swollen to where she could hardly walk on them; she seemed almost too weary to speak and kept her bed most of the time. She seemed not so very ill to Gwenhwyfar, but the sister said she was dying indeed, and now it could not be more than a week at most.

It was the fairest part of the summer, and this morning Gwenhwyfar brought a white rose from the convent garden and laid it on Igraine's pillow. Igraine had struggled to her feet last night to go to evensong, but this morning she had been so weary and without strength she could not rise. Yet she smiled up at Gwenhwyfar and said in her wheezing voice, "Thank you, dear daughter." She put the flower to her face, sniffing delicately at the petals. "Always I wanted roses at Tintagel, but the soil there was so poor, little would grow. ... I dwelt there five years and never did I cease from trying to make some sort of garden."

"When you came to take me to be wedded, you saw the garden at my home," Gwenhwyfar said, with a sudden twinge of homesickness for that faraway walled garden.

"I remember how beautiful it was-it put me in mind of Avalon. The flowers are so beautiful there, in the courts of the House of Maidens." She was silent for a moment. "A message was sent to Morgaine at Avalon?"

"A message was sent, Mother. But Taliesin told us Morgaine had not been seen in Avalon," said Gwenhwyfar. "No doubt she is with Queen Morgause in Lothian, and in these times it takes forever for a messenger to come and go."

Igraine drew a heavy sigh and began to struggle with a cough again, and Gwenhwyfar helped her to sit upright. After a time Igraine murmured, "Yet the Sight should have bidden Morgaine to come to me-you would come if you knew your mother was dying, would you not? Yes, for you came, and I am not even your own mother. Why has Morgaine not come?"

It is nothing to her that I have come, Gwenhwyfar thought, it is not me she wants here. There is no one who cares whether I am here or elsewhere. And it seemed as if her very heart was bruised. But Igraine was looking at her expectantly, and she said, "Perhaps Morgaine has received no message. Perhaps she has gone into a convent somewhere and become a Christian and renounced the Sight."

"It may be so.... I did so when I married Uther," Igraine murmured. "Yet now and again it thrust itself on me undesired, and I think if Morgaine was ill or dying I would know it." Her voice was fretful. "The Sight came upon me before you were married ... tell me, Gwenhwyfar, do you love my son?"

Gwenhwyfar shrank from the sick woman's clear grey eyes; could Igraine see into her very soul? "I love him well and I am his faithful queen, lady."

"Aye, I believe you are ... and you are happy together?" Igraine held Gwenhwyfar's slender hands in her own for a moment and suddenly smiled. "Why, so you must be. And will be happier yet, since you are bearing his son at last."

Gwenhwyfar's mouth dropped open and she stared at Igraine. "I-I -I did not know."

Igraine smiled again, a tender and radiant smile, so that Gwenhwyfar thought, Yes, I can believe it, that when she was young, she was beautiful enough for Uther to cast aside all caution and seek her with spells and charms.

Igraine said, "It is often so, though you are not really so young-I am surprised you have not already had a child."

"It was not for lack of wanting, no, nor praying for it either, lady," Gwenhwyfar said, so shaken that she hardly knew what she was saying. Was the old Queen falling into delirium? This was too cruel for jesting. "How -what makes you think I am-am with child?"

Igraine said, "I forgot, you have not the Sight-it has deserted me for long and long I renounced it, but as I say, it steals upon me unawares, and never has it played me false." Gwenhwyfar began to weep, and Igraine, troubled, reached out her thin hand and laid it over the younger woman's.

"Why, how is this, that I give you good news and you weep, child?"

Now she will think I do not want a child, and I cannot bear to have her think ill of me ... . Gwenhwyfar said shakily, "Only twice in all the years I have been married have I had any cause to think myself pregnant, and then I carried the child only a month or two. Tell me, lady, do you-" Her throat closed and she dared not speak the words. Tell me, Igraine, shall I bear this child, have you seen me then with Arthur's child at my breast? What would her priest think of this compromise with sorcery?

Igraine patted her hand. "I wish I might tell you more, but the Sight comes and goes as it will. God grant it come to a good end, my dear; it may be that I can see no more because by the time your child is born, I shall not be here to see-no, no, child, do not weep," she begged. "I have been ready to leave this life ever since I saw Arthur wedded. I would like to see your son, I would like to hold a child of Morgaine's in my arms, should that day ever come, but Uther is gone and it is well with my children. It may be that Uther waits for me beyond death, or the other children I lost at birth. And if they do not-" She shrugged. "I shall never know."

Igraine's eyes closed, and Gwenhwyfar thought, I have wearied her. She sat silent until the older woman slept, then rose and went quietly into the garden.

She felt numbed; it had truly not seemed to her that she might be pregnant. If she had thought anything at all about it, it was that the stress of travel had delayed her courses ... for the first three years of her marriage, every time it had been late, she had thought herself with child. Then, in the year in which Arthur had been, first, away for the battle of Celidon Wood and the long campaign before it, then wounded and too weak to touch her, the same pattern had persisted. And finally she had realized that her monthly rhythms were inconstant-there was no way to keep track of them by the moon, for sometimes two or three months might pass with no sign.

But now that Igraine had spoken, she wondered why she had not thought of this before; it never occurred to her to doubt the Queen. Something inside Gwenhwyfar said, Sorcery, and there was a small voice that persisted in reminding her, All these things are of the Devil, and have no place in this house of holy women. But something else said, How could it be wicked to tell me this? It was more, she thought, as when the angel was sent to Mary the Virgin to tell her of the birth of her son ... and then for a moment Gwenhwyfar was struck with awe at her own presumption; and then she began softly to giggle, at the incongruity of Igraine, old and dying, as an angel of God.

At that moment the bell rang in the cloister for prayers, and Gwenhwyfar, though here as a guest, and without obligation, turned and went into the sisters' chapel, kneeling in her accustomed place among the visitors. But she heard little of the service, for her whole heart and mind were caught up in the most fervent prayer of her entire life.

It has come, the answer to all my prayers. Oh, thank you, God and Christ and our Blessed Lady!

Arthur was wrong. It was not he who failed. There was no need ... and once again she was filled with the paralyzing shame she had felt when he had said that thing to her, all but giving her leave to betray him ... and what a wicked woman I was then, that I could even have considered it ... . But now in the very midst of her wickedness God had rewarded her when she deserved it now. Gwenhwyfar raised her head and began to sing the Magnificat with the rest, so fervently that the abbess raised her head and looked sharply at her.

They do not know why I am thankful ... they do not know how much I have to be thankful for ... .

But they do not know how wicked I was either, for I was thinking here in this holy place of the one I love ... .

And then, even through her joy, suddenly it was like pain again: Now he will look upon me big with Arthur's child, and he will think me ugly and gross and never look on me again with love and longing. And even through the joy in her heart, she felt small and cramped and joyless.

Arthur gave me leave, and we could have had each other, at least once, and now never ... never ... never ... .

She put her face into her hands and wept behind them, silently, and no longer cared that the abbess was watching her.

THAT NIGHT IGRAINE'S BREATHING was so labored that she could not even lower her head to rest; she had to sit bolt upright, propped up on many cushions, to breathe at all, and she wheezed and coughed without end. The abbess gave her a draught of something which would clear the lungs, but it only made her queasy, she said, and she could take no more of it.

Gwenhwyfar sat beside her, drowsing a little now and then, but alert whenever the sick woman stirred, to give her a sip of water, to shift her pillows so that she could find a little ease. There was only a small lamp in the room, but there was brilliant moonlight, and the night was so warm that the door stood open into the garden. And through it all there was the ever-present muffled sound of the sea beyond the garden, beating at the rocks.

"Strange," Igraine murmured at last in a faraway voice, "never would I have thought I would come here to die. ... I remember how dreary I felt, how alone, when first I came to Tintagel, as if I had come to the very end of the world. Avalon was so fair, so beautiful, so filled with flowers ... "

"There are flowers here," Gwenhwyfar said.

"But not like the flowers of my home. It is so barren here, so rocky," she said. "Have you been in the Island, child?"

"I was schooled in the convent on Ynis Witrin, madam."

"It is beautiful on the Island. And when I travelled here over the moors, it was so high and barren and deserted, I was afraid-"

Igraine made a weak movement toward her, and Gwenhwyfar took her hand and was alarmed by its coldness. "You are a good child," Igraine said, "to come so far, when my own children could not. I remember how you dread travelling-and now to come so far, when you are pregnant."

Gwenhwyfar rubbed the icy hands between her own. "Do not tire yourself with talking, Mother."

Igraine made a little sound like a laugh, but it got lost in a fit of wheezing. "Do you think it makes any difference now, Gwenhwyfar? I wronged you-even on the very day you were wedded, I went to Taliesin and asked him, was there any honorable way for Arthur to get out of this marriage."

"I-did not know. Why?"

It seemed to her that Igraine hesitated before answering, but she could not tell, perhaps it was only that the other woman struggled for speech. "I know not ... perhaps it was that I thought you would not be happy with my son." She struggled again with a fit of coughing so heavy that it seemed she would never get her breath.

When she had quieted a little, Gwenhwyfar said, "Now you must talk no more, Mother-will you have me bring you a priest?"

"Damn all priests," said Igraine clearly. "I will have none of them about me-oh, look not so shocked, child!" She lay still for a moment. "You thought me so pious, that I retired to a convent in my last years. But where else should I have gone? Viviane would have had me at Avalon, but I could not forget it was she who had married me to Gorlois ... . Beyond that garden wall lies Tintagel, like a prison ... a prison it was to me, indeed. Yet it was the only place I could call my own. And I felt I had won it by what I endured there ... ."

Another long, silent struggle for breath. At last she said, "I wish Morgaine had come to me ... she has the Sight, she should have known I was dying ... ."

Gwenhwyfar saw that there were tears in her eyes. She said gently, rubbing the icy hands which now felt as taut as cold claws, "I am sure she would come if she knew, dear Mother."

"I am not so sure ... I sent her from me into Viviane's hands. Even though I knew well how ruthless Viviane could be, that she would use Morgaine as ruthlessly as she used me, for the well-being of this land and for her own love of power," Igraine whispered. "I sent her from me because I felt it better, if it came to be a choice of evils, that she should be in Avalon and in the hands of the Goddess, than in the hands of the black priests who would teach her to think that she was evil because she was a woman."

Gwenhwyfar was deeply dismayed. She chafed the icy hands between her own and renewed the hot bricks at Igraine's feet; but the feet too were cold as ice, and when she rubbed them Igraine said she could not feel them.

She felt she must try again. "Now with your end near, do you not want to speak with one of Christ's priests, dear Mother?"

"I told you, no," said Igraine, "or after all these years when I kept silent to have peace in my home, I might tell them at last what I truly felt about them.... I loved Morgaine enough to send her to Viviane, that she at least might escape them ... ." She began wheezing again. "Arthur," she said at last. "Never was he my son ... he was Uther's-only a hope of the succession, no more. I loved Uther well and I bore him sons because it meant so much to him that he should have a son to follow him. Our second son -he that died soon after his navel string was cut-him, I think, I might have loved for my own, as I loved Morgaine ... . Tell me, Gwenhwyfar, has my son reproached you that you have not yet borne him an heir?"

Gwenhwyfar bent her head, feeling her eyes stinging with tears. "No, he has been so good ... never once has he reproached me. He told me once that he had never fathered a son by any woman, though he had known many, so that perhaps the fault was not mine."

"If he loves you for yourself, then he is a priceless jewel among men," said Igraine, "and it is all the better if you can make him happy ... . Morgaine I loved because she was all I had to love. I was young and wretched; you can never know how unhappy I was that winter when I bore her, alone and far from home and not yet full-grown. I feared she would have become a monster because of all the hate I felt when I was bearing her, but she was the prettiest little thing, solemn, wise, like a fairy child. She and Uther only have I loved ... where is she, Gwenhwyfar? Where is she that she would not come to her mother when she is dying?"

Gwenhwyfar said compassionately, "No doubt she knows not that you are ill-"

"But the Sight!" Igraine cried, moving restlessly on her pillow. "Where can she be, that she does not see that I am dying? Ah, I saw she was in deep trouble, even at Arthur's crowning, and yet I said nothing, I did not want to know, I felt I had had enough grief and said nothing when she needed me ... . Gwenhwyfar, tell me the truth! Did Morgaine have a child somewhere, alone and far from anyone who loved her? Has she spoken of this to you? Does she hate me then, that she will not come to me even when I am dying, only because I did not speak out all my fears for her at Arthur's crowning? Ah, Goddess ... I put aside the Sight to have peace in my home, since Uther was a follower of the Christ ... . Show me where dwells my child, my daughter ... ."

Gwenhwyfar held her motionless and said, "Now you must be still, Mother ... it must be as God wills. You cannot call upon the Goddess of the fiends here-"

Igraine sat bolt upright; despite her sick swollen face, her blue lips, she looked on the younger woman in such a way that Gwenhwyfar suddenly remembered, She too is High Queen of this land.

"You know not what you speak," Igraine said, with pride and pity and contempt. "The Goddess is beyond all your other Gods. Religions may come and go, as the Romans found and no doubt the Christians will find after them, but she is beyond them all." She let Gwenhwyfar lower her to her pillows and groaned. "I would my feet could be warmed ... yes, I know you have hot bricks there, I cannot feel them. Once I read in an ancient book which Taliesin gave me of some scholar who was forced to drink hemlock. Taliesin says that the people have always killed the wise. Even as the people of the far southlands put Christ to the cross, so this wise and holy man was forced to drink hemlock because the rabble and the kings said he taught false doctrine. And when he was dying, he said that the cold crept upward from his feet, and so he died. ... I have not drunk of hemlock, but it is as if I had ... and now the cold is reaching my heart ... ." She shivered and was still, and for a moment Gwenhwyfar thought she had ceased to breathe. No, the heart was still sluggishly beating. But Igraine did not speak again, lying wheezing on her pillows, and a little before dawn the rasping breaths finally ceased.

11

Igraine was buried at midday, after a solemn service of mourning; Gwenhwyfar stood beside the grave, tears sliding down her face as the shrouded body was lowered into the open earth. Yet she could not properly mourn her mother-in-law. Her living here was all a lie, she was no true Christian. If it was true what they believed, then Igraine was even now burning in hell. And she could not bear that, not when she thought of all Igraine's kindness to her.

Her eyes burned with sleeplessness and tears. The lowering sky echoed her vague dread; heavy, as if at any moment rain would fall on them. Here within convent walls she was safe, but soon she must leave the safety of this place and ride for days over the high moors with the brooding menace of that open sky everywhere, hanging over her and over her child ... . Gwenhwyfar, shivering, clasped her hands across her belly, as if in a futile wish to protect the dweller there from the menace of that sky.

Why am I always so frightened? Igraine was a pagan and lost to the tricks of the Devil, but I am safe, I call upon Christ to save me. What is there under God's Heaven to be afraid of? Yet she was afraid, with the same reasonless fear that seized on her so often. I must not fear. I am High Queen of all Britain; the only other to bear that title sleeps here beneath the earth ... High Queen, and bearing the son of Arthur. Why should I be afraid of anything in God's world?

The nuns finished their hymn, turning from the grave. Gwenhwyfar shivered again, clutching her cloak. Now she must take very good care of herself, eat well, rest much, make certain that nothing went amiss as it had done before. Secretly she counted on her fingers. If it had been that last time before she left... but no, her courses had not come upon her for more than ten Sundays, she simply was not certain. Still, it was sure that her son would be born sometime about Eastertide. Yes, that was a good time; she remembered when her lady Meleas had born her son, it had been the darkest of winter, and the wind had howled outside like all the fiends waiting to snatch the soul of the newborn child, so nothing would suit Meleas but that the priest must come down to the women's hall and baptize her babe almost before it cried. No, Gwenhwyfar was just as well pleased that she would not lie in at the darkest days of winter. Yet to have the longed-for child, she would be content to bear it even at Midwinter-night itself!

A bell tolled, and then the abbess came to Gwenhwyfar. She did not bow-temporal power, she had once said, was nothing here-but Gwenhwyfar was, after all, the High Queen, so she inclined her head with great courtesy and said, "Will you be staying on with us here, my lady? We would be deeply honored to keep you as long as you wish."

Oh, if only I could stay! It is so peaceful here.... Gwenhwyfar said, with visible regret, "I cannot. I must return to Caerleon."

She could not delay telling Arthur her good news, the news of his son ... .

"The High King must hear of-of his mother's death," she said. Then, knowing what the woman wanted to hear, she added quickly, "Be sure I will tell him how kindly you treated her. She had everything she could wish for in the last days of her life."

"It was our pleasure; we all loved the lady Igraine," said the old nun. "Your escort shall be told, and be ready to ride with you early in the morning, God willing and send good weather."

"Tomorrow? Why not today?" Gwenhwyfar asked, then stopped- no, that would be insulting haste indeed. She had not realized she was so eager to tell her news to Arthur, to end for all time the silent reproach that she was barren. She laid her hand on the abbess' arm. "You must pray for me much now, and for the safe birth of the High King's son."

"Is it so, lady?" The abbess' lined face wrinkled up in pleasure at being the confidante of the Queen. "Indeed we shall pray for you. It will give all the sisters pleasure to think we are the first to say prayers for our new prince."

"I shall make gifts to your convent-"

"God's gifts and prayers may not be bought for gold," the abbess said primly, but she looked pleased nevertheless.

In the room near Igraine's chamber, where she had slept these last nights, her serving-woman was moving about, putting garments and gear into saddlebags. As Gwenhwyfar entered, she looked up and grumbled, "It suits not well with the dignity of the High Queen, madam, to travel with only one servant! Why, any knight's wife would have as much! You should get you another from one of the houses here, and a lady to travel with you as well!"

"Get one of the lay sisters to help you, then," said Gwenhwyfar. "But we shall travel all the more quickly if we are but few."

"I heard in the courtyard that there were Saxons landing on the Southern Shores," the woman grumbled. "It soon will not be safe to ride anywhere in this country!"

"Don't be foolish," Gwenhwyfar said. "The Saxons on the Southern Shores are bound fast by treaty to keep peace with the High King's lands. They know what Arthur's legion can do, they found it out at Celidon Wood. Do you think they want more work for ravens? In any case we will soon be back at Caerleon, and at the end of summer, we shall move the court to Camelot in the Summer Country-the Romans defended that fort against all the barbarians. It has never been taken. Even now Sir Cai is there, building a great hall fit for Arthur's Round Table, so that all the Companions and kings may sit at meat together."

As she had hoped, the woman was diverted. "That is near your own old home, is it not, lady?"

"Yes. From the heights of Camelot, one may look a bowshot across the water and see my father's island kingdom. Indeed, I went there in childhood once," she said, remembering how, when she was a little girl, even before she went to school with the nuns on Ynis Witrin, she had been taken up to the ruins of the old Roman fort. There had been little there then, except for the old wall, and the priest had not stinted to make this a lesson on how human glories faded away ... .

She dreamed that night that she stood high on Camelot; but the mists drew in around the shore, so that the island seemed to swim in a sea of cloud. Across from them, she could see the high Tor of Ynis Witrin, crowned with ring stones; although she knew well that the ring stones had been thrown down by the priests a hundred years ago. And by some trick of the Sight it seemed that Morgaine stood on the Tor and laughed at her and mocked her, and she was crowned with a wreath of bare wicker-withes. And then Morgaine was standing beside her on Camelot and they looked out over all the Summer Country as far as the Isle of the Priests, looking down over her own old home where her father Leodegranz was king, and over Dragon Island shrouded in mist. But Morgaine was wearing strange robes and a high double crown, and she stood so that Gwenhwyfar could not quite see her, but only knew she was there. She said, I am Morgaine of the Fairies, and all these kingdoms will I give to you as their High Queen if you will fall down and worship me.

Gwenhwyfar woke with a start, Morgaine's mocking laughter in her ears. The room was empty and silent except for the heavy snores of her serving-woman in a pallet on the floor. Gwenhwyfar made the sign of the cross and lay down to sleep again. But on the very edge of sleep it seemed to her that she looked into the clear and moonlit waters of a pool, and instead of her own face, Morgaine's pale face was reflected back at her, crowned with wicker-withes like the harvest dolls some of the peasant folk still made, and very far away. And again Gwenhwyfar had to sit up and make the sign of the cross before she could compose herself to sleep.

It seemed all too soon that she was wakened, but then she had been so insistent they should set forth at the first light. She could hear the rain pounding on the roof as she put on her gown by lamplight, but if they stayed for rain in this climate they should be here a year. She felt dull and queasy, but now she knew there was a good reason for that, and secretly patted her still-flat stomach as if to reassure herself it was real. She had no desire to eat, but dutifully swallowed some bread and cold meats ... she had a long ride before her. And if she had no mind to riding in the rain, at least it was likely that any Saxons or marauders would stay within doors as well.

She was fastening the hood of her warmest cloak when the abbess entered. After a few formal words of thanks for the rich gifts made by Gwenhwyfar on her own behalf and on Igraine's, the abbess came to the real business of this farewell visit.

"Who now reigns in Cornwall, lady?"

"Why-I am not sure," said Gwenhwyfar, trying to remember. "I know the High King gave Tintagel to Igraine when he married, so that she might have a place of her own, and I suppose, after her, the lady Morgaine, daughter of Igraine by the old Duke Gorlois. I know not even who is there now as castellan."

"Nor I," said the abbess. "Some serving-man or knight of the lady Igraine, I suppose. That is why I came to speak with you, madam ... the castle Tintagel is a prize, and it should be tenanted, or there will be war in this countryside too. If the lady Morgaine is married and comes here to live, all will be well, I suppose-I do not know the lady, but if she is Igraine's daughter, I suppose she is a good woman and a good Christian."

You suppose wrong, Gwenhwyfar thought, and again it was as if she heard the mocking laughter from her dream. But she would not speak ill of Arthur's kinswoman to a stranger.

The abbess said, "Bear my message to Arthur the King, lady-that someone should come to dwell in Tintagel. I have heard something of a rumor that ran about the countryside when Gorlois died-that he had a bastard son and some other kinfolk, and some of them might strive to conquer this country again. While Igraine dwelt here, all folk knew it was under Arthur's dominion, but now it would be well if the High King sent one of his best knights hither-perhaps married to the lady Morgaine."

"I will tell Arthur," Gwenhwyfar said, and as she set out, she pondered this. She knew little of statecraft, but she remembered that there had been chaos before Uther came to the crown and again when he died leaving no heir; she supposed something like that might befall if Cornwall was left with none to rule or keep good laws. Morgaine was Queen of Cornwall and should come hither to reign. And then she remembered what Arthur had once said that his dearest friend should wed with his sister. Since Lancelet was not wealthy and had no lands of his own, it would be the right thing that they should come to reign together in Cornwall.

And now I am to bear Arthur's son, it would be best to send Lancelet far from court, that I might never again look on his face and think of him such thoughts as no wedded woman and no good Christian should think. And yet she could not bear to think of Lancelet wedded to Morgaine. Had there ever been so wicked a woman as she on the face of this wicked world? She rode with her face hidden in her cloak, not listening to the gossip of the knights who were her escort, but after a time she realized that they were passing by a village which had been burned. One of the knights asked her leave to stop a while, and went away to look for survivors; he came back looking grim.

"Saxons," he said to the others, and bit the words off when he saw that the Queen was listening.

"Don't be frightened, madam, they are gone, but we must ride as fast as we may and tell Arthur of this. If we find you a faster horse, can you keep our pace?"

Gwenhwyfar felt her breath catch in her throat. They had come up out of one of the deep valleys, and the sky arched high and open over them, filled with menace-she felt as some small thing must feel in the grass when the shadow of a hawk swoops over it. She said, and heard her voice thin and trembling like the voice of a very little girl, "I cannot ride faster now. I bear the child of the High King and I dare not endanger him."

Again it seemed as if the knight-he was Griflet, husband of her own waiting-woman, Meleas-bit off his words, setting his jaw with a snap. He said at last, concealing his impatience, "Then, madam, it were as well we should escort you to Tintagel, or to some other great house in this area, or back again to the convent, so that we may ride at speed and reach Caerleon before the dawn of tomorrow's day. If you are with child you certainly cannot ride through the night! Will you let one of us escort you and your woman back to Tintagel or to the convent again?"

I would like it well to be within walls again, if there are Saxons in this country ... but I must not be such a coward. Arthur must have the news of his son. She said stubbornly, "Cannot one of you ride on toward Caerleon, and the rest of you travel at my pace? Or cannot a messenger be hired to bear the word quickly?"

Griflet looked as if he wanted to swear. "I could not trust to any hired messenger in this country now, madam, and there are few of us even for a peaceful country, barely enough to protect you. Well, it must be as it will, no doubt Arthur's men have received the word already." He turned away, his jaw white and set, and looked so angry that Gwenhwyfar wanted to call him back and agree to all he said; but she told herself firmly not to be so cowardly. Now when she was to bear the royal son, she must behave herself like a queen and ride on with courage.

And if I was at Tintagel and the countryside was filled with Saxons, there would I remain until the war had ended and all the country at peace again, and it might be long ... and if Arthur did not even know I was with child, he might be content to let me dwell there forevermore. Why should he want to bring back a barren queen to his new palace at Camelot? Like enough he would listen to the counsel of that old Druid who hates me, Taliesin, who is his grandsire, and put me away for some woman who could bear him a bouncing brat every ten moons or so ...

But all will be well, once Arthur knows ... .

It seemed as if the icy wind was sweeping across the high moors and into her very bones; after a time she begged them to stop again and get out the litter so that she might ride within it... the horse's motion jolted her so. Griflet looked angry, and for a moment she thought he would forget his courtesy and swear at her, but he gave the orders, and she huddled gratefully inside the litter, glad of the slow pace and the closed flaps which closed out the frightening sky.

Before dusk the rain stopped for a while, and the sun came out, low and slanting over the dismal moor. "We will set up the tents here," Griflet said. "Here on the moor at least we can see a long way. Tomorrow we should strike the old Roman road, and then we can travel faster-" and then he dropped his voice and said something to the other knights which Gwenhwyfar could not hear, but she cringed, knowing he was angry at the slow pace at which they must travel. Yet everyone knew a breeding woman was more like to miscarry if she rode a fast horse, and already twice she had miscarried a child-did they want her to lose Arthur's son this time too? She slept poorly within the tent, the ground hard beneath her thin body, her cloak and blankets all damp, her body aching from the unaccustomed riding.

But after a time she slept, despite the pouring rain that leaked through the tent, and was wakened by the sound of riders and a call: Griflet's voice, harsh and rough.

"Who rides there! Stand!"

"Is it you, Griflet? I know your voice," came a cry out of the dark. "It is Gawaine, and I seek for your party-is the Queen with you?"

Gwenhwyfar threw her cloak over her nightdress and came out from the tent. "Is it you, cousin? What do you here?"

"I hoped to find you still at the convent," said Gawaine, sliding from his horse. Behind him in the darkness were other forms-four or five of Arthur's men, though Gwenhwyfar could not distinguish their faces. "Since you are here, madam, I suppose Queen Igraine has departed this life-" "She died the night before last," Gwenhwyfar said, and Gawaine sighed.

"Well, it is God's will," he said. "But the land is under arms, madam -since you are here and so far on your way, I suppose you must continue on to Caerleon. Had you still been at the convent I was under orders to escort you, and such of the sisters as wished to seek protection, to Tintagel castle, and bid you remain there until there was safety in the land."

"And now you may spare the journey," said Gwenhwyfar irritably, but Gawaine shook his head. He said, "Since my message is useless, and I suppose the sisters will wish to take shelter within their convent walls, I must ride on to Tintagel with news for all men sworn to Arthur to come at once. The Saxons are massing near the coast with more than a hundred ships- beacon signals were sent from the lighthouses. The legion is at Caerleon, and all men are gathering. When the word came to Lothian, I rode at once to join Arthur; and Arthur sent me to Tintagel to bear word thither." He drew breath. "Not the Merlin's self is more a messenger than I these ten days."

"And I told the Queen," said Griflet, "that she should remain at Tintagel, but now it is too late to return there! And with armies gathering on the roads-Gawaine, perhaps you should escort the Queen back to Tintagel."

"No," said Gwenhwyfar clearly. "I must return now, I am not afraid to travel where I must." Even more, if he was facing war again, Arthur would wish for the good news she bore. Gawaine had already shaken his head impatiently.

"I cannot delay for any woman's riding, unless it were the Lady of the Lake herself, who can ride a day's journey with any man a-horse! And you are but a sorry rider, madam-nay, I spoke not to anger you, no one expects that you should ride like a knight, but I cannot delay-"

"And the Queen is breeding and must travel at the slowest pace of all," Griflet told him with equal impatience. "Can some of your slowest riders be told to escort the Queen, Gawaine, and I ride on with you to Tintagel?" Gawaine smiled. "No doubt you wish to be at the heart of things, Griflet, but you have been given this task and no one envies you," he said. "Can you find me a cup of wine and some bread? I will travel on through the night, to be in Tintagel at sunrise. I have a message for Marcus, who is war duke of Cornwall and is to bring his knights. This may be the great battle Taliesin foretold, where we perish or we drive the Saxons once and for all from this land! But every man must come and fight at Arthur's side."

"Even some of the treaty troops will stand with Arthur now," said Griflet. "Ride on if you must, Gawaine, and God ride with you." The two knights embraced. "We will meet again when God wills, friend."

Gawaine bowed to Gwenhwyfar. She reached out a hand to him and said, "A moment-is my kinswoman Morgause well?"

"As ever, madam."

"And my sister-in-law Morgaine-she is safe in Morgause's court, then?"

Gawaine looked startled. "Morgaine? No, madam, I have not seen my kinswoman Morgaine for many years. Certainly she has not visited Lothian, or so my mother said," he replied, courteous despite his impatience. "Now I must be off."

"God ride with you," she said, and stood watching as the men's hoofbeats thundered away in the night.

"It is now so near dawn," she said, "is there any reason to try to sleep more, or should we break camp and ride on for Caerleon?"

Griflet looked pleased. "True, there will be little sleep for any, in this rain," he said, "and if you can travel, lady, it would please me well to be on the road. God knows what we shall have to pass through before we reach Caerleon."

But as the sun rose over the moors it was as if they rode through a land already struck silent by the war. It was the season when the farmers should be out in their fields, but although they passed several isolated hill farms, no sheep grazed, not a dog barked, nor any child came to watch them; and even along the Roman road there was not a single traveller. Gwenhwyfar, shivering, realized that the word had gone out to raise the countryside for war, and such as could do nothing had crept behind closed doors to hide from the armies of either side.

Will it endanger my child, to travel at this pace? Yet now it seemed a choice of evils-endanger herself and her child and Arthur's by this forced travel, or delay on the road and perhaps fall into the hands of the Saxon armies. She resolved that Griflet should have no further cause to complain that she had delayed them. Yet as she rode, unwilling to take refuge within her litter lest he accuse her again of delaying him, it seemed that fear was hovering everywhere around her.

IT WAS NEAR TO sunset, and it had been a long day, when they caught sight of the watchtower which Uther had built at Caerleon. The great crimson banner of the Pendragon floated from the heights, and Gwenhwyfar crossed herself as they passed beneath it.

Now all Christian men are to make a stand against the barbarians, is it fating that this sign of an ancient Devil-faith should serve to rally the armies of a Christian king? Once indeed she had spoken of it to Arthur and he had answered that he had sworn to his people that he would rule over them as the Great Dragon, Christian and non-Christian alike without favor, and had laughed, stretching out his arms with the barbarian serpents tattooed all along their length. She felt loathing for those serpents, symbols that no Christian man should bear, but he had been stubborn.

"I bear them in sign of the kingmaking when I was given Uther's place in this land. We will speak no more of this, lady." And nothing she had said could force him to discuss it with her or to listen to what a priest might say on the subject.

"Priestcraft is one thing and kingcraft is another, my Gwenhwyfar. I would that you should share all things with me, but you have no wish to share this, and so I may not speak of it to you. And as for the priests, it is none of their affair. Leave it, I say." His voice had been firm, not angry, but still she had bent her head and said no more. Yet now, as she rode beneath the Pendragon banner, she trembled. If our son is to rule in a Christian land, is it fating that Druid banner should fly above his father's castle?

They rode slowly through the encamped armies in the plain before Caerleon. Some of the knights, who knew her well, came out and set up a cheer for their queen, and she smiled and waved to them. They rode beneath the banner of Lot and through the men of Lothian, Northmen with pikes and long axes, wrapped in the crudely dyed clothes they wore; over their camp flew the banner of the Morrigan, the Great Raven of Gawaine's brother Gaheris came out from that camp and bowed to her, and walked beside Griflet's horse as they rode up toward the castle.

"Did my brother find you, Griflet? He had a message for the Queen-"

"He met us when we were already a day on the road," Gwenhwyfar said, "and it was easier to continue here."

"I will come with you to the castle-all of Arthur's chosen Companions are bidden to dine with the King," said Gaheris. "Gawaine was angry at being sent with messages, yet no one can ride so swiftly as my brother when he must. Your lady is here, Griflet, but she is readying herself and the child to go to the new castle-Arthur says all the women must go, they can be more easily defended there, and he can spare but few to defend them."

To Camelot! Gwenhwyfar's heart sank-she had ridden all the way from Tintagel to give Arthur news of their child, and now would he pack her up and send her to Camelot?

"I do not know that banner," said Griflet, looking at a golden eagle sculptured lifelike on a pole. It seemed very ancient.

"It is the standard of North Wales," said Gaheris. "Uriens is here, with Avalloch his son. Uriens claims his father took this standard from the Romans, more than a hundred years ago. It may even be the truth! The men from Uriens' hills are strong fighters, though I'd not say so in their hearing."

"And whose banner is that?" asked Griflet, but this time, though Gaheris turned to speak, it was Gwenhwyfar herself who answered.

"That is the banner of my father, Leodegranz, the blue banner with the cross worked in gold." She herself, as a young maiden in the Summer Country, had helped her mother's women to embroider it for the king. It was said that her father had chosen this device after hearing a tale that one of the emperors of Rome had seen the sign of the cross in the sky before one of his battles. We should now be fighting beneath that sign, not the serpents of Avalon! She shivered, and Gaheris looked at her sharply.

"Are you cold, lady? We must ride on to the castle, Griflet, no doubt Arthur will be awaiting his queen."

"You must be weary of riding, my queen," said Griflet, looking up kindly at her. "Now will you soon be in the hands of your women."

And as they came closer to the doors of the castle, there were many of Arthur's Companions whom she knew, who waved to her and called to her in friendly, informal fashion. Next year at this time, she thought, they will come out to cheer their prince.

A big, lurching man, huge and clumsy-footed, in leather armor and a steel cap, came into the path of her horse-it was as if he stumbled, though he bowed to Gwenhwyfar and she could see that it was deliberate, that he had put himself in her way like this.

"Madam, my sister," he said, "do you not know me?" Gwenhwyfar frowned and stared at him, then after a moment recognized him. "Is it you-"

"Meleagrant," he said. "I have come here to fight at our father's side and your husband's, my sister."

Griflet said, with a friendly smile, "I knew not that your father had a son, my queen. But all are welcome to fight under Arthur's standard-"

"Perhaps you will speak for me to your husband the King, my sister," said Meleagrant. Gwenhwyfar, looking at him, felt a faint distaste run through her. He was an enormous man, almost a giant, and like so many huge men, he looked misshapen, as if one side of his body were somehow grown larger than the other. One eye was certainly larger than the other, and had a squint; yet, trying to be fair, Gwenhwyfar thought the man's deformity was no fault of his, and she really knew nothing against him. Yet it was arrogance, that he should call her sister before all these men, and now he had grasped her hand without leave and made as if to kiss it. She clenched it into a fist and pulled it away.

Trying to make her voice firm, she said, "No doubt when you merit it, Meleagrant, my father will speak for you to Arthur and he will make you one of his knights. I am only a woman and I have no authority to promise you that. Is my father here?"

"He is with Arthur within the castle," said Meleagrant sullenly, "and I am like a dog out here with the horses!"

Gwenhwyfar said firmly, "I cannot see that you have any claim to more than this, Meleagrant. He has given you a post at his side, for your mother was once a favorite of his-"

Meleagrant said harshly, "All men in the country know as well as my mother that I am the king's son, his only living son! Sister, speak to our father for me!"

She pulled away her hand from his repeated effort to seize it. "Let me go, Meleagrant! My father claims you are not his son, and how can I say anything else? I never knew your mother-this is between you and my father!"

"But you must listen," said Meleagrant urgently, tugging at her hand, and Griflet thrust himself between them and said, "Here, here, fellow, you can't talk to the Queen like that, or Arthur will have your head on his platter at dinnertime! I'm sure our lord and king will grant you what's right, and if you fight well for him at this battle, no doubt he'll be glad to have you among his Companions. But you mustn't trouble the Queen this way!" Meleagrant turned to face him, towering over Griflet until the latter, though he was a tall, athletic young man, looked like a child. The giant said, "Are you going to tell me what I can say to my own sister, you little popinjay?"

Griflet put his hand on his sword and said, "I was given the task of escorting my queen, fellow, and I'll do the task Arthur's given me to do. Get out of my path or I'll force you to!"

"You with who else?" sneered Meleagrant, bracing himself with an ugly sneer.

"I, for one," said Gaheris, standing quickly at Griflet's side. Like Gawaine, he was a big, sturdy man who would have made two of the slender Griflet.

"And I," said Lancelet from the darkness beyond them, striding quickly toward Gwenhwyfar's horse, and she could have wept with relief. Never had he looked more handsome to her than now; and though he was slender and slightly built, something in his presence made Meleagrant draw back. "Is this man annoying you, lady Gwenhwyfar?"

She swallowed and nodded, and found to her dismay that she had no voice to speak. Meleagrant blustered, "Who may you be, fellow?"

"Take care," said Gaheris, "don't you know the lord Lancelet?"

"I am Arthur's captain of horse," said Lancelet, in his lazy amused voice, "and the Queen's champion. Have you anything to say to me?"

"My business is with my sister," said Meleagrant, but Gwenhwyfar said, high and shrill, "I am no sister of his! This man claims to be my father's son because his mother was for a time one of the king's women! He is no son of my father's, but a baseborn clown who belongs in a farmyard, though my father has been kind enough to give him a place in his household!"

"You had best get out of our way," said Lancelet, surveying Meleagrant with contempt, and it was easy enough to see that Meleagrant knew who Lancelet was and had no desire to try conclusions with him.

He edged backward, saying in a surly voice, "You will be sorry for this some day, Gwenhwyfar," but he gave ground, glowering, and let them pass.

Lancelet was dressed with his usual fastidious taste, in crimson tunic and cloak; his hair was carefully trimmed and combed, his face clean-shaven. His hands looked smooth and white as Gwenhwyfar's own, although she knew that they were hard and steel-strong. He was handsomer than ever. And he had come just in time to save her from an Ugly encounter with Meleagrant. She smiled-she could not help herself; it was as if something turned over, deep inside her.

No, I must not look at him this way now, I am to be the mother of Arthur's son ... .

Lancelet said, "You do not want to pass through the great hall, lady, in your draggled riding clothes ... . Has it been raining most of your journey? Let me take you and your servant to the side door, and you can go directly to your chamber and refresh yourself, then greet my lord Arthur in the hall when you are freshly dressed and warm and dry-you are shivering! Is the wind cold on you, Gwenhwyfar?"

He long had the privilege of calling her by her name, without the formal "my queen" or "lady," but never had it sounded so sweet on his lips. "You are, as ever, thoughtful of me," she said, and let him lead her horse.

Lancelet said, "Griflet, go now and tell our king that the lady is safe in her chambers. And you too, Gaheris, you are longing to be back among the Companions. I will see my lady safe."

At the door he helped her to dismount, and she was only aware of the touch of his hands. She lowered her eyes and would not look at him.

"The great hall is filled with Arthur's Companions," he said, "and all is confusion-the Round Table has gone but three days ago, on three carts to Camelot, and Cai with it to set it in its place in the new hall. Now a rider has gone out in haste to summon Cai back, and such men as can ride from the Summer Country-"

She looked up at him, frightened. "Gawaine told us of the Saxon landing-is this truly the war Arthur feared?"

"It is what we have all known for years must come, Gwen," he said quietly. "For this Arthur has been training his legions, and I working with his horse troops. When this is over, perhaps, we shall have the peace we have longed for, all my life and all Uther's."

Suddenly she flung her arms around him. "You could be killed," she whispered. It was the first time she had had courage to do such a thing. She stood pressed against him, holding her face against his shoulder, and his arms went around her. Even through her fear she felt the sweetness that he would hold her so. He said, and his voice shook, "We all knew that it must come some day soon, my dear. By our good fortune, we have had years to prepare for it, and Arthur to lead us-do even you know what a great leader of men he is, and how dear we all hold him? He is young, but he is the greatest of the High Kings we have had since long before the time of the Romans, and with Arthur to lead us, we will certainly drive the Saxons' hence-and for the rest, it's as God wills, Gwenhwyfar." He patted her shoulder gently, saying, "Poor girl, you are so wearied, let me take you to your women." But she could feel his hands trembling, and was suddenly shamed that she had thrown herself into his arms as if she were a camp follower!

IN HER OWN CHAMBERS all was confusion, Meleas putting garments into boxes, Elaine supervising the serving-women. Elaine came and took Gwenhwyfar in her arms, crying out, "Kinswoman, we have been so worried about you, on the roads-we had hoped that you had the message before leaving the convent, and would stay safe in Tintagel-"

"No," said Gwenhwyfar, "Igraine died. Gawaine met with us when we had already been a whole day on the road, and besides, my place is at my husband's side."

Meleas asked, "Lady, did Griflet return with you?"

Gwenhwyfar nodded. "He escorted me here. You will see him at dinner, I suppose-I heard Gaheris say that all of Arthur's Companions had been bidden to dine with the King-"

Meleas said, "If you can call it dining. It is more like gobbling soldier's rations-this place is like an armed camp, and it will be worse before it is better. But Elaine and I have done our best to keep all things in order." She was a usually smiling, plump young woman who now looked worried and tired. "I have put all your gowns and such things as you shall need for this summer into boxes, so that you may be ready to ride for Camelot in the morning. The King said we were all to go at once, and it is all but ready for occupancy, with the work that Cai has done. But we never thought we would go there like this, in haste and almost under siege."

No, thought Gwenhwyfar. I have been riding these days and now I will not ride forth again! My place is here and my son has a right to be born in his father's own castle. I will not again be sent hither and thither like any bit of luggage or saddlery! She said, "Be at ease, Meleas, perhaps there is no such haste as all this. Send someone for washwater and fetch me some gown which is not soaked and bedraggled by mud and travel. And who are all these women?"

These women, it turned out, were wives of some of the Companions and of certain of Arthur's subject kings, who would be sent with them to Camelot; it was easier if they all travelled in convoy, and there they would be safe from the Saxons. "It is near to your home," Elaine said, as if that should settle all Gwenhwyfar's unwillingness. "You can visit your father's wife, and your little brothers and sisters. Or while Leodegranz is at war, your stepmother will dwell with us at Camelot."

That would be no pleasure to either of us, Gwenhwyfar thought, and then was ashamed of herself. She felt like ending all this with a few words, I am pregnant, I cannot travel, but she shrank from the excited flurry of questions she knew would follow. Arthur should know it first.

12

When Gwenhwyfar came into the great hall, which looked barren and empty without the great Round Table and all the splendor of banners and tapestries and hangings gone, Arthur was sitting at a trestle table halfway down the hall near the fires, surrounded by half a dozen of his Companions, others clustered near. She had been so eager to tell her news, but now she could not blurt it out before the whole court! She must wait until tonight when they were alone in bed-that was the only time she ever had him to herself at all. But when he looked up from his Companions and saw her, he rose and came to embrace her.

"Gwen, my dearest!" he said. "I had hoped Gawaine's message would keep you safe in Tintagel-"

"Are you angry that I have come back?"

He shook his head. "No, of course not. So the roads are still safe, then, and you were lucky," he said. "But I suppose this must mean that my mother ... "

"She died two days ago, and was buried within the convent walls," Gwenhwyfar said, "and I set out at once to bring you the news. And now you have nothing but reproach for me that I did not stay safely at Tintagel because of this war!"

"Not reproach, my dear wife," he said gently, "concern for your safety. But sir Griflet cared well for you, I can see. Come and sit with us here." He led her to a bench and seated her at his side. The silver and pottery dishes had vanished-she supposed they too had been sent to Camelot, and she wondered what had happened to the fine red dish of Roman make which her stepmother had given her at her wedding. The walls were bare and the place stripped, and they ate their food out of plain wooden bowls, the crude carved stuff of the markets. She said, dipping a piece of bread into the dish, "Already this place looks as if a battle had swept over it!"

"It seemed as well to me that everything should be sent ahead to Camelot," he said, "and then we had the rumors of the Saxon landings and all's confusion. Your father is here, my love-no doubt you will want to greet him."

Leodegranz was seated near, though not in the inner ring of those around Arthur. She came and kissed him, feeling his bony shoulders under her hands-always her father had been a big man to her, big and imposing, and now suddenly he seemed old and wasted.

"I told my lord Arthur he should not have sent you travelling about the countryside at this time," he said. "Ah, yes, no doubt it was well done of Arthur that he wished to send you to his mother's deathbed, but he had a duty to his wife too, and Igraine has an unwedded daughter who should have been with her mother-where is the Duchess of Cornwall that she did not go?"

"I do not know where Morgaine is," said Arthur. "My sister is a woman grown, and her own mistress. She need not seek my leave to be here or there."

"Aye, it is ever so with a king," said Leodegranz querulously, "he is lord of all save his womenfolk. Alienor is the same, and I have three daughters, not even old enough to marry, and they think they rule my household! You will see them at Camelot, Gwenhwyfar. I have sent them there for safekeeping, and the oldest, Isotta, is old enough-you might wish to make her one of your ladies, your own half-sister? And since I have no sons living, I want you to ask Arthur to marry her to one of his best knights when she is old enough."

Gwenhwyfar shook her head in amazement at the thought of Isotta, her half-sister-old enough to come to court? Well, she had been almost seven years old when Gwenhwyfar was married-now she must be a great girl of twelve or thirteen. Elaine had been no older when she was brought to Caerleon. No doubt, if she asked, Arthur would give Isotta to one of his best knights, Gawaine perhaps, or possibly-since Gawaine would be king of Lothian some day-to Gaheris, who was the King's own cousin. She said, "I am certain that Arthur and I together will find someone for my sister."

"Lancelet is still unwed," suggested Leodegranz, "and so is Duke Marcus of Cornwall. Though no doubt it would be more suitable if Marcus married the lady Morgaine and they combined their claims, then would the lady have someone to keep her castle and defend her lands. And, though I understand the lady is one of the damsels of the Lady of the Lake, no doubt Duke Marcus could tame her."

Gwenhwyfar smiled at the thought of Morgaine being tamely married to someone they thought suitable. And then she grew angry. Why should Morgaine please herself? No other woman was allowed to do her own will, even Igraine who was mother to the King had been married as her elders thought good. Arthur should exert his authority and get Morgaine properly married before she disgraced them all! Conveniently Gwenhwyfar stifled the memory that when Arthur had spoken of marrying Morgaine to his friend Lancelet, she had objected. Ah, I was selfish ... I cannot have him myself, and I grudge him a wife. No, she told herself, she would be happy to see Lancelet married if the girl was suitable and virtuous!

Leodegranz asked, "I thought the Duchess of Cornwall was among your ladies-?"

"She was," Gwenhwyfar said, "but she left us some years ago to dwell with her kinswoman and has not returned." And it occurred to her once again: where was Morgaine? Not in Avalon, not in Lothian with Morgause, not in Tintagel with Igraine-she might be in Less Britain, or on a pilgrimage to Rome, or in the fairy country, or in Hell itself for all Gwenhwyfar knew to the contrary. This could not go on-Arthur had a right to know where dwelt his nearest kinswoman, now that his mother was dead! But surely Morgaine would have come to her mother's deathbed if she could?

She went back to her place beside Arthur. Lancelet and the King were drawing with the tips of their daggers on the wooden boards before them, while they ate absentmindedly out of the same dish. Biting her lip-indeed she might as well have stayed in Tintagel for all the difference it made to Arthur that she was there or not-she would have withdrawn to a bench with her ladies, but Arthur looked up at her and smiled, holding out his arm to her.

"Nay, my dear one, I meant not to drive you away-I must indeed talk with my captain of horse, but there is room for you here, too." He beckoned to one of the servers. "Bring another plate of meat for my lady. Lancelet and I have made a wreck of this dish-there is fresh-baked bread too, somewhere, if any of it is left, though with Cai not here the kitchens are in chaos."

"I think I have eaten enough," Gwenhwyfar said, leaning a little against his shoulder, and he patted her absently. She could feel Lancelet, warm and solid, on the other side, and she felt secure and safe between them. Arthur leaned forward, one hand still stroking her hair, the other holding the dagger where he was sketching.

"Look, can we bring the horses up this way? We can travel fast, and leave the wagons with provisions and baggage to come around on the flat country, but men with horses can cut across country and march light and fast-Cai has had men baking hard journey-bread for the armies and stockpiling it these three years since Celidon Wood. It is likely they will land here-" He pointed to a spot on the rough map he had made. "Leodegranz, Uriens, come here and look at this-"

Her father came, and with him another man, slight and dark and dapper, though his hair was greying and his face lined.

"King Uriens," Arthur said, "I greet you as my father's friend and mine. Have you met my lady Gwenhwyfar?"

Uriens bowed. His voice was pleasant and melodious. "My pleasure to speak with you, madam. When the country is more settled, I will bring my wife, if I may, to present to you at Camelot."

"I shall be pleased," Gwenhwyfar said, feeling that her voice was insincere-never had she learned how to speak these polite platitudes so that they carried any conviction.

"It will not be this summer, we have other work to do," said Uriens. He bent over Arthur's rough map. "In Ambrosius' time we led an army up country this way-we had not so many horses, save with the baggage wagons, but one could bring them up and cut across ground here. You must keep out of swamps as you go to the south of the Summer Country-"

"I had hoped not to climb the fells," said Lancelet.

Uriens shook his head. "With that great body of horse, it is better."

"On those hills, horses slip on stone and break their legs," Lancelet argued.

"Better even that, sir Lancelet, than have men and horses and wagons all bemired-better fells than swamps," said Uriens. "Look, here lies the old Roman wall ... "

"I cannot see where so many have scribbled," said Lancelet impatiently. He went to the fireplace and plucked out a long stick, shook out the fire on the end, and began drawing on the floor with the charcoaled stick. "Look, here lies the Summer Country and here the Lakes and the Roman wall ... . We have, say, three hundred horse, and here two hundred-"

"So many indeed?" Uriens demanded incredulously. "The legions of Caesar had no more!"

"Seven years we have been training them, and training mounted soldiers in their use," said Lancelet.

"Thanks to you, dear cousin," Arthur said.

Lancelet turned and smiled. "Thanks to you, my king, who had vision to see what we could do with them."

"Some soldiers still know not how to fight on horseback," said Uriens. "As for me, I fought well enough leading men on foot-"

"And that is as well," said Arthur good-naturedly, "for we have not horses for every man who wishes to fight mounted, nor saddles and stirrups and harness for all, though I have had every harnessmaker in my kingdom working as fast as he might, and hard enough work I've had to levy enough money to pay for all this, and men thinking me a greedy tyrant." He chuckled, patting Gwenhwyfar on the back and saying, "All this time I have had hardly enough gold of my own to buy my queen silks for her embroidery! It has all gone to horseflesh and smiths and saddlers!" Suddenly the gaiety was gone and he was serious, almost frowning. "And now is the great test of all that we have done and all that we can do-the Saxons this time are a flood, my friends. If we cannot stop them, with less than half their numbers, there will be none fed in this country but ravens and wolves!"

"That is the advantage of horse troops," said Lancelet gravely. "Armed and mounted men can fight five, ten-it may be twenty times their number. We shall see, and if we have guessed right, we shall stop the Saxons once and for all time. If we have not-well, we shall die defending our own homes and the lands we love, and our women and little children."

"Aye," said Arthur softly, "that we would. For what else have we worked since we were tall enough to hold a sword, Galahad?"

He smiled, his rare, sweet smile, and Gwenhwyfar thought, with a stab of pain, Never does he smile at me like that. Yet, when he hears what news I bear him, why then ...

For a moment Lancelet answered the smile, then he sighed. "I had a dispatch from my half-brother Lionel-Ban's eldest son. He said he would set sail in three days-no"-he stopped, counting on his fingers-"he is already at sea-the messenger was delayed. He has forty ships and he hopes to drive the Saxon ships, or as many as he may, onto the rocks, or south to the Cornish coast, where they cannot land their troops aright. Then when he lands he will march his men to where we are gathering. I should send a messenger with a place for rendezvous." He pointed to the improvised map on the stones.

Then there was a little stirring of voices at the door of the room, and a tall, thin, greying man strode in through the scattered benches and trestle tables. Gwenhwyfar had not seen Lot of Lothian since before the battle of Celidon Wood.

"Why, I see Arthur's hall as I never thought to see it, bare without his Round Table-what, Arthur, cousin, playing at knucklebones on the floor with all your schoolfellows?"

"The Round Table is already gone to Camelot, kinsman," said Arthur, rising, "with all my other furniture and women's gear-you see here an armed camp, waiting only for daybreak to send the last of the women to Camelot. Most of the women and all of the children are already gone." Lot bowed to Gwenhwyfar and said, in his smooth voice, "Why, then, Arthur's hall will be barren indeed. But is it safe for women and children to travel with the land rising for war?"

"The Saxons have not yet come so far inland," said Arthur, "and there is no danger if they go at once. I must tell fifty of my men-and a thankless job it is-to stay out of the field, and guard Camelot. Queen Morgause is well where she is, in Lothian-I am glad my sister is with her!"

"Morgaine?" Lot shook his head. "She has not been in Lothian these many years! Well, well, well. I wonder where she may have gone? And with whom? I thought always there was more to that young woman than I ever could see! But why to Camelot, my lord Arthur?"

"It is easily defended," said Arthur. "Fifty men can hold it till Christ should come again. If I left the women at Caerleon here, I would need to hold back two hundred men or more from the battle. I know not why my father made Caerleon his stronghold-I had hoped before the Saxons came again we would be gone with all our court to Camelot, and then they would have to march across Britain's width to come at us, and we could give them battle on a field of our own choosing. If we led them into the swamps and lakes of the Summer Country, where the land is never the same two years in a row, why then mud and swamps could do some of the work of bow and arrow and axe for us, and the little folk of Avalon finish them off with their elf-arrows."

"They will come to do that anyway," said Lancelet, rising on his knees from studying the map on the stones. "Avalon has already sent three hundred, and more will come, they say. And the Merlin said when last I spoke with him that they had sent riders into your country too, my lord Uriens, so that all the Old People who dwell in your hills may come to fight at our side. So we have the legion, horse soldiers fighting on the flat ground, every horseman armored and armed with spears, good for a dozen or more Saxons. Then we have multitudes of foot soldiers, bowmen and swordsmen, who can fight in the hills and valleys. And then we have many of the men of the Tribes, with pikes and axes, and the Old People, who can fight from ambush and drop men with their elf-arrows unseen. I think we could thus meet every Saxon from all of Gaul and the shores of the continent!"

"And we will have to do just that," said Lot. "I have fought the Saxons since the days of Ambrosius-so has Uriens here-and never have we had to face anything like the army coming against us now."

"Since I was crowned, I have known this day was coming-the Lady of the Lake told me this when she gave me Excalibur. And now she is sending for all the folk of Avalon to rally beneath the banner of the Pendragon."

"We will all be there," said Lot, but Gwenhwyfar shuddered, and Arthur said solicitously, "My dear one, you have been riding all the day, and the day before, and you must set forth again at daybreak. May I call your women to take you away to bed?"

She shook her head, twisting her hands together in her lap. "No, I am not weary, no-Arthur, it seems no proper thing for the pagans of Avalon, ruled by sorcery, to fight on the side of a Christian king! And when you rally them under that pagan banner-"

Lancelet asked gently, "My queen, would you have the folk of Avalon sit and watch their homes fall into the hands of the Saxon? Britain is their land too-they will fight even as we do, to hold our land against the barbarians. And the Pendragon is their sworn king."

"It is that I do not like," said Gwenhwyfar, trying to make her voice steady so that she did not sound like a little girl raising her voice in the men's council. After all, she told herself, Morgause is accepted as one of Lot's councillors, and Viviane never stinted to speak of matters of state! "I like it not that we and the folk of Avalon should fight on the same side. This battle shall be the stand of civilized men, followers of Christ, descendants of Rome, against those who know not our God. The Old People are of the enemy, as much as the Saxons, and this will not be a proper Christian land until all those folk are dead or fled into their hills, and their demon gods with them! And I like it not, Arthur, that you should raise a pagan banner for your standard. You should fight, like Uriens, under the cross of Christ so that we may tell friend from foe!"

Lancelet looked shocked. "Am I also your enemy, Gwenhwyfar?" She shook her head. "You are a Christian, Lancelet."

"My mother is that same wicked Lady of the Lake you condemn for her witchcraft," he said, "and I myself was fostered in Avalon, and the Old People are my own people. My own father, who is a Christian king, made also the Great Marriage with the Goddess for his land!" He looked hard and angry.

Arthur laid his hand on the hilt of Excalibur, in its scabbard of crimson velvet and gold. The sight of his hand laid on the magical symbols of that scabbard, and the serpents twined round his wrist, made Gwenhwyfar turn her eyes away. She said, "How will God give us the victory, if we will not put away from us all the symbols of sorcery and fight beneath his cross?"

"Why, there's something to what the Queen says," Uriens said, conciliating, "but I bear my eagles in the name of my fathers and of Rome."

Leodegranz said, "I offer to you the banner of the cross, my lord Arthur, if you will. You bear it rightly for your queen's sake."

Arthur shook his head. Only the high flush in his cheekbones told Gwenhwyfar that he was angry. "I swore to fight beneath the royal banner of the Pendragon, and so shall I do or die. I am no tyrant. Whoever wishes to do so may bear the cross of Christ on his shield, but the Pendragon banner stands in token that all the folk of Britain-Christian, Druid, Old People too-shall fight together. Even as the dragon is over all the beasts, so the Pendragon is over all the people! All, I say!"

"And the eagles of Uriens and the Great Raven of Lothian shall fight beside the dragon," said Lot, rising. "Is Gawaine not here, Arthur? I would have a word with my son, and I thought he was ever at your side!"

"I miss him as much as you, Uncle," said Arthur. "I know not where to turn without Gawaine at my back, but I had to send him on a message to Tintagel, for none can ride so swiftly."

"Oh, you have plenty to guard you," said Lot sourly. "I see Lancelet never more than a step or three from your side, ready to fill the empty place."

Lancelet flushed, but he said smoothly, "It is always so, kinsman, all of Arthur's Companions strive with one another for the honor of being the closest to the King, and when Gawaine is here, even Cai who is Arthur's foster-brother and I who am Queen's champion must take a place further off."

Arthur turned back to Gwenhwyfar and said, "Now indeed, my queen, you must go to rest. This council may go on far into the night, and you must be ready to ride at daybreak."

Gwenhwyfar clenched her hands. This one time, this one. time let me have courage to speak ... . She said clearly, "No. No, my lord, I do not ride at daybreak, not to Camelot or to anywhere else on the face of this earth."

Arthur's cheeks flushed again with that high color which told her he was angry. "Why, how's this, madam? You cannot delay when there is war in the land. I would willingly give you a day or two of rest before you ride, but we must make haste to get you all to safety before the Saxons come. I tell you, Gwenhwyfar, when the morning comes, your horse and gear will be ready. If you cannot ride you may travel in a litter or be carried in a chair, but ride you shall."

"I shall not!" she said fiercely. "And you cannot force me, not unless you set me on my horse and tie me there!"

"God forbid I should have to do so," Arthur said. "But what is this, lady?" He was troubled, yet trying to keep his voice light and humorous. "Why, all those legions of men out there obey my word, am I to have mutiny at my own hearth fire and from my own wife?"

"Your men may all obey your word," she said desperately. "They have not my reason for staying here! I will stay with no more than one waiting-woman and a midwife, my lord, but I will ride nowhere-not so far as to the banks of the river-before our son is born!"

There, I have said it ... here before all these men ... .

And Arthur, hearing, understood, and instead of looking overjoyed, seemed only dismayed. He shook his head, then said, "Gwenhwyfar-" and stopped.

Lot chuckled and said, "Are you breeding, madam? Why, congratulations! But that need not stop you from travelling. Morgause was every day in the saddle, till she was too big for her horse to carry her, while no one would know as yet that you were with child. Our midwives say that fresh air and exercise are healthy for a breeding woman, and when my own favorite mare is in foal, I ride her till six weeks before she drops the foal!"

"I am not a mare," said Gwenhwyfar coldly, "and twice I have miscarried. Would you expose me again to that, Arthur?"

"Yet you cannot stay here. This place cannot be properly defended," said Arthur distractedly, "and we may march out with the army at any time! Nor is it fair to ask your women to stay with you and risk being caught by the Saxons. I am certain it will not harm you, dear wife, there were pregnant women with those who left for Camelot last week-and you cannot stay here with all your women gone, it will be an armed soldier's camp, no more, my Gwen!"

Gwenhwyfar looked at her ladies. "Will not one of you stay with her queen?"

"I will stay with you, cousin, if Arthur permits," said Elaine. And Meleas said, "I will stay, if my lord does not mind, though our son is already at Camelot-"

"No, Meleas, you must go to your child," Elaine said. "I am her kinswoman and I can endure anything Gwenhwyfar can endure, even to live in an armed camp with the men." She came and stood beside Gwenhwyfar, holding her hand. "But could you not travel in a litter? Camelot is so much safer."

Lancelet got up and came to Gwenhwyfar. He bent over her hand and said in a low voice, "My lady, I beg you to go with the other women. This countryside may all be in ruin within a matter of days, when the Saxons come. In Camelot you are near to your father's country. My own mother dwells in Avalon, within a day's journey-she is a notable healer woman and midwife, and I am sure she would come to you and care for you, or even stay to be with you when the babe is born. If I send to my mother with a message to come to you, will you go?"

Gwenhwyfar bent her head, fighting not to cry. Once again I must do as I am bid, like any woman, no matter what I want! Now even Lancelet had joined in to get her to do what she was told. She remembered the journey here from the Summer Country-even with Igraine at hand she had been terrified, and all this day she had ridden across the dreadful moors from Tintagel-now she was safe within walls and it seemed to her that she would never again be willing to leave their shelter.

Perhaps, when she was stronger, when her son was safe in her arms ... then, perhaps she could dare that journey, but not now ... and Lancelet could offer her as a gift the company of that evil sorceress his mother! How could he think she would let such a sorceress near her son? Arthur might contaminate himself with vows and links to Avalon, but her son should never be touched by that pagan evil.

"It is kind of you, Lancelet," she said stubbornly, "but I shall go nowhere until my son is born."

"Even if you were to be taken to Avalon itself?" Arthur asked. "You and our son would be safer there than anywhere in this world."

She shivered and crossed herself. "God and Mary Virgin forbid!" she whispered. "I would as soon go into the fairy country itself!"

, "Gwenhwyfar, listen to me-" he began urgently, then sighed in defeat, and she knew she had won. "Have it as you will. If the danger of travel seems greater to you than the danger of remaining here, then God forbid I should force you to travel ... ."

Gaheris said wrathfully, "Arthur, will you let her do this? I say to you, you should bundle her on to her horse and send her forth whether she will, or not! My king, will you listen like this to a woman's raving?"

Arthur shook his head wearily. "Peace, cousin," he said, "it is easy to see you are no married man. Gwenhwyfar, do as you will. Elaine may remain with you, and one serving-woman and a midwife and your priest, but no more. Everyone else must ride at daybreak. And now you must go to your chamber, Gwen, I have no more time for this!"

And Gwenhwyfar, dutifully raising her cheek for his dutiful kiss, had no sense that she had won a victory.

THE OTHER WOMEN set forth at daybreak. Meleas begged to stay with the Queen, but Griflet would not have it. "Elaine has neither husband nor child," he said. "Let her stay. Yet if I were King Pellinore I would not let my daughter remain, queen or no. You shall go, my lady." And Gwenhwyfar fancied that the look he gave her was one of scorn.

And Arthur made it clear to her that the main part of the castle was now the army camp, and she must keep to her chambers with Elaine and the serving-women. Most of her furniture had been sent to Camelot; a bed was brought up from the guest chamber, and she slept in it with Elaine. Arthur spent his nights in the camp with the men, sending to inquire for her once a day, but she rarely saw him.

At first she thought every day that she would see them march out to do battle with the Saxons, or that the battle would sweep over them here, but day followed day and then week came after week and she heard no news. Solitary riders and messengers came and went, and Gwenhwyfar could see more armies gathering, but immured in her chamber and the tiny garden behind it, she heard only such scattered bits of news as her servant and the midwife could bring, much garbled and mostly gossip. The time hung heavy over her; she was queasy in the morning and wished for nothing but to lie in bed, though later she felt well and would pace the garden restlessly, with nothing to do but make pictures in her mind of the marauding Saxons off the coast, and think of her child ... . She would have liked to sew on baby clothes, but she had no wool to spin and the big loom had gone already.

However, she had the small loom, and the silks and spun wool and embroidery gear which had gone with her to Tintagel, and she began to plan the weaving of a banner ... . Once Arthur had promised her that when she gave him a son she might ask him for whatever gift was in his power to give, and she had it in mind that on that day she would ask him to put aside the pagan banner of the Pendragon and raise Christ's cross. That would make all this land under the High King a Christian land, and Arthur's legion a holy army under the protection of Mary the Virgin.

It was most beautiful as she planned it-blue, with gold thread, and her priceless crimson-dyed silks for the mantle of the Virgin. She had no other occupation, so she sewed at it from morning to night, and with Elaine to help her, it grew swiftly under her fingers. And into every stitch of this banner shall I weave my prayers that Arthur shall be safe, and this a Christian land from Tintagel to Lothian ... .

One afternoon the Merlin came to visit her, Taliesin the venerable. She hesitated-was it right she should have that old pagan and demon worshipper near to her at such a time as this, when she bore Arthur's son, who would one day be the king of this Christian land? But looking at the old man's kindly eyes, she recalled that this was Igraine's father and would be great-grandfather to her babe.

"May the Eternal bless you, Gwenhwyfar," he said, spreading out his arms in blessing. She made the sign of the cross, then wondered if he would be offended, but he seemed to take it simply as an exchange of blessings.

"How do you, lady, in this close confinement?" he said, looking around the room. "Why, you might be dungeoned here! You would be better in Camelot, or in Avalon, or on the isle at Ynis Witrin-you went to school there with the nuns, did you not? And there, at least, you would have had fresh air and exercise! This room is like to a byre!"

"I have air enough in the garden," said Gwenhwyfar, resolving that the bedding should be aired that very day and that the serving-woman should air and sweep the room which was littered with their possessions- it was too small for four women.

"Then make certain, my child, that you walk every day in the fresh air, even if it is raining-air is medicine for all ills," he said. "I can well believe that you are dull here. No, child, I did not come to reproach you," he added gently. "Arthur told me your happy news, and I rejoice for you, as do we all. And I especially-not many men live so long as to look on the face of their great-grandchildren." His creased old face seemed to glow with benevolence. "If there is anything I can do for you, you must command me, lady. Are they sending you suitable fresh food, or only soldier's rations?"

Gwenhwyfar assured him that she had everything she could wish for -every day a basket of the finest provisions to be had reached her-though she did not tell him she had little wish for food.

She told him of Igraine's death and that she lay buried in Tintagel, and that Igraine's last act had been to tell her of her child. Of the Sight she said little, but she did ask, looking at the old man with troubled eyes, "Sir, do you know where dwells Morgaine, that she did not come even to her mother's deathbed?"

He shook his head slowly. "I am sorry, I know not."

"But this is scandalous, that Morgaine should not let her kin know whither she has gone!"

"It may be that-as some of the priestesses of Avalon do-she has gone on some magical quest, or secluded herself to seek vision," Taliesin ventured, and he too looked troubled. "In that case I would not have been told, but I think, if she were in Avalon, where my own daughter dwells with the priestesses, I would have known. I know not." He sighed. "Morgaine is a woman grown, and she need not seek leave of any man to come and go."

It would serve Morgaine right, thought Gwenhwyfar, if she came to grief for her own stubbornness and the godless way in which she did her own will! She clenched her fists and did not answer the Druid, looking down so that he would not see her anger ... he thought well of her, she would not have him think otherwise of her. Nor did he notice, for Elaine was showing him the banner.

"See, this is how we spend our prisoned days, good father."

"It grows swiftly," said the Merlin, smiling. "I see well that there is no time-what is it your priests say, the Devil finds work for the idle- you have left no place for the Devil to do his work here, you are as busy as a hive of bees, you two. Already I can see the beautiful design."

"And as I wove it, I prayed," said Gwenhwyfar defiantly. "With every stitch I wove a prayer that Arthur and the cross of Christ may triumph over the Saxons and their pagan Gods! Will you not rebuke me then, Lord Merlin, that I do this when you bid Arthur fight under their pagan banner?"

The Merlin said mildly, "Prayer is never wasted, Gwenhwyfar. Do you think we know nothing of prayer? When Arthur was given his great sword Excalibur, it was sheathed in a scabbard into which a priestess worked prayers and spells for safety and protection, and she fasted and prayed for five days all the time she worked upon it. And no doubt you have taken note that even though he is wounded, he sheds but little blood."

"I would have him protected with Christ, not sorcery," said Gwenhwyfar hotly, and the old man smiled and said, "God is one and there is but one God-all else is but the way the ignorant seek to put Gods into a form they can understand, like the image of your Virgin there, lady. Nothing befalls on this world without the blessing of the One, who will give us victory or defeat as God shall ordain. Dragon and Virgin alike are the signs of man's appeal to what is higher than we."

"But would you not be angry if the Pendragon banner was torn down and the standard of the Virgin raised over our legion?" asked Gwenhwyfar scornfully.

He stood close to her, reaching out a wrinkled hand to caress the brilliant silks. "Such a thing of beauty as this is," he said gently, "and made with such love, how could I possibly condemn it? But there are those who love their Pendragon standard as you love the cross of Christ-would you deny them their holy things, madam? Those of Avalon-Druid, priest and priestess-would know that the banner is but a symbol, and the symbol is nothing, while the reality is all. But the little folk, no, they would not understand, and they must have their dragon as a symbol of the King's protection."

Gwenhwyfar thought of the little people of Avalon and the far hills of Wales who had come bearing bronze axes and even little arrows of flint, their bodies smeared crudely with paint. She shuddered in horror that a folk so wild and savage should fight at the side of a Christian king.

The Merlin saw her shivering and mistook its cause. "It is dank and chill here," he said. "You must go out more into the sunlight." But then understanding touched him and he put his arm around the woman at his side and said gently, "Dear child, you must remember-this country is for all men, whatever their Gods, and we fight against the Saxons not because they will not worship our Gods but because they wish to burn and ravage our lands and take all that we have for themselves. We fight to defend the peace of these lands, lady, Christian and pagan alike, and that is why so many have flocked to Arthur's side. Would you have him a tyrant who put the souls of men in slavery to his own God, as not even the Caesars dared to do?"

But she only shivered, and Taliesin said he must go, but that she should send him word if she had need of anything.

Elaine asked, "Is Kevin the Bard in the castle, Lord Merlin?"

"Yes, I think so-I should have thought of that. I shall send him to come and play his harp for you ladies while you are cloistered here."

"We would willingly have him," said Elaine, "but what I was asking is, might we borrow his harp ... or yours, Lord Druid?"

He hesitated, and said, "Kevin would not lend his harp-My lady is a jealous mistress." He smiled. "And as for mine, it is consecrated to the Gods and I may let no other touch it. But the lady Morgaine did not take her harp with her when she went away; it is in her rooms. Shall I have it sent here, lady Elaine? Can you play it?"

"Not well," said Elaine, "but I know enough of harp music to do it no harm, and it would give our hands something to do when we are weary of stitching."

"Yours," said Gwenhwyfar. "I have always thought it unseemly for a woman to play on the harp."

"So be it, unseemly then," said Elaine, "but I think I shall go mad shut away here if I have nothing to do, and there is none to see me, even if I dance naked like Salome before Herod!"

Gwenhwyfar giggled, then looked scandalized-what would the Merlin think? But the old man laughed heartily. "I will send you Morgaine's harp, lady, and you may indulge in your unseemly pastime-though indeed I see nothing unseemly in the making of music!"

That night Gwenhwyfar dreamed that Arthur stood beside her, but that the serpents on his wrists came alive and crawled to her banner, leaving it all cold with their slime, and fouled. ....he woke gasping and retching, and that day she had no strength to leave her bed. Arthur came that afternoon to see her, and stood distraught beside her.

"I cannot see that this confinement does you any good, lady," he said. "I wish you were safe in Camelot! I have had word from the kings of Less Britain-they have driven thirty Saxon ships on to the rocks, and we will be marching out in ten days more." He bit his lip. "I would this were over, and we all safe at Camelot. Pray to God, Gwen, that we come safe there." He sat on the bed beside her, and she took his hand, but one of her fingers touched the serpents on his wrist and she drew it back with a gasp of dismay.

"What is it, Gwen?" he whispered, drawing her into his arms. "My poor girl, being shut up here has made you ill ... I was afraid of this!"

She fought to control her tears. "I dreamed-I dreamed-oh, Arthur," she begged, sitting bolt upright in bed and throwing back the covers, "I cannot bear to think of it, that you would let that foul dragon cover all, as it was in my dream ... . Look what I have made for you!" Barefoot, she drew him with both hands to the loom. "See, it is near finished, in three days I could have it ready-"

He put his arm round her and held her close. "I wish it did not mean so much to you, Gwenhwyfar. I am sorry. I will carry it to battle beside the Pendragon banner, if you will, but I cannot abandon the vow I have sworn."

"God will punish you if you keep a vow you have made to pagan folk and not to him," she cried. "He will punish us both-"

He put away her clinging hands. "My poor girl, you are sick and wretched, and no wonder, in this place. And now, alas, it is too late to send you away even if you would go, there may be Saxon bands between here and Camelot. Try to be calm, my love," he said, and went toward the door. She ran after him, holding to his arm.

"You are not so angry-?"

"Angry? When you are ill and overwrought?" He kissed her brow. "But we will not speak of this again, Gwenhwyfar. And now I must go, I am expecting a messenger who may come at any instant. I will send Kevin to play for you. His music will cheer you." He kissed her again and went away, and Gwenhwyfar went back to the banner and began to work at it in a frenzy.

Kevin came late the next day, dragging his misshapen body on a stick; his harp was hitched over one shoulder, giving him more than ever the look of some monstrous hunchback in silhouette against the door. It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his nose wrinkled in distaste, and suddenly she could see the room through his eyes, cluttered with the daily things of four women, the air not overfresh. He raised his hand in the Druid blessing and Gwenhwyfar flinched-she could accept this from the venerable Taliesin, but from Kevin it filled her with dread, as if he would bewitch her and her babe with pagan sorcery; secretly she signed herself with the cross, and wondered if he saw.

Elaine went to him and said courteously, "Let me help you with the harp, Master Harper."

He shrugged as if to ward her away, though his smooth singer's voice was perfectly civil. "I thank you, but no one may touch My Lady. If I carry her with my own hands when I can hardly drag myself along on a stick, do you not think there is a reason, madam?"

Elaine bent her head like a scolded child and said, "I meant no harm, sir."

"Of course not, how could you know?" he said, and twisted painfully, or so it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, to unsling his harp and set it on the floor.

"Are you comfortable, Master Harper? Will you have a cup of wine to soothe your throat before you sing?" Gwenhwyfar asked, and he accepted politely enough. Then, noting the banner of the cross on the loom, he said to Elaine, "You are King Pellinore's daughter, are you not, madam? Are you weaving a banner for your father to carry into battle?"

Gwenhwyfar said quickly, "Elaine's hands worked as skillfully as mine, but the banner is for Arthur."

His rich voice was as detached as if he were admiring a child's first attempts to spin. "It is beautiful, and will make a fair wall-hanging for Camelot when you go there, madam, but I am sure Arthur will carry the Pendragon banner as did his father before him. But ladies love not to speak of battles. Shall I play for you?" He set his hands to the strings and began to play; Gwenhwyfar listened, spellbound, and her serving-woman crept to the door to listen too, aware of sharing a royal gift. He played for a long time in the gathering dusk, and as she listened, Gwenhwyfar was borne away into a world where pagan or Christian made no difference, war or peace, but only the human spirit, flaming against the great darkness like an everburning torch. When the harp notes finally stilled, Gwenhwyfar could not speak, and she saw that Elaine was weeping softly in the silence.

After a time she said, "Words cannot say what you have given us, Master Harper. I can say only that I will remember it always."

Kevin's crooked smile seemed for a moment to mock her emotion and his own as he said, "Madam, in music he who gives receives as much as he who hears." He turned to Elaine and added, "I see you have the lady Morgaine's harp. You, then, know the truth of what I say."

She nodded, but said, "I am only the worst of beginners at music. I love to play, but no one could find pleasure in hearing me-I am grateful to my companions for their forbearance while I struggle with the notes."

"That is not true, you know we enjoy hearing you," said Gwenhwyfar, and Kevin smiled and said, "Perhaps the harp is the one instrument which cannot sound evil no matter how badly played-I wonder if that is why it is dedicated to the Gods?"

Gwenhwyfar's lips tightened-must he spoil the delight of this hour by speaking of his infernal Gods? The man was, after all, a misshapen toad; without his music he would never be allowed to sit at any respectable board -somewhere she had heard that he was no more than a peasant's foundling brat. She would not offend him when he had come to give them pleasure, but she looked away; let Elaine chatter with him if she would. She stood up and went to the door. "It is as hot in here as the breath of Hell," she said irritably and flung it open.

Across the sky, darkening now, flamed spears of light, darting out of the north. Her cry brought Elaine and the serving-woman, and even Kevin, folding his harp tenderly into its covering, dragged himself heavily to the door.

"Oh, what is it, what does it portend?" she cried.

Kevin said quietly, "The Northmen say it is the flashing of spears in the country of the giants; when it is seen on earth, it portends a great battle. And sure enough, that is what we face now-a battle where Arthur's legion, madam, may determine, with the help of all the Gods, whether we live as civilized men or go into the darkness forever. You should have gone to Camelot, lady Gwenhwyfar. It is not right that the High King should be concerned now with women and babes."

She turned on him and flared, "What would you know of women or babes-or of battles, Druid?"

"Why, this would not be my first battle, my queen," he said equably. "My Lady was from a king who gifted me for playing his war harps to his victory. Would you think I should have gone to safety with the maidens and the skirted eunuchs of the Christian priests? Not I, madam. Not even Taliesin, old as he is, will run from battle." Silence, and above them the northern lights flamed and flared. "By your leave, my queen, I must go to my lord Arthur and speak with him and the Lord Merlin of what these lights portend for the battle which comes upon us."

Gwenhwyfar felt it like a sharp knife run through her belly. Even this malformed heathen might be with Arthur now, yet she, his wife, must lurk here out of sight, although she bore the hope of his kingdom! She had thought, if ever she bore Arthur's son, then he must give her place and show her great respect, not treat her still as that useless woman he had been forced to take as part of a dowry of horses! Yet here she was, packed off into a corner again because he could not be rid of her, and even her gallant banner thrust back at her unwanted.

Kevin said with swift concern, "Are you ill, my queen? Lady Elaine, assist her!" He held out a hand to Gwenhwyfar, but it was misshapen, a twisted wrist, and she saw the serpent coiling around it, tattooed there in blue ... she recoiled sharply and struck out at him, hardly knowing what she did, so that Kevin, who was none too steady on his feet, lost his balance and fell heavily to the stone floor.

"Keep away from me," she cried out, gasping. "Don't touch me, with your evil serpents-pagan, hell-bound, lay not your foul serpents on my babe-"

"Gwenhwyfar!" Elaine hurried to her, but instead of supporting Gwenhwyfar she bent solicitously over Kevin and gave him her hand to rise. "Lord Druid, do not curse her-she is ill and she does not know what she does-"

"Oh, do I not?" Gwenhwyfar shrieked. "Do you think I do not know how you all look at me-like a fool, as if I were deaf and dumb and blind? And you would calm me with kind words while you go behind the back of the priests to claim Arthur for pagan wickedness and heathendom, you who would give us over to the hands of the evil sorcerers ... . Go from here, lest my babe be born deformed because I have looked on your vile face ... ."

Kevin shut his eyes and the twisted hands clamped, but he turned quietly away and began laboriously hoisting his harp over his shoulder. He fumbled for his stick; Elaine handed it to him, and Gwenhwyfar heard her whisper, "Forgive her, Lord Druid, she is ill and knows not-"

Kevin's musical voice was harsh. "I know that well, lady. Think you I have never heard such sweet words from women before this? I am sorry, I wished only to give you pleasure," he said, and Gwenhwyfar, her head hidden in her hands, heard the dragging hitch of his stick and his stumbling feet as he hauled himself painfully from the room. But even when he had gone she went on huddling with her arms over her head-ah, he had cursed her with those vile serpents, she could feel them stabbing and biting into her body, the spears of the flaring lights overhead were impaling her, the lights flaring in her brain.... She screamed and hid her face with her hands and fell, writhing, as the spears went through her ... she came to herself a little as she heard Elaine cry out.

"Gwenhwyfar! Cousin, look at me, speak to me! Ah, may the holy Virgin help us. ... Send for the midwife! Look, the blood-"

"Kevin," Gwenhwyfar screamed, "Kevin has cursed my child-" and she drew herself up frantically, pain lashing through her, beating with her fists against the stone wall. "Ah, God help me, send for the priest, the priest, perhaps he can take away this curse-" and, ignoring the gushing of water and blood that now she could feel drenching her thighs, she dragged herself to the banner she had woven, signing herself with the cross again and again in a frenzy, before it all vanished in darkness and nightmare.

IT WAS DAYS LATER that she understood she had been dangerously ill, that she had come near to bleeding to death when she miscarried the four-months child which was too small and weak to breathe.

Arthur. Now for certain he must hate me, I could not even bring his son to birth ... . Kevin, it was Kevin who cursed me with his serpents ... . She wandered in evil dreams of serpents and spears, and once when Arthur came to her side and tried to hold her head, she started away in terror from the serpents which seemed to writhe on his wrists.

Even when she was out of danger, she did not recover her strength, but lay in a dreary apathy, unmoving, tears sliding down her face. She had not even the strength to wipe them away. No, it was folly to think Kevin had cursed her, that must have been a madness of her delirium ... this was not the first child she had miscarried, and if there was any fault it was her own, for staying here where she could not have fresh air and fresh food and exercise and the company of her ladies.

Her house priest came to her, and he too agreed that it was madness to think that Kevin had cursed her ... . God would not use the hands of a pagan priest to chastise her. "You must not be so quick to assign blame to others," he said severely. "If there is fault, it must be your own. Is there any unconfessed sin on your conscience, lady Gwenhwyfar?"

Unconfessed? No. For long ago she had confessed her love for Lancelet and been absolved, and she had striven to keep her thoughts only on her lawful lord. No, it could not be that ... and yet she had failed.

"I could not persuade-I was not strong enough to persuade Arthur to lay aside his pagan serpents and the Pendragon banner," she said weakly. "Would God punish my child for that?"

"Only you know what lies on your conscience, lady. And speak not of punishment for the child ... he is in the bosom of Christ ... but it is you and Arthur being punished, if there is punishment, which," he added primly, "I must not presume to say."

"What can I do to atone? What can I do that God may send Arthur a son for Britain?"

"Have you truly done all you may to assure that Britain shall have a Christian king? Or do you hold back the words you know you must speak, because you wish to please your husband?" the priest asked austerely. And when he had gone away, she lay looking at the banner. Every night now, she knew, the northern lights burned in the sky, in portent of the great battle that was to come; yet once, a Roman emperor had seen the sign of the cross in the sky, and the fate of all Britain had been changed. Could she but bring such a sign to Arthur ...

"Come, help me get up," she said to her woman. "I must finish the banner for Arthur to carry into battle."

Arthur came that night to her chambers, just as she set the last stitches to it, and the women were lighting the lamps.

"How is it with you now, my dear one? I am glad to see you up again, and well enough to work," he said, and kissed her. "Dearest, you must not grieve so... no woman could bring a healthy child to birth under this strain, with the battle impending at any moment-I should have sent you to Camelot, indeed. We are young still, my Gwenhwyfar, God may yet send us many children." But she saw the vulnerable look on his face, and knew he shared her sorrow.

She clasped his hand and drew him down beside her on the bench where she sat before the banner. "Is it not fair?" she said, and thought she sounded like a child begging for praise.

"It is very beautiful. I thought I had never seen so fine work as this" - and he laid his hand on the crimson-worked scabbard of Excalibur that never left his side-"but this is finer still."

"And I have woven prayers for you and your Companions into every stitch," she said, in entreaty. "Arthur, listen to me-do you think, could it not be, God has punished us because he feels we are not fit to give this kingdom another king, you and I, unless we will vow ourselves to serve him faithfully, not in pagan ways but in the new way under Christ? All the forces of pagan evil are allied against us, and we must fight it with the cross.

He laid his hand over hers and said, "Come, dear love, this is folly. You know I serve God as best I may ... ."

"But you still raise that pagan banner of serpents over your men," she cried, and he shook his head in distress.

"Dear love, I cannot break faith with the Lady of Avalon who set me on my throne-"

"It was God, and no other, who set you on your throne," she said earnestly. "Ah, Arthur, if you love me, do this, if you wish for God to send us another child! Do you not see how he has punished us by taking our son to himself?"

"You must not speak so," he said firmly. "To think God would do so is superstitious folly. I came to tell you at last the Saxons are massing, and we shall move to give them battle at Mount Badon! I would now that you were well enough to ride to Camelot, but it cannot be-not yet-"

"Ah, I know it well, I am only an encumbrance to you," she cried out bitterly. "I was never more to you-it is a pity I did not die with my babe."

"No, no, you must not speak so," he said tenderly. "I have every confidence that with my good sword Excalibur and all my Companions, we shall triumph. And you must pray for us night and day, my Gwenhwyfar." He rose and added, "We will not march till daybreak. I will try to come and take leave of you this night before we march, and your father too, and Gawaine and perhaps Lancelet-he sent you greetings, Gwenhwyfar, he was very troubled when he heard you were so ill. Can you speak to them if they come?"

She bent her head and said bitterly, "I will do my king and my lord's will. Yes, let them come, though I wonder you trouble to ask my prayers -I cannot even persuade you to put away that pagan banner and raise the cross of Christ ... . And no doubt God knows your heart, since God will not let you ride forth into battle believing that any son of yours shall rule this land, because you have not yet resolved to make this a Christian land ... ."

He stopped and let her hand go, and she could feel him looking down at her. At last he bent and put his hand under his chin and raised her face to look at his. He said quietly, "My dear lady, my own dear love, in God's name, believe you that?"

She nodded, unable to speak, wiping her nose like a child on the sleeve of her gown.

"I tell you, dear lady, before God, I believe it not, that God works in such ways, nor that it matters so much what banner we carry. But if it matters thus to you-" He paused and swallowed. "Gwenhwyfar, I cannot bear to see you in such distress. If I bear this banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle over my troops, will you cease to mourn, and pray to God for me with your best heart?"

She looked up at him, transformed, her heart lifting with a wild joy. Would he indeed do this for her? "Oh, Arthur, I have prayed, I have prayed-"

"Then," said Arthur, with a sigh, "I swear it to you, Gwenhwyfar- I shall carry only your banner of Christ and the Virgin into battle, and no other sign shall be raised above my legion. So be it, amen." He kissed her, but Gwenhwyfar thought he looked very sad. She clasped his hands and kissed them, and for the first time, it seemed that the serpents on his wrists were nothing, mere faded pictures, and that she had indeed been mad to think they could have power to harm her or her child.

He called to his squire, who stood at the door of the room, to come and take the banner carefully and to raise it above their camp. "For we march at dawn tomorrow," he said, "and all must see my lady's banner with the Holy Virgin and the cross flying above the legion of Arthur."

The squire looked startled. "Sir-my lord-what of the Pendragon banner?"

Arthur said, "Take it to the steward, and bid him lay it somewhere away. We march under the standard of God."

The squire did as Arthur said, and Arthur smiled at Gwenhwyfar, but there was little gladness in the smile. "I will come to see you at sunset, with your father and some of our kin. We will dine here, and I will have my stewards bring food for us all. Elaine shall not be troubled with providing for so many. Until then, my dear wife," and he went away.

In the end the small dinner was held in one of the little halls, for Gwenhwyfar's chamber would not hold so many in comfort. Gwenhwyfar and Elaine put on the best gowns which had remained here at Caerleon and did their hair with ribbons; it was exciting to have some kind of festival after the grim confinement of the last weeks. The feast-though indeed it was not much better than army rations-was spread on trestle tables. Most of Arthur's older councillors had been sent to Camelot, including Bishop Patricius, but Taliesin the Merlin had been bidden to dine, and King Lot, and King Uriens of Wales, and Duke Marcus of Cornwall, and Lancelet's older half-brother, Lionel of Less Britain, Ban's oldest son and heir. Lancelet was there too, and he found a moment to come to Gwenhwyfar's side and kiss her hand, looking into her eyes with hopeless tenderness.

"Are you recovered, my lady? I was troubled for you." Under cover of the shadows, he kissed her, only a feather-brushing of soft lips against her temple.

King Leodegranz came too, scowling and fussing, to kiss her brow. "I am sorry for your illness, my dear, and sorry you lost your child, but Arthur should have bundled you off to Camelot in a litter-that is how I would have handled Alienor, if she had gainsaid me," he scolded. "And now, see, you have gained nothing by staying!"

"You must not rebuke her," said Taliesin gently, "she has suffered enough, my lord. If Arthur does not reproach her, it is not for her father to do so."

Elaine tactfully changed the subject. "Who is yonder Duke Marcus?"

"He is a cousin of Gorlois of Cornwall, who died before Uther took the throne," said Lancelet, "and he has asked Arthur that if we win the day at Mount Badon, he shall have Cornwall by marrying our kinswoman Morgaine."

"That old man?" said Gwenhwyfar, shocked.

"I think it would be as well to give Morgaine to an older man-she has not the kind of beauty to attract a younger one," said Lancelet. "But she is clever and learned, and as it happens, Duke Marcus wants her not for himself but for his son Drustan, who is one of Cornwall's best knights. Arthur has made him one of his Companions now, on the eve of this battle. Though it's likely, if Morgaine returns not to court, that Drustan will wed with the daughter of the old Breton king Hoell-" He chuckled. "Court gossip of the making of marriages-is there nothing else to speak of?"

"Well," said Elaine boldly, "when will you tell us of your marriage, sir Lancelet?"

He inclined his head gallantly and said, "On the day when your father offers you to me, lady Elaine, I will not refuse him. But it is likely your father will have you wed a wealthier man than I, and since my lady here is already wedded"-he bowed to Gwenhwyfar but she saw the sadness in his eyes-"I am in no haste to marry."

Elaine colored and cast down her eyes. Arthur said, "I bade Pellinore to join us, but he would stay in the field with his men, seeing to the order of march. Some of the wagons are moving out already. Look-" He pointed to the window. "The northern spears blaze over us again!"

Lancelet asked, "Is Kevin the Harper not to be with us?"

"I bade him come if he would," said Taliesin, "but he said he would rather not offend the Queen with his presence. Have you quarrelled, Gwenhwyfar?"

She cast down her eyes and said, "I spoke harshly to him while I was ill and in great pain. If you see him, Lord Druid, will you say I would gladly beg his pardon?" With Arthur at her side and her banner flying above Arthur's camp, she felt love and charity for everyone, even for the bard.

"I think he knows you spoke in the bitterness of your own ordeal," said Taliesin gently, and Gwenhwyfar wondered what the younger Druid had told him.

Abruptly the door was thrust open and Lot and Gawaine strode into the room.

"Why, what's this, my lord Arthur?" demanded Lot. "The Pendragon banner we pledged ourselves to follow, it flies no more over the camp, and there is great unrest among the Tribes-tell me, what have you done?"

Arthur looked pale in the torchlight. "No more than this, cousin- we are a Christian folk, and we fight under the banner of Christ and the Virgin."

Lot scowled at him. "The archers of Avalon are talking of leaving you, Arthur. Fly your banner of Christ, if your conscience so bids you, but raise the Pendragon banner at its side with the serpents of wisdom, or you will see your men scattered and not all of one heart as they have been through all this dreary waiting! Would you toss all that goodwill away? And the Pict folk with their elf-bolts have killed many a Saxon before this, and will again. I beg you, don't take away their banner and their allegiance like this!"

Arthur smiled uneasily. "Even as that emperor who saw the sign in the sky and said, 'In this sign shall we conquer,' so shall we. You, Uriens, who raise the eagles of Rome, you know that tale."

"I do, my king," said Uriens, "but is it wise to deny the folk of Avalon? Even as I, my lord Arthur, you wear the serpents at your wrists, in token of a land older than the cross."

"But it will be a new land if we win the victory," said Gwenhwyfar, "and if we do not, it will not matter."

Lot turned as she spoke and looked on her with loathing. "I might have known this was your doing, my queen."

Gawaine strode restlessly to the window and looked down at the camp. "I see them moving about their fires, the little folk-from Avalon, and from your country, King Uriens. Arthur, cousin"-and he went to the King- "I beg of you, as the oldest of your Companions, put the Pendragon banner into the field for those who wish to follow it."

Arthur hesitated, but a glance at Gwenhwyfar's shining eyes and he smiled at her and said, "I have sworn it. If we survive the battle, our son shall reign over a land united under the cross. I shall compel no man's conscience, but as it is written in Holy Writ-'as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.' "

Lancelet drew a deep breath. He stepped away from Gwenhwyfar. "My lord and king, I remind you, I am Lancelet of the Lake, and I honor the Lady of Avalon. In her name, my king, who was your friend and benefactor, I beg this favor of you-let me carry the Pendragon banner into battle myself. Then your vow will be kept, and yet you will not be forsworn to Avalon."

Arthur hesitated. Gwenhwyfar shook her head imperceptibly, and Lancelet glanced at Taliesin. Taking the silence for consent, Lancelet was about to stride out of the room when Lot said, "Arthur, no! There is enough talk now about Lancelet being your heir and favorite! If he bears the Pendragon into battle, then will they think you have appointed him to bear your banner and there will be division in the kingdom, your party under the cross and Lancelet's under the Pendragon."

Lancelet turned on Lot violently. "You carry your own banner-so does Leodegranz, so does Uriens, so does Duke Marcus of Cornwall-why should I not bear a banner of Avalon?"

"But the Pendragon banner is the banner of all Britain united under one Great Dragon," said Lot, and Arthur sighed and nodded. "We must fight under one standard, and that standard is the cross. I am sorry to refuse you anything, cousin," Arthur said, and reached for Lancelet's hand, "but this I may not allow."

Lancelet stood with his mouth taut, visibly holding in his anger, then went to the window. Lot, behind him, said, "I heard it among my Northmen -they say these are the spears of the Saxons which we will face, and the wild swans are crying, and the ravens await us all ... ."

Gwenhwyfar stood with her hand tightly clasped in Arthur's. She said quietly, "In this sign you shall conquer ..." and Arthur squeezed her hand.

"Though all the forces of Hell, and not the Saxons alone, were ranged against us, lady, with my Companions I cannot fail. And you at my side, Lancelet," Arthur said, and moved to draw him close to them both. A moment Lancelet stood unmoving, his face still set in angry lines, and then he said, with a deep sigh, "So be it, King Arthur. But-" He hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar, standing very close to him, could feel the shudder which ran through his limbs. "I know not what they will say when they hear of it in Avalon, my lord and my king."

And for a moment there was total silence in the chamber, while the lights, the spears of the flames from the north, flared over them.

And then Elaine jerked the curtains shut, closing out the portents, and cried merrily, "Come and sit to your dinner, my lords! For if you ride forth to battle at daybreak, you shall not set forth unfeasted, and we have done our best for you!"

But again and again, as they sat at meat, while Lot and Uriens and Duke Marcus spoke of strategy and troop placement with Arthur, Gwenhwyfar caught Lancelet's dark eyes, and they were filled with sorrow and dread.

13

When Morgaine left Arthur's court at Caerleon, asking leave only to pay a visit to Avalon and her foster-mother, she kept her thoughts on Viviane-that way she need not think of what had befallen her and Lancelet. Whenever she let her mind wander to it, it was like being burnt with a hot iron of shame; she had offered herself to him in all honesty, in the old way, and he had wanted nothing of her but childish toyings that made a mockery of her womanhood. She did not know whether it was at him or herself that she was angered, that he could have so played with her, or that she could have hungered for him ... .

Now and again she regretted her harsh words to him. Why had she flung insults at him? He was as the Goddess had made him, no worse and no better. But at other times, while she rode eastward, she felt herself to blame; the old taunt of Gwenhwyfar, little and ugly as one of the fairy folk, scalded her mind. Had she had more to give, had she been beautiful as Gwenhwyfar was beautiful ... had she been content with what he had to give... and then her mind would swing the other way again, he had insulted her and the Goddess through her. ... So tormented, she rode through the green country of the hills. And after a time her thoughts began to turn to what awaited her at Avalon.

She had left the Holy Isle unpermitted. She had renounced her state as priestess, leaving behind her even the little sickle knife of her initiation; and in the years since, always she had dressed her hair low on her brow, so that none might see the blue crescent tattooed there. Now in one of the villages she bartered away a little gilt ring she had for some of the blue paint the Tribeswomen used, and painted the faded mark afresh.

All that has befallen me has come because I forswore the vows I had given the Goddess ... and then she recalled what Lancelet had said in his despair, that there were neither Gods nor Goddess, but these were the shapes mankind gives, in terror, to what they cannot make into reason.

But even if this were true, it would not lessen her guilt. For whether the Goddess took the form they thought, or whether the Goddess was only another name for the great unknowns of nature, still she had deserted the temple and the way of life and thought to which she was pledged, and she had forsaken the great tides and rhythms of the earth. She had eaten foods forbidden to a priestess, had taken the life of animal or bird or plant without giving thanks to that part of the Goddess being sacrificed for her good, she had lived unmindful, had given herself to a man without seeking to know the will of the Goddess in her sun tides, for mere pleasure and lechery- no, it was not to be looked for, that she could return and all should be as before. And as she rode through the hills, through ripening harvest and fertilizing rain, she was aware, with greater and greater pain, of how far she had come from the teachings of Viviane and of Avalon.

The difference is deeper than I thought. Even those who till the earth, when they are Christians, come to a way of life which is far from the earth; they say that their God has given them dominion over all growing things and every beast of the field. Whereas we dwellers in hillside and swamp, forest and far field, we know that it is not we who have the dominion over nature, but she who has dominion over us, from the moment lust stirs in the loins of our fathers and desire in the womb of our mothers to bring us forth, under her dominion, to when we quicken in the womb and are brought forth in her time, to the lives of plant and animal which must be sacrificed to feed and swaddle and clothe us and give us strength to live ... all, all of these things are under the domain of the Goddess and without her beneficent mercy none of us could draw a living breath, but all things would be barren and die. And even when the time comes for barrenness and death, so that others may come to take our place on this earth, that is her doing too, she who is not only the Green Lady of the fruitful earth, but also the Dark Lady of the seed lying hidden beneath the snows, of the raven and the hawk who bring death to the slow, and of the worms who work in secret to destroy that which has served its time, even Our Lady of rot and destruction and death at the end ... .

In the memory of all these things, Morgaine came at last to see that what had happened with Lancelet, after all, was but a little thing; the greatest sin was not with Lancelet but in her own heart, that she had turned away from the Goddess. What did it matter what the priests thought was good, or virtuous, or sinful, or shameful? The wound to her pride was only a healthful cleansing.

The Goddess will deal with Lancelet in her own time and her way. It is not for me to say. At the moment Morgaine thought it the best thing that could happen, should she never set eyes again on her cousin.

No; it was not to be looked for that she could return to her place as chosen priestess ... but Viviane might have pity on her and let her amend her sins against the Goddess. At the moment she felt she could be content to dwell in Avalon, even as servant or humble worker-woman in the fields. She felt like a sick child, hurrying to lay her head in her mother's lap and weep there ... she would send for her son and have him fostered in Avalon, among the priests, and never depart again from the way she had been taught ... .

And so when first she saw the sight of the Tor, thrusting itself up, green and unmistakable, over the hills lying in between, the tears streamed down her face. She was coming home, home to her own place and to Viviane, she would stand within the ring stones and pray to the Goddess that her faults might be healed, that she might return to that place from which her own pride and self-will had thrust her.

It seemed that the Tor was playing hide-and-seek with her, now visible, thrusting itself up between the hills like an erect phallus, now hiding between smaller hills, now disappearing in the damp fogs; but at last she came to the shores of the Lake where she had come with Viviane so many years ago.

The greying waters, in late-evening sunlight, lay empty before her. Against the red light in the sky, the reeds were dark and barren, and the shores of the Island of the Priests just visible, rising in the sunset mist. But nothing stirred, nothing moved on the water, even though she thrust forth her whole heart and mind in a passionate effort to reach the Holy Isle, to summon the barge ... . An hour she stood there unmoving, and then the darkness closed down, and she knew she had failed.

No ... the barge would not come for her, this night or ever again. It would come for a priestess, for Viviane's chosen, cherished fosterling; it would not come for a runaway who had lived in secular courts and done her own will for four years. Once before, at the time of her initiation, she had been cast forth from Avalon, and the test of whether or no she might be called priestess was only this-that she should return without aid.

She could not call the barge; she feared within her very soul to cry aloud the word of power that would summon it through the mists. She could not command it, who had forfeited the right to be called a child of Avalon. As the color left the water and the last remnants of the sunlight faded into twilight mist, Morgaine looked mournfully toward the distant shore. No, she dared not call the boat; but there was another way into Avalon, around at the other side of the Lake, where she could cross by the hidden path through the swamp and there find her way into the hidden world. Aching with loneliness, she began to skirt the shore, leading her horse. The looming presence of the big animal in the dusk, his snorting breaths behind her, were a vague comfort. If all failed she could spend the night on the shores of the Lake; it would not be the first night she had spent alone in the open. And in the morning she would find her way. She remembered that solitary journey, disguised, to Lot's court far in the north, years ago. She had grown soft with the good living and luxury of the court, but she could do it again if she must.

But it was so still: no sound of bells from the Isle of the Priests, no chantings from the convent, no bird cries; it was as if she moved through an enchanted country. Morgaine found the place she was looking for. It was growing dark, and each bush and tree seemed to take on a sinister shape, some strange thing, some monster, some dragon. But Morgaine was recovering the habits of mind she had possessed when she dwelt in Avalon; there was nothing here that would harm her, if she meant it no harm.

She began to take her way along the hidden path. Halfway she must move through the mists; otherwise the path would but bring her to the monks' kitchen garden behind their cloister. She admonished herself firmly to stop thinking of the growing darkness and set her mind into meditative silence, fixing it on where she longed to go. Thus, then, with each step as if she wound a spell, treading out the spiral dance as if the way wound up the Tor toward the ring stones ....he moved silently, her eyes half-closed, placing each foot with care. She could feel the mists cold about her now.

Viviane had not thought it any such great ill, that she should lie with her half-brother and bear him a child ... a child born of the old royal line of Avalon, more a king than Arthur's self. Had she borne such a child to Lancelet, then could that child have been fostered here in Avalon and reared to become one of the greatest of the Druids. Now what would become of her son? Why did she leave Gwydion in the hands of Morgause? Morgaine thought, I am an unnatural mother; I should have sent for my son. But she had not been willing to look Arthur in the face and tell him of his child's existence. She would not want the priests and ladies at court to look on her and say, This is the woman who bore a child to the Horned One in the old pagan way of the tribes who paint their faces and wear horns and run with the deer like animals ... the boy was well enough where he was, Arthur's court was no place for him, and what would she do with a little boy of three running at her heels? Arthur's?

But there were times when she thought of him, remembered nights when he had been brought to her full-fed and sweet-smelling, when she had sat holding him and crooning to him, thinking of nothing, her whole body filled with mindless happiness ... when else had she been so happy? Only once, she thought, when Lancelet and I lay in the sunshine on the Tor, when we hunted waterfowl by the shores of the Lake ... and then, blinking, she realized that by this time she should have come further than this, she should be past the mists and on the solid ground of Avalon.

And indeed the boggy places were gone-there were trees around her, and the path was firm underfoot, and she had not come to the priests' kitchen garden and outbuildings either. She should now be in the field behind the House of Maidens, leading into the orchard; now she must think of what she would say when she was found here, of the words she would speak to prove to the folk of Avalon that she had the right to be here. Or did she? Somehow it seemed that it was a little less dark; perhaps the moon was rising -it was three or four days after the full, soon there would be light enough to find her way. It was not to be looked for that every tree and bush should be the same as when she had dwelt here and known every step of every path. Morgaine clung to her horse's bridle, suddenly afraid of losing her way on the once-familiar paths.

No, it was actually growing brighter, she could see the bushes and trees quite plainly now. If the moon was rising, why could she not see it above the trees? Had she somehow gotten turned round, while she was walking with her eyes half-closed, treading out the path that led through the mists and between the worlds? If only she might see some familiar landmark! There were no clouds now-she could see the sky and even the mists had gone, but she could make out no star.

Perhaps she had been away too long from such things? She could see no sign of rising moon, though it should have been long since in the sky ... .

And then it was as if cold water flooded down her back and set her blood to moving like ice inside her. That day when she had gone to seek roots and herbs, when she would have cast forth the child within her ... had she wandered again into that enchanted country which was neither the world of Britain nor the secret world where the magic of the Druids had taken Avalon, but that older, darker country where there was neither star nor sun ... ?

She bade her beating heart to still itself; she gripped the horse's bridle and leaned against the warm, sweaty flank, feeling the solidity of muscle and bone, hearing the soft snorting breaths real and definite under her cheek. Surely if she stood still for a little and took thought, she would find her way ... . But fear was rising in her.

I cannot go back. I cannot go back to Avalon, I am not worthy, I cannot make my way through the mists ... . On the day of the ordeal of initiation she had felt this for a moment, but she had firmly put her fear aside.

But I was younger then and innocent. Never then had I betrayed the Goddess or the secret teachings, never had I betrayed life ... .

Morgaine fought to control the rising tides of panic. Fear was the worst thing. Fear would put her at the mercy of whatever misfortune came. Even the wild beasts could smell fear on your body and would come and attack, while they would flee from the courageous. This was why the bravest man could run among the deer with safety, so long as fear was not smelled on his skin ... was this, she wondered, why they smeared their bodies with the acrid blue dye of woad, because it covered the smell of fear? Perhaps the truly brave man or woman was the one whose mind made no pictures of what might happen if things went awry.

There was nothing here to harm her, even if it might be that she had strayed into the fairy country. Once before she had found herself there, but the woman who had mocked her had offered no harm or threat. They were older even than the Druids, but they too lived by the will and rule of the Goddess in their life and ways, and it might even be that one could guide her to her proper path. So, either way, there was nothing to fear: at worst she would meet no one and spend a lonely night among the trees.

Now she saw light-was it one of the lights that burned in the court of the House of Maidens? If it was so, well, then she would soon be home, and if not, then she could ask her way of whatever folk she met. If she had strayed into the Isle of the Priests, then if she met with some strange priest he might fear that she was one of the fairy women. She wondered if, from time to time, these women did come to tempt the priests; it was only reasonable that here, in the very shrine of the Goddess, some priest with more imagination than others might feel the pulse of this place, come to know that his way of life was a denial of the forces of life which ran within the very pulse beat of the world. They denied life rather than affirming it, from the life of the heart and the life of nature to the life that ran at root between man and woman ... .

If I were Lady of Avalon, on the nights when the moon was new and springing, I would send the maidens into the cloister of the priests, to show them that the Goddess cannot be mocked or denied, that they are men and that women are not evil inventions of their pretended Devil, but that the Goddess will have her way with them ... aye, at Beltane or Midsummer ... .

Or would these mad priests bid the maidens be gone and think them demons, come to tempt the faithful? And for a moment it seemed she could hear the voice of the Merlin: Let all men be free to serve what God they best like ... .

Even, she wondered, one which denied the very life of the earth? But she knew Taliesin would have said, Even so.

Now through the trees she made out clearly the shape of a torch, flaring up yellow and blue from a long pole. The glare of it blinded her eyes for a moment, and then she saw the man who held the torch. He was small and dark, and neither priest nor Druid. He wore a loincloth of spotted deerskin and some sort of dark cloak over his bare shoulders; he was like to one of the little Tribesmen, only taller. His hair was dark and long, and he wore a garland of colored leaves in it; autumn leaves, though the leaves had not yet turned. And somehow that frightened Morgaine. But his voice was mellow and soft, as he spoke in an ancient dialect. "Welcome, sister; are you benighted? Come this way. Let me lead your horse-I know the paths." It was for all the world, she thought, as if she were expected.

As if she had fallen into a dream, Morgaine followed. The path grew harder underfoot and easier to follow, and the light of the torch blurred away the misty dimness. He led the horse, but now and then he turned toward her and smiled. Then he reached out and took her by the hand, as if he were leading a young child. His teeth were very white, and his eyes, dark in the torch glow, were merry.

There were more lights now; at some point, she did not know when, he had given over her horse to another, and led her within a ring of lights -she did not remember coming within walls, but she was in a great hall where there were men and women feasting, with garlands on their heads. Some bore garlands of the autumn leaves, but at the same time there were women who bore garlands of early spring flowers, the little pale arbutus that hides under the leaves even before the snow is gone. Somewhere, a harp was playing.

Her guide was still at her side. He led her toward the high table and there, somehow without surprise, she recognized the woman she had seen before, wearing in her hair a garland of bare twined wicker-withes. The woman's grey eyes seemed ageless and knowing, as if she could read and see all things.

The man set Morgaine on a bench and put a tankard in her hand. It was of some metal she did not know ... the liquor in it was sweet and smooth and tasted of peat and heather. She drank thirstily, and realized she had drunk too quickly after her long fast; she felt dizzied. Then she recalled the old tale-should you blunder into the fairy country, you must never drink nor eat of their food ... but that was only an old tale, no more; they would not harm her.

She asked, "What is this place?"

The lady said, "This is the Castle Chariot, and you are welcome here, Morgaine, Queen of Britain."

She shook her head. "No, no, I am no queen. My mother was High Queen, and I am Duchess of Cornwall, but no more ... ."

The lady smiled. "It is all one. You are weary and have travelled long. Eat and drink, little sister, and tomorrow one shall guide you wherever you wish to go. Now is the time for feasting."

There were fruits on her plate, and bread, a dark soft bread of some unknown grain, but it seemed she had tasted it somewhere before this ... she saw that the man who had led her hither had bracelets of gold about his wrists, twining like live snakes ... she rubbed her eyes, wondering if she had fallen into a dream, and when she looked again it was only a bracelet, or perhaps a tattoo, like the one Arthur bore from his kingmaking. And at times when she looked at him, the torches flared so, it seemed there was the shadow of antlers above his brow; and the lady was crowned and hung about with gold, but now and again it seemed it was only a crown of wicker, and she had a necklace of shells about her throat, the little shells which were halved like a woman's private parts, and sacred to the Goddess. She sat between them and somewhere a harp was playing, a sweeter music than even the harps of Avalon ... .

She was no longer wearied. The sweet-tasting drink had cleared her mind of fatigue and sorrow. Later someone put a harp in her hand and she too played and sang; never had her voice sounded so soft and clear and sweet. She fell into a dream as she played, where it seemed all the faces around her wore the semblance of someone she had known elsewhere.... It seemed she walked on the shores of a sunny island and played a curious bowed harp; and then there was a time when she sat in a great stone courtyard and a wise Druid in strange long robes taught them with compasses and a star finder, and there were songs and sounds that would open a locked door or raise a circle of ring stones and she learned them all, and was crowned with a golden serpent over her brow ... .

The lady said it was time to go to rest-on the morrow one would guide her and her horse. She slept that night in a cool room hung about with leaves-or were they tapestries that now seemed to twist and change, telling stories of all the things that had been? She saw herself too, woven into the tapestry, with her harp in her hand, with Gwydion on her lap, and she saw herself woven into the tapestry with Lancelet-he played with her hair and held her hand, and she thought there was something she should remember, some reason she should be angry with Lancelet; but she could not remember what it was.

When the lady said that this night was festival and she should stay here a day or two more and dance with them, she let it be ... it was so long, it seemed, since she had danced and been merry. But when she took thought to what festival it might be, she could not quite remember ... surely the Equinox had not come yet, nor could she see moon or sun to reckon it for herself as she had been taught.

They put a garland of flowers in her hair, bright summer flowers, for, said the lady, you are no untried maiden. It was a starless night, and it troubled her that she could not see the moon, as she had not seen the sun by day. Had it been one day, or two or three? Somehow time seemed not to matter; she ate when she was hungry, slept where she was when she felt weary, alone, or lying on a bed, soft as grass, with one of the lady's maidens. Once, to her surprise, she found the maiden-yes, she looked somewhat like Raven-twining her arms round her neck and kissing her, and she returned the kisses without surprise or shame. It was as it is in a dream, where strange things seem wholly possible, and she was surprised at this, just a little, but somehow it did not seem to matter, she lived in an enchanted dream. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to her horse, but when she thought of riding forth, the lady said she must not think of it yet, they willed that she should stay with them ... once years afterward when she was trying to recall all that had befallen her within the Castle Chariot, she remembered that she had lain in the lady's lap and suckled at her breast, and it did not seem strange to her at all that she, a grown woman, should lie in her mother's lap, and be kissed and dandled like an infant. But surely that had been no more than a dream, when she was dizzied with the sweet-tasting strong wine ... .

And sometimes it seemed to her that the lady was Viviane, and she wondered: Have I fallen sick, am I lying in a fever and dreaming all these curious things? She went out with the lady's maidens and searched with them for root and herb, and the season seemed not to matter. And at the festival- was it that same night or another?-she danced to the harps, and again she took a turn at the harps for the dancing, and the music she made sounded both melancholy and merry.

Once when she was searching for berries and flowers for garlands, her feet stumbled over something: the white bleached bones of some animal. And round its neck was a fragment of leather, and on that a scrap of red cloth-it was something like to the bag in which she had borne her gear when she rode from Caerleon. What, she wondered, had happened to her own horse, was it safe in the stables here? She had not seen stables at all in the fairy castle, but she supposed they were somewhere. For now it was enough to dance, to sing, to let time pass, enchanted ... .

Once the man who had brought her there led her aside from the dancing ring. She was never to know his name. How, when she could see neither sun nor moon, could the tides of moon and sun beat in her so fiercely?

"You have a dagger about you," he said, "you must put it from you, I cannot bear it near."

She unfastened the leather thongs that bound it to her waist and cast it away, not knowing where it fell. Then he came to her, his dark hair falling about hers; his mouth tasted sweet, of berries and of the strong heather drink. He undid her clothing. She had grown used to the cold-it did not matter to her that it was cold on the grass here, that she was naked under his body. She touched him; he was warm, his body warm, his strong male member hot and strong, his hands opening her thighs were strong and eager. Her whole body welcomed him as hungrily as a virgin; she moved with him and she felt the rhythm of the pulsing tides of the earth around her.

Then she was afraid ... she did not want him to get her with child, it had gone so ill with her when Gwydion was born, another child would surely kill her. But when she would have spoken, he laid a hand gently over her lips and she knew he could read her thoughts.

"No fear of that, sweet lady, the tides are not right for that ... this is the time for pleasure and not for ripening," he said softly, and she gave herself up to it, and yes, there were antlers shadowing his brow, she lay again with the Horned One, and it was as if stars were falling in the wood all round them, or was it but fireflies and glowworms?

Once she was wandering in the woods with the maidens and she came to a pool and bent over it, and looking deep there, she saw Viviane's face looking out at her from the waters. Her hair was greying now, strands of white all through it, and there were lines she had never seen before. Her lips opened; it seemed she was calling, and Morgaine wondered, How long have I been here? Surely, I have been here four or Jive days, maybe even a week. I must surely go. The lady said one would guide me to the shores of Avalon ... .

And she made her way to the lady and told her that she must surely go. But night was falling-surely tomorrow would be time enough ... .

Once again, in the water, it seemed she saw Arthur, his armies massing ... . Gwenhwyfar looked weary and somehow older; she held Lancelet by the hand as he bade them farewell, and he kissed her lips. Yes, Morgaine thought in bitterness, such games as he likes well to play. Gwenhwyfar would wish it so, to have all his love and devotion and never endanger her honor ... . But it was easy to put them away from her, too.

And then one night she woke with a start, hearing from somewhere a great cry, and for a moment, it seemed to her as if she stood on the Tor at the center of the ring stones, hearing the terrifying cry ringing through the worlds-the voice she had heard but once since she grew to womanhood, that harsh rusty voice, grown dull with unuse, the voice of Raven, who broke her silence only when the Gods had a message they dared not leave to any other ... .

Ah, the Pendragon has betrayed Avalon, the dragon has flown ... the banner of the dragon flies no more against the Saxon warriors ... weep, weep, if the Lady should set foot from Avalon, for surely she will return no more ... and a sound of weeping, of sobbing in the sudden darkness ...

And silence. Morgaine sat upright in the greyish light, her mind suddenly clear for the first time since she had come into this country.

I have been here all too long, she thought, winter has come. Now I must depart, now, before this day is over ... no, I cannot even say so, the sun does not rise or set here ... I must go now, at once. She knew she should call for her horse, and then, remembering, she knew: her horse was long since dead in these woods. In a sudden fright, she thought, How long have I been here?

She searched for her dagger, and remembered that she had cast it away. She bound her dress about her-it seemed faded. She could not remember washing it, nor her underlinen, yet they seemed not dirtied much. She wondered suddenly if she were mad.

If I speak to the lady, she will beseech me again not to go ... .

Morgaine tied her hair up in plaits ... why had she let it hang free, she, a grown woman? And she set off down the path which, she knew, would bring her to Avalon.

MORGAINE SPEAKS ...

To this very day I have never known how many nights and days I spent in the fairy country-even now my mind blurs when I try to reckon it up. Try as I may I can make it no fewer than five and no more than thirteen. Nor am I certain how much time passed in the world outside, nor in Avalon, while I was there, but because mankind keeps better records of time than the fairy folk, I know that some five years passed.

Perhaps, and I think this more as I grow older, what we speak of as time passing happens only because we have made it a habit, in our very blood and bones, to count things-the fingers of a newborn child, the rising and returning of the sun, we think so often of how many days must pass or how many seasons before our corn will ripen or our child grow in the womb and come to birth or some longed-for meeting take place; and we watch these by the turning of the year and the sun, as the first of the priestly secrets. Within the fairy country I knew nothing of the passing of time, and so for me it did not pass. For when I came out of the country I found that already there were more lines in Gwenhwyfar's face, and Elaine's exquisite youthfulness had begun to blur a little; but my own hands were no thinner, my face was untouched by line or wrinkle, and though in our family white comes early to the hair-in his nineteenth year Lancelet had had already a few grey strands-my hair was black and untouched by time as the wing of a crow.

I have come to think that once the Druids had taken Avalon away from the world of constant counting and reckoning it began to happen there, too. Time does not flow in Avalon unreckoned like the passing of a dream, as it does in the fairy country. Yet truly time has begun to drift a little. We see the moon and sun of the Goddess there, and reckon the rites within the ring stones, and so time never wholly leaves us. But it runs not even with time elsewhere, though one would think that if the motion of sun and moon were known at all, it would move like to that in the world outside ... yet it is not so. Toward these last years I could bide a month in Avalon and discover when I came away that an entire season had sped by outside. And often, toward the end of those years, I did so, for I had no patience to see what happened in the world outside; and when folk marked that I stayed ever young, then more than ever did they call me fairy or witch.

But that was long, long afterward.

For when I heard Raven in that terrifying cry which moved into the spaces between the worlds, reaching my mind even where I stayed in the timeless dream of the fairy world, I set forth ... but not to Avalon.

14

In the world outside, the light of the sun shone bright through fickle cloud shadows over the Lake, and far away the sound of church bells rang through the air. Against that sound, Morgaine dared not raise her voice to cry the word of power which would summon the barge, nor take upon her the form of the Goddess.

She looked at herself in the mirrored surface of the Lake. How long, she wondered, had she tarried in the fairy country? With her mind free of enchantments, she knew-even though she could reckon only two or three days-that she had dwelt there long enough for her fine dark gown to wear away ragged where it dragged on the ground; somewhere she had lost her dagger or cast it away-she was not sure which. Now she remembered some of the things which had befallen her there as dreams or madness, and her face was stung with shame. Yet mingled with all this were memories of music sweeter than she had heard in the world or in Avalon, or anywhere else, save when she had been at the borders of the country of Death when her child was born ... almost, then, she had longed to cross over, if only to hear the music there. She remembered the sound of her own voice singing with the fairy harp-never had she sung or played so sweetly. I would like to go back there, and stay there forever. And she almost turned about to return, but the memory of Raven's fearful cry troubled her.

Arthur, betraying Avalon and the oath by which he had received the sword and been taken into the holiest place of the Druids. And danger to Viviane should she set forth from Avalon-slowly, trying to put things together in her mind, Morgaine remembered. She had set forth from Caerleon-it seemed only a few days ago, in the late summer. She had never come to Avalon, and now it looked as if she never would come there ... she looked sadly at the church atop the Tor. If she could steal into Avalon behind the island-but the paths had carried her only into the fairy country.

Somewhere, then, she had lost both dagger and horse; and now she remembered seeing bleached bone, and shuddered. And now she came to take note, the church on the Tor seemed different, the priests must have been building on it, and surely they could not have built it so big in a month or even two ... . Somehow, she thought, gripping her hands together in sudden fright, I must find out how many moons have sped by while I wandered with the maidens of the lady, or took my pleasure with the fairy man who led me there ... .

But no, it could not have been more than two or at most three nights ... she thought wildly, not knowing it was the beginning of a confusion which would grow endlessly and never be wholly settled in her mind. And now when she thought of those nights she was frightened and ashamed, trembling with the memory of a pleasure she had never known, lying in the arms of the fairy man-and yet now she was away from the enchantment it seemed like something shameful, done in a dream. And the caresses she had given and received from the fairy maidens, something she could never have dreamed without such an enchantment-there had befallen something, too, with the lady ....nd now she thought of it, the lady was much like Viviane, and Morgaine was shamed too ... in the fairy country it had been as if she had hungered all her life for such things, and yet in the outside world she would never have dared it, or even dreamed of it.

Despite the warm sun, she had begun to shiver. She did not know what time of year it might be, but there were patches of unmelted snow on the edge of the Lake, hiding in the reeds. In the name of the Goddess, can the winter have passed and spring be at hand again? And if enough time had gone by in the outside world so that Arthur could have planned betrayal of Avalon, then it must have been longer than she dared to think.

She had lost horse and dagger and everything else she had had with her. Her shoes, too, were worn, she had no food with her, and she was alone on the shores of unfriendly country, far from any place where she was known as the King's sister. Well, she had gone hungry before this. A flicker of a smile passed over her face. There were great houses and nunneries where she would perhaps be given bread as a beggar. She would make her way to the court of Arthur-perhaps somewhere she would come on a village where someone would need the services of a midwife, so that she could barter her skill for bread.

She gave one last longing look at the shores across the Lake. Dared she make a final attempt to speak the word of power which would bring her into Avalon? If she could speak with Raven, perhaps she could know precisely what danger threatened ... she opened her mouth to cry out the word and drew back. She could not face Raven, either; Raven who had kept the laws of Avalon so meticulously, who had done nothing to shame her priestess garb. How could she face Raven's clear eyes with the memories of what she had done in the outside world and in the fairy country? Raven would have them from her mind in a moment... at last, the shores of the Lake and the spire of the church blurring through tears, she turned her back on Avalon to find the Roman road that led away south, past the mines and at last to Caerleon.

SHE HAD BEEN three days on the road before she met with another traveller. The first night she had slept in an abandoned herder's hut, supperless, sheltering from the wind, but no more. On the second day she had come to a farmstead where the folk were all from home except for a half-witted goose boy; but he had let her sit to warm herself by the banked fire inside, and she had taken a thorn from his foot, so that he gave her a hunk of his bread. She had walked farther with less to eat.

But then she came nearer to Caerleon and was shocked to find two burned-out houses, and crops rotting in the field ... it was as if Saxons had passed this way! She went into one of the houses, which looked as if it had been sacked, for there was little left; but lying in one of the rooms she found an old and faded cloak, too ragged, she supposed, even for the raiders to take, abandoned by someone when they fled the place. It was warm wool, though, and Morgaine wrapped it round herself, though it made her look more than ever like a beggar woman; she had suffered more from the cold than from hunger. Near dusk some fowls clucked in the abandoned court; hens were creatures of habit, they had not yet learned that they could not come here to be fed. Morgaine caught one of them and wrung its neck, and in the ruined fireplace kindled a small fire; if she was lucky, no one would see smoke coming from the ruins, or if they did would think it was but ghosts. She spitted the chicken and roasted it on a green stick of wood over her fire. It was so old and tough that even her strong teeth had trouble chewing it, but she had been hungry so long that she did not care, and sucked the bones as if it were the daintiest of roast birds. She found some leather, too, in one of the outbuildings which had been some sort of forge or smithy; they had carried off every tool and every last scrap of metal, but there were some bits of leather lying about, and Morgaine wrapped what was left of the hen in it. She would have mended her shoes too, but she had no knife. Well, perhaps she would come to a village where she might get the loan of one for a few minutes. What madness had prompted her to cast her dagger away?

It was several days after full moon, and when she set forth from the ruined farm, there was frost on the stone doorstep, and a gibbous day moon lingered in the sky. As she crossed the door sill with her leather bag of cold meat and a thick stick clenched in her hand-some shepherd, no doubt, had cut it and left it here-she heard a hen clucking somewhere in wild announcement, and she sought out the nest and ate the egg raw and still warm from the hen's body, so she felt full fed and comfortable.

The wind was brisk and cold, and she walked at a good pace, glad of the cloak, threadbare and torn though it was. The morning was far advanced, and she was beginning to think of sitting herself down by the road and eating some of the cold fowl, when she heard hooves behind her on the road, overtaking her.

Her first thought was to continue on her way-she was bent on her own affairs and had as good a right to the road as any other traveller. Then, remembering the ruin of the farm, she took thought and went to the side of the road, concealing herself behind a bush. There was no way to tell what manner of folk travelled the roads now, with Arthur too busy keeping the peace against the Saxons to have much time to create peace in the countryside and protection along the roads. If the traveller seemed harmless, she might ask him what news; if not, well, she would lie here hidden until he was out of sight.

It was a solitary horseman, wrapped in a grey cloak and riding on a tall, lean horse; riding alone, with no servant or pack horse. No, but he bore a great pack behind him-no, not that either; it was that his body was hunched over in the saddle-and then she knew who the man must be, and stepped out from her place of concealment.

"Kevin Harper!" she said.

He drew up his horse; it was well trained and did not rear or sidle. He looked down at her, scowling, his mouth twisted in a sneer-or was it but the scars he bore?

"I have nothing for you, woman-" and then he broke off. "By the Goddess! It is the lady Morgaine-what do you here, madam? I had heard last year that you were in Tintagel with your mother before she died, but when the High Queen went south to her burying, she said no, you had not been there-"

Morgaine reeled and put out a hand to steady herself on her stick. "My mother-dead? I had not heard-"

Kevin dismounted, steadying himself against the horse's flank until he got his stick under him. "Sit you down here, madam-you had not heard? Where, in the name of the Goddess, have you been? The word came even to Viviane in Avalon, but she is now too old and too frail to go forth." But where I was, Morgaine thought, I heard it not. It may be that when I saw Igraine's face in the forest pool, then was she calling to me with the news, and I never knew. Pain wrenched at her heart; she and Igraine had grown so far from each other-they had parted soon after she was eleven years old and gone forth to Avalon-yet now it tore at her with anguish, as if she were that same little girl who had wept when she left Igraine's house. Oh, my mother, and I knew nothing of it ... . She sat at the edge of the road, tears streaming down her face. "How did she die? Have you heard?"

"Her heart, I believe; it was a year ago in the spring. Believe me, Morgaine, I heard nothing but that it was natural and expected for her years."

For a moment Morgaine could not control her voice enough to speak; and with the grief, there was terror, for clearly she had dwelt out of the world longer than she had thought possible ... . Kevin said, a year ago in the spring. So more than one spring had gone by while she lingered in the fairy country! For in the summer when she left Arthur's court, Igraine had not even been ailing! It was not a question of how many months she had been gone, but how many years!

And could she get Kevin to tell her, without revealing where she had been?

"There is wine in my saddlebag, Morgaine-I would offer it to you, but you must get it for yourself. ... I walk not well at the best of times. You look thin and pale, are you hungry too? And how is it that I find you on this road, clothed"-Kevin wrinkled his brow in fastidious distaste- "worse than any beggar woman?"

Morgaine cast about in her mind for what she could say. "I have dwelt ... in solitude, and away from the world. I have not seen nor spoken with any man for I know not how long. I had lost count even of the seasons." And this much was true, for whatever the folk of the fairy country might be, they were not mankind.

"I can well believe it," said Kevin. "I could believe even that you had not heard of the great battle-"

"I see that this country has been all burned over."

"Oh, that was three years ago," said Kevin, and Morgaine started back. "Some of the treaty troops broke their vows and came all through this country, looting and burning. Arthur took a great wound at that battle and lay abed for half a year." He saw Morgaine's troubled face and mistook her concern. "Oh, he does well enough now, but all that time he did not set foot to the ground-I imagine he felt the want of your healing skills, Morgaine. Then Gawaine led down all of Lot's men from the North and we had peace for three years. And then this summer past there was the great battle at Mount Badon-Lot died in that battle-aye, there was a victory, such as bards will sing for a hundred years," Kevin said. "I do not think there is a Saxon chief left unkilled in all this land from Cornwall to Lothian, save those who call Arthur their king. There has been nothing like it since the days of the Caesars. And now all this land lies under the peace of Arthur."

Morgaine had risen and gone to the saddlebags. She found the flask of wine, and Kevin said, "Bring the bread and cheese too. It is near noon and I will eat here with you." When she had served him and opened her roll of leather with the remains of the chicken, offering it, he shook his head.

"Thank you, but I eat no flesh food now, I am under vows.... I marvel to see you eat meat, Morgaine, a priestess of your rank-"

"That or go fasting," said Morgaine, and told him how the chicken had come to her. "But I have not observed that prohibition since I left Avalon. I eat such things as are set before me."

"For myself, I think it makes little matter, flesh or fish or grain," Kevin said, "though the Christians make much of their fasting-at least this Patricius who is Arthur's bishop now. Before that, the brethren who dwelt with us upon Avalon used to repeat a saying of their Christ, that it was not what went into a man's mouth that defiled him, but what came out of it, and therefore man should eat humbly of all the gifts of God. And so I have heard Taliesin say. But for myself-no doubt you know that at a certain level of the Mysteries, what is eaten has so much effect on the mind-I dare not eat meat now, it makes me drunker than too much wine!"

Morgaine nodded-she had had that experience too. When she had been drinking the sacred herbs, she could eat nothing but a little bread and fruit; even cheese or boiled lentils were too rich and made her ill.

"But where do you go now, Morgaine?" And when she told him, he stared as if she were mad. "To Caerleon? Why? There is nothing there- or perhaps you did not know, though I find that hard to believe.... Arthur gave it to one of his knights who served him well at that battle. But on the day of Pentecost he moved his whole court to Camelot-it will be a year this summer that he has dwelt there. Taliesin liked that not, that he opened his court upon the Christian holy day, but he did it to please his queen-he listens to her in all things." Morgaine surprised a faint grimace on his face. "But then if you had not heard of the battle, it is likely you had not heard how Arthur betrayed the folk of Avalon and the Tribes."

Morgaine stopped the cup halfway to her lips. She said, "It is for that I came, Kevin. I heard that Raven had broken her silence and prophesied some such thing as that ... ."

"It was more than prophecy," said the bard. He stretched his leg uneasily, as if sitting for long in one position on the ground hurt him.

"Arthur betrayed-what did he do?" Morgaine's breath caught. "He did not give them into the hands of the Saxons ... ?"

"You have not heard, then. The Tribes were sworn to follow the banner of the Pendragon, as they swore at his kingmaking, and Uther's before him ... and the little folk of the days before the Tribes, they came too, with their bronze axes and flint hatchets and elf-arrows-no more than the fairy folk can they bear cold iron. All, all sworn to follow the Great Dragon. And Arthur betrayed them ... he put away the dragon standard, even though we begged him that he should let Gawaine or Lancelet bear it into the field. But he swore that he would raise only his banner of the cross and the Holy Virgin into the field at Mount Badon. And so he did."

Morgaine stared in horror, remembering Arthur's kingmaking. Even Uther had not so pledged himself to the folk of Avalon! And he had betrayed that pledge? She whispered, "And the Tribes did not desert him?"

Kevin said in great anger, "Some of them came near to it; some of the Old People from the Welsh hills did indeed go home when the cross was raised-King Uriens could not stop them. As for the rest-well, we knew that day that the Saxons had us between the hammer and the anvil. We might follow Arthur and his knights into battle, or live thereafter under Saxon rule, for this was the great battle that had been prophesied. And he bore the sacred sword Excalibur from the Holy Regalia. Like enough the Goddess herself knew that she would be the worse if the land was ruled by the Saxons. So he fought, and the Goddess gave him victory." Kevin offered the wine flask to Morgaine, and when she shook her head, he drained it.

"Viviane would have come from Avalon to charge him with oath-breaking," he said, "but she is reluctant to do so before all his people. And so I am for Camelot, to remind him of his vow. If he heeds not that, then Viviane has sworn she will come to Camelot herself, on the day when all people present their petitions, and Arthur has sworn he himself will hear and judge them, at Pentecost. And then, she said, she would stand before him as a common petitioner, and claim his oath, and remind him of what must befall him who forswears his word."

Morgaine said, "The Goddess grant that the Lady of the Lake need never humble herself so far."

"I too would speak to him with wrath, not soft words, but it is not mine to choose," said Kevin. He held out his hand. "Will you help me to rise? I think my horse will bear two, and if not, when we come to a town we must get you a horse. I should be gallant even as the great Lancelet, and let you ride mine, but"-he pointed to his crippled body.

Morgaine pulled him to his feet. "I am strong, I can walk. If we must barter anything in the town, we should find shoes for me and a knife. I have not a single coin with me, but I will repay you when I can."

Kevin shrugged. "You are my vowed sister in Avalon-what I have is yours, so runs the law. There is no talk of payment between us."

Morgaine felt herself coloring in shame, that Kevin should so remind her of what she had sworn. I have been out of the world, in truth. "Let me help you to mount your horse. Will she stand, so?"

He smiled. "If she would not, she would be little use to me in travelling such roads as I go alone! Let us go-I would like to reach Camelot tomorrow."

In a town nestled in the hills, they found a cobbler to mend Morgaine's broken shoes, and an old bronze dagger; the man who had these things for sale said there was no dearth of them in this country since the great battle. Kevin bought her a decent cloak too, saying the ragged one she had found in the farmhouse would scarce make a saddle blanket. But the stop had delayed them, and once on the road again, it began to snow heavily, and the dark closed in early.

"We should have stayed in that town," said Kevin. "I could have bartered harp music for supper and bed for us both. Alone, I could sleep under a hedge or in the shelter of a wall, wrapped in my cloak. But not a lady of Avalon."

"What makes you think I have never slept so?" Morgaine asked.

He laughed. "You look to me, Morgaine, as if you had slept so all too often of late! But no matter how swiftly we press the horse, we cannot come to Camelot this night-we must look somewhere for shelter."

After a time, through the fast-falling snow, they could make out the dark shape of an abandoned building. Not even Morgaine could enter it walking upright; likely it had been a cattle byre, but the beasts had been gone so long that there was not even a smell, and the thatch-and-daub roof was mostly in place. They tethered the horse and crawled in, Kevin directing her with a gesture to lay the old ragged cloak on the filthy floor, and they each wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down side by side. But it was so cold that at last, hearing Morgaine's teeth chattering, Kevin said they must spread the two cloaks over them both and lie close together for warmth. "If it will not sicken you to be so close to this misshapen body of mine," he said, and she could hear the pain and anger in his voice.

"Of what is misshapen about you, Kevin Harper, I know only that with your broken hands you make more music than I, or even Taliesin, with hands that are whole," Morgaine said, and moved gratefully into his warmth. And at last she felt she could sleep, her head resting in the curve of his shoulder.

She had been walking all day and was weary; she slept heavily, but wakened when the light began to steal through the cracks in the broken wall. She felt cramped from the hard floor, and as she looked around the mud-daubed walls she felt a surge of horror. She, Morgaine, priestess of Avalon, Duchess of Cornwall, lying here in a beast shelter, cast out from Avalon ... would she ever return? And she had come from worse places, from the Castle Chariot in the fairy country, out of all knowledge of Christendom and heathendom alike, out of the very doors of this world ....he who had been so delicately reared by Igraine, she who was sister to the High King, schooled by the Lady of the Lake, accepted by the Goddess ... now had she cast it all away. But, no, she had not cast it away, it had been taken from her when Viviane sent her to the kingmaking and she had come away with child by her own brother.

Igraine is dead, my mother is dead, and I cannot come again to Avalon, never in this world ... and then Morgaine was weeping hopelessly, muffling her sobs in the coarse stuff of the cloak.

Kevin's voice was soft and husky in the half-light.

"Do you weep for your mother, Morgaine?"

"For my mother-and for Viviane-and perhaps most of all for myself." Morgaine was never certain whether she had spoken the words aloud. Kevin's arm circled her, and she let her head fall against his chest and wept and wept until she could weep no more.

He said, after a long time, still stroking her hair, "You spoke truth, Morgaine-you do not shrink from me."

"How could I," she said, nestling closer, "when you have been so kind?"

"All women think not so," he said. "Even when I came to the Beltane fires, I heard-for some folk think that because my legs and hands are lame, I am also deaf and dumb-I heard more than one, even of the maidens of the Goddess, whisper to their priestess that she should place them afar from me, so that there would be no chance I would look upon them when the time came to go apart from the fires ... ."

Morgaine sat straight up in dismay. "Were I that priestess, I would drive such a woman forth from the fires, because she dared to question the form in which the God might come to her ... what did you do, Kevin?"

He shrugged. "Rather than interrupt the ritual or put any woman to such a choice, I went away so quietly that none knew. Even the God could never change what they see or think of me. Even before I was forbidden by the Druid vows to couple with women who barter their bodies for gold, I could pay no woman to accept me. Perhaps I should seek to be a priest among the Christians, who, I have heard, teach their priests the secret of living without women. Or perhaps I should wish that when the raiders broke my hands and body they had gelded me too, so that I should not care one way or the other. I am sorry-I should not speak of it. But I wonder if you consented to lie at my side because you thought this crooked body of mine was not a man's, and did not think of me so ... "

Morgaine listened to him, appalled at the agony of bitterness in his words, the wounds dealt to his manhood. She knew the awareness that lived in his hands, the quick emotion of the musician. Even before the Goddess, could women look only at a broken body? She remembered how she had flung herself into Lancelet's arms, and the wound to her pride which, she knew, would never cease to bleed.

Quite deliberately she bent down and kissed him on the lips, pulled his hand to her and kissed the scars there. "Never doubt it, to me you are a man, and the Goddess has prompted me to do this." She lay down again, turning toward him.

He looked sharply at her in the growing light. For a moment she flinched at what she saw in his face-did he think she pitied him? No: she shared the awareness of his suffering, which was another thing. She looked him directly in the eyes ... yes, if his face had not been so drawn with bitterness, so twisted with suffering, he might have been handsome; his features were good, his eyes very dark and gentle. Fate had broken his body, but not his spirit-no coward could have endured the ordeals of the Druids.

Under the mantle of the Goddess, as every woman is my sister and my daughter and my mother, so must every man be to me as father and lover and son ... . My father was dead before I could remember him, and I have not seen my son since he was weaned ... but to this man I will give what the Goddess prompts me ... . Morgaine kissed one of the scarred hands again and laid it inside her gown, against her breast.

He was inexperienced-which seemed to her strange for a man of his age. But how, Morgaine wondered, could he possibly have been anything else? And then she thought, This is the first time, really, that I have done this of my free will, and had the gift taken simply, as it was offered. It healed something in her. Strange, that it could have been so with a man she scarcely knew, and for whom she felt only kindness. Even in his inexperience he was generous and gentle with her, and she felt, welling up within her, a great and unspeakable tenderness.

"It is strange," he said at last, in a quiet, musing voice. "I had known you were wise and a priestess, but somehow I had never thought you were beautiful."

She laughed harshly. "Beautiful? Me?" But she was grateful that, to him, at that moment, she seemed so.

"Morgaine, tell me-where have you been? I would not ask, but that whatever it is, it lies heavy on your heart."

"I do not know," she blurted out. She had never thought she would tell him. "Out of the world, perhaps-I was trying to reach Avalon-and I could not come there, the way is barred to me, I think. Twice now, I have been-elsewhere. Another country, a country of dreams and enchantments-a country where time stands still and is not, and there is nothing but music-" And she fell silent; would the harper think her a madwoman?

He traced a finger along the corner of her eye. It was cold, and they had thrown the covers off them; he tucked the cloaks gently round her again. "Once I too was there, and heard their music ... " he said, in a distant brooding voice, "and in that place I was not near so crippled, and their women did not mock me ... . Some day, perhaps, when I have lost my fear of madness, I shall go to them once again ... they showed me the hidden ways and said I might come because of my music ... " and again, his soft voice dropped into a long silence.

She shivered and looked away from him. "We had better get up. If our poor horse has not quite frozen in the night, we will arrive at Camelot this day."

"And if we arrive together," Kevin said quietly, "they may believe that you have come with me from Avalon. It is none of their affair where you have dwelt-you are a priestess, and your conscience is not in the keeping of any man alive, not even of their bishops, or of Taliesin himself."

Morgaine wished she had a decent dress to put on; she would arrive at Arthur's court in the garb of a beggar woman. Well, it could not be helped. Kevin watched as she arranged her hair, then held out his hand, and she helped him to his feet, matter-of-factly; but she saw that the bitter look was in his eyes again. He was guarded behind a hundred fences of reserve and anger. Yet just as they were crawling out the door he touched her hand. "I have not thanked you, Morgaine-"

She smiled. "Oh-if there are thanks, they are to be spoken both ways, my friend-or could you not tell that?"

For a moment the scarred fingers tightened on hers... and then it was like a blaze of fire, she saw his ravaged face circled with a ring of fire, contorted with shrieking, and all about and all around him fire ... fire ... she stiffened and snatched her hand away, staring at him in horror.

"Morgaine!" he cried. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing-a cramp in my foot-" she lied, and avoided his hand when he would have put it out to steady her. Death! Death by burning! What did it mean? Not even the worst of traitors died that death ... or had she seen only what had befallen him when he was lamed as a boy? Brief as the moment of Sight had been, it left her shaken, as if she herself had spoken the word that would deliver him to his death.

"Come," she said, almost brusquely. "Let us ride."

15

Gwenhwyfar had never wished to meddle with the Sight; did it not say in Holy Writ that no man knew what a day might bring forth? Yet she had hardly thought of Morgaine in the last year, not since they had moved the court to Camelot, but this very morning she had wakened remembering a dream she had had of Morgaine-a dream in which Morgaine had taken her hand, leading her to the Beltane fires and bidding her lie with Lancelet there. When she was well awake she could laugh at the madness of that dream. Surely dreams were sent from the Devil, for in all of hers that gave her such evil counsel that no Christian wife could heed, oftenest it was Morgaine who spoke it.

Well, she is gone from this court, I need never think of her again ... no, I do not wish her ill, I wish she might repent of her sins, and find peace in a nunnery ... but one very far from here. Now that Arthur had given over his pagan ways, Gwenhwyfar felt that she would even be happy if it were not for these dreams in which Morgaine led her into shameful things. And now the dream haunted her while she sat working at the altar cloth she was making for the church, haunted her so deeply that it seemed wicked to sit working a cross in gold thread while she thought of Lancelet. She put down her thread and whispered a prayer, but her thoughts went on, relentless. Arthur, when she begged him at Christmas, had promised her that he would put down the Beltane fires in the countryside; she thought he would have done it before this, except that the Merlin had forbidden him. It would be hard for any, Gwenhwyfar thought, not to love the old man-he was so gentle and good; if only he were Christian, he would be better than any priest. But Taliesin had said it was not fair to the countryfolk, either, to take from them a simple awareness of a Goddess who cared for their fields and their crops and the fertility of their beasts and their own wombs. Surely there was little that such folk could do in the way of sin, they had all they could do to toil in the fields and till their crops for enough bread to keep them out of death's reach; it was not to be looked for that the Devil should trouble himself with such people, if there was a Devil at all. But Gwenhwyfar said, "I suppose you think they do no sin, when they go to the Beltane fires and there do lewd and heathen rites and lie with other than their husbands-"

"God knows they have little enough joy in their lives," Taliesin responded tranquilly. "I cannot think it very wrong that four times in a whole year, when the seasons turn, they should make merry and do what pleasures them. I could not find much reason to love a God who took thought about such things and would call them wicked. Do you call them wicked, my queen?"

And she did; any Christian woman must think so, to go into the fields and dance naked and lie there with the first man sent to her ... immodest and shameful and wicked. Taliesin shook his head, sighing.

"Still, my queen, none can be the master of another's conscience. Even if you think it wicked and shameful, would you pretend to know what is right for another? Even the wise cannot know everything, and perhaps the Gods have more purposes than we, in our little knowledge, can see."

"If I knew right from wrong-as I do and as the priests have taught us, and as God has taught us in Holy Writ-then should I fear God's punishment if I did not make such laws as would keep my people from sin?" Gwenhwyfar demanded. "God would require it at my hands, I think, if I allowed evil to take place in my realm, and if I were king I should already have put it down."

"Then, lady, I can say only that it is the good fortune of this land that you are not king. A king must protect his people from outsiders, from invaders, and lead his people to defend themselves-a king must be the first to thrust himself between the land and all danger, just as a farmer stands to defend his fields from any robber. But it is not his duty to dictate to them what their innermost hearts may do."

But she had debated with him hotly. "A king is the protector of his people, and what good is it to protect their bodies if he lets their souls fall into evil ways? Look you, Lord Merlin, I am a queen, and mothers in this land send their daughters to wait upon me and be schooled in courtly ways -understand you? Well, what manner of queen should I be, if I let another woman's daughter behave immodestly and get herself with child, or-as did Queen Morgause, I have heard-let her maidens go to the king's bed, if he wished to have his way with them? Mothers entrust me with their daughters because they know I will protect them-"

"It is different, that you should be entrusted with maidens too young to know their own will, and be even as a mother to bring them up rightly," Taliesin said. "But a king rules over grown men."

"God has not said there is one law for the court and one other for the country folk! He wishes all men to keep his commandments-and suppose the laws were not there? What do you think would happen to this land if I and my ladies went out into the fields and behaved so immodestly? How can such things be allowed to go on within the very sound of the church bells?"

Taliesin smiled. He said, "I do not think, even if there was no law against it, that you would be very likely to go into the fields at Beltane, my lady. I have marked it-that you like not to go out of doors much at all."

"I have had the good of Christian teaching and priestly counsel and I choose not to go," she said sharply.

"But Gwenhwyfar," he said very gently, his faded blue eyes looking at her out of the network of lines and patches on his face, "think of this. Suppose a law was made against it, and your conscience told you that it was the right thing to do, to give yourself to the Goddess, in acknowledgment that she is over us all, body and soul? If your Goddess wished for you to do so-then, dear lady, would you let the passing of a law forbidding the Beltane fires stop you from it? Think, dear lady: not more than two hundred years ago-has Bishop Patricius not told you of this?-it was strictly against the laws here in the Summer Country that any should worship the Christ, for so they should defraud the Gods of Rome of their just and righteous due. And there were Christians who died rather than do such a little thing, cast a pinch of incense before one of their idols-aye, I see you have heard the story. Would you have your God be as great a tyrant as any Roman emperor?"

"But God is real, and they are but idols fashioned by men," Gwenhwyfar said.

"Not so, no more than the picture of Mary Virgin which Arthur bore into battle ... " said Taliesin, "a picture to give comfort to the minds of the faithful. It is strictly forbidden to me, a Druid, that I may have any representation of any God, for I have been so taught, in many lives, that I need none-I can think upon my God and he is with me. But the once-born cannot do that, and so they need their Goddess in round stones and pools, as your simple people need the picture of Mary Virgin and the cross which some of your knights bear on their shields, so that men may know they are Christian knights."

Gwenhwyfar knew there was a flaw in this argument, but she could not debate with the Merlin; and in any case, he was only an old man, and a heathen.

When I have borne Arthur a son-once he said to me that then I might ask of him anything he could give, and at that time I will ask him to forbid the Beltane fires and the harvest fires.

Gwenhwyfar remembered this conversation, months after, on the morning of her dream. No doubt Morgaine would have counselled her so, that she should go with Lancelet to the fires ... Arthur had said he would ask her no question if she should bear a child, he had all but given her leave to have Lancelet as a lover ... she felt her face flaming as she bent over the cross; she was not fit to touch such stuff. She put the altar cloth from her and wrapped it in a piece of coarser cloth. She would work on it when she was more tranquil.

Cai's uneven step sounded at the door of the room. "My lady," he said, "the King has sent to ask if you would come down to the arms field to watch. There is something he would show you."

Gwenhwyfar nodded to her ladies. "Elaine, Meleas, come with me," she said. "You others, you may come or stay here and work, as you like."

One of the women, who was elderly and somewhat shortsighted, chose to stay and go on with her spinning; the others, eager for a chance to get out into the sunlight, flocked after Gwenhwyfar.

In the night there had been snow, but the strength of the winter was past, and now the snow lay melting quickly in the sun. Little bulbs were poking leaves through the grass; in another month, this would be a wilderness of flowers. When she had come here to Camelot, her father Leodegranz had sent her his favorite gardener, so that he could decide what vegetables and pot herbs would grow best in this site. But this hilltop had been fortified long before Roman times and there were some herbs growing; Gwenhwyfar had had him transplant them all into her kitchen garden, and when they found a patch where flowers were growing wild, Gwenhwyfar begged Arthur that she should be left it for her own lawns, and he had built the arms field further along the hilltop.

She looked up timidly, as they moved across the lawns. It was so open here, so near to the sky; Caerleon had nestled close to the earth. Here at Camelot, on rainy days, it was like being on an island of fog and mist- like Avalon-but on clear days of sunlight, such as this one, it lay high and exposed, so that it could command all the country round, and standing at the edge of the hilltop she could see miles and miles of hill and forest ... .

It was like being too near to Heaven; surely it was not right that human beings, mere mortals, should see so far-but Arthur said, even though there was peace in the land, the King's castle should be difficult to come at.

It was not Arthur who came to meet her, but Lancelet. He had grown even handsomer, she thought. Now that he need not keep his hair always hacked short for the war helmet, he had let it grow long, and it curled around his shoulders. He wore a short beard-she liked the fashion on him, though Arthur teased him about it and said he was vain; Arthur himself kept his hair clipped short like a soldier, and had himself shaved every day by his chamberlains, as carefully and as closely as he combed his hair.

"Lady, the King is waiting for you," said Lancelet, and took her arm to escort her to the set of seats Arthur had had built close to the wooden railings of the exercise field.

Arthur bowed to her, thanking Lancelet with a smile as he took Gwenhwyfar's hand. "Here, Gwen, sit beside me-I brought you here because I want to show you something special. Look there-"

She could see that a group of the younger knights and some of the youngsters who served in the King's house were working at a mock battle in the yard: divided into two groups, they were fighting with wooden battens and big shields. "Look," said Arthur, "the big one in the ragged saffron shirt. Does he not put you in mind of someone?"

Gwenhwyfar looked at the boy, following his skillful work with sword and shield-he broke away from the others, attacked like a fury, toppling them over, caught one lad so hard a blow on his head that he left him stretched senseless, sent another reeling with a fierce blow on the shield. He was only a youngster-his rosy face was fuzzed with the first beginnings of beard, so that he still looked like a cherub-but he was near to six feet tall, and big and broad-shouldered as an ox.

"He fights like the fiend," Gwenhwyfar said, "but who is he? I seem to have seen him about the court-"

"He is that young lad who came to court and would not give his name," Lancelet said at their elbow, "so you gave him to Cai to help in the kitchens. He's the one they called 'Handsome' because his hands were so fine and white. Cai made all sorts of rude jokes about spoiling them by turning the spit and scrubbing vegetables. Our Cai has a rough tongue."

"But the boy never answered him back," said Gawaine gruffly at Arthur's other side. "He could break Cai with his two hands, but when the other lads urged him on to strike Cai-once Cai made some kind of wicked joke about his parentage, saying he must be base-born and the son of scullions, since he came so naturally to such things-Handsome only looked right over the top of his head and said it would not be well done to strike a man who had lamed himself in the service of his king."

Lancelet said wryly. "That would be worse to Cai than being beaten senseless, I think. Cai feels he is fit for nothing but to turn the spit and serve the plates. One day, Arthur, you must find a quest for Cai, even if it is no more than to go and find traces of old Pellinore's dragon."

Elaine and Meleas giggled behind their hands. Arthur said, "Well, well, I will. Cai is too good and too loyal to be soured this way. You know I would have given him Caerleon, but he would not take it. He said his father had bidden him to serve me with his own hands so long as he lived, and he would come here to Camelot to keep my house. But this boy- Handsome, you called him, Lance? Does he not put you in mind of someone, my lady?"

She studied the boy, charging now against the last of the opposing group, his long, fair hair flying in the wind. He had a high, broad forehead and a big nose, and his hands, gripped on the weapon, were smooth and white-then she looked past Arthur at just another such nose and blue eyes, though these were hidden in a shock of red hair, and said, "Why, he is like Gawaine," as if it were something shocking.

"God help us, why, so he is," said Lancelet, laughing, "and I never saw it-and I have seen much of him. I gave him that saffron shirt, he had not a whole shirt to his name-"

"And other things, too," Gawaine said. "When I asked him if he had all that was fitting to his station, he told me of your gifts. It was nobly done of you to help the boy, Lance."

Arthur turned to him and said in surprise, "Is he, then, one of your brood, Gawaine? I knew not you had a son-"

"Nay, my king. It is my-my youngest brother, Gareth. But he would not let me tell."

"And you never told me, cousin?" Arthur said reproachfully. "Would you keep secrets from your king?"

"Not that," protested Gawaine uncomfortably, and his big, slab-sided face flushed red, so that he and his hair and his brick-red cheeks seemed all one color; it seemed strange to Gwenhwyfar that so big and rough a man could blush like a child. "Never that, my king, but the boy begged me to say nothing-he said you have favored me because I was your cousin and your kinsman, but if he won favor at Arthur's court and from the great Lancelet-he said that, Lance, the great Lancelet-he wished it to be for what he had done, not for his name and his birth."

"That was foolish," said Gwenhwyfar, but Lancelet smiled. "Nay-it was honorably done. Often I have wished I had had wit and courage to do the same, rather than being tolerated because, after all, I was Ban's own bastard and needed not to win anything by merit-it was for that I strove so fiercely always to be valorous in battle, so that none might say I had not earned my favors-"

Arthur laid his hand gently on Lancelot's wrist. "You need never fear that, my friend," he said, "all men know you are the best of my knights, and closest to my throne. But, Gawaine"-he turned to the red-haired man -"I favored not you, either, because you were my kinsman and heir, but only because you were loyal and staunch, and have saved my life a dozen times over. There were those who told me my heir should never be my bodyguard, for if he did his duty too well, then would he never come to the throne, but many and many a day I have had occasion to be glad of so loyal a kinsman at my back." He put his arm across Gawaine's shoulders. "So this is your brother, and I knew it not."

"I knew it not either when he came to court," Gawaine said. "When last I had seen him, at your crowning, he was a little lad no taller than my sword hilt, and now-well, you see." He gestured. "But once I saw him in the kitchens and thought, perhaps, he was some bastard of our kin. God knows, Lot has enough of them-I recognized him, and then it was that Gareth begged me not to reveal who he was, that he might win fame on his own."

"Well, a year under Cai's harsh teachings would make a man of any mother's poppet," Lancelet said, "and he has borne himself manly enough, God knows."

"I wonder that you knew him not, Lancelet-he came near to getting you killed at Arthur's wedding," Gawaine said amiably. "Or do you not remember that you handed him over to our mother, and bade her beat him soundly to keep him from under the horses' feet-"

"And I came near to knocking out my brains soon after-aye, I remember now," Lancelet said, laughing. "So that is the same young rascal! But he has far outstripped the other boys, he should practice at arms with the men and knights. It looks now as if he would be among the best of them. Give me leave, my lord?"

"Do what you like, my friend."

Lancelet unbuckled his sword. He said, "Keep this for me, lady," and handed it to Gwenhwyfar. He leaped the fence, caught up one of the wooden battens kept for the boys to practice with, and ran toward the big, fair-haired boy.

"You are too big for those fellows, sirrah-come here now, and try conclusions with someone nearer your own size!"

Gwenhwyfar thought, in sudden dread, Nearer to your own size? But Lancelet was not so big a man, not much taller than herself, and young Handsome towered almost a full head over him! For a moment, facing the King's captain of horse, the boy hesitated, but Arthur gestured encouragement, and the boy's face lit up with a fierce joy. He charged at Lancelet, raising his mock weapon for a blow, and was startled when the blow descended and Lancelet was not under it; Lancelet had evaded him, spun round and caught him a blow on the shoulder. He had pulled back on the weapon as it came down so that it only touched the boy, but it tore his shirt. Gareth recovered himself quickly, caught Lancelet's next blow before it landed, and for a moment Lancelet's foot slipped on the wet grass and it looked as if he would go down, skidding to his knees before the boy.

Handsome stepped back. Lancelet got to his feet, yelling, "Idiot! Suppose I had been a great Saxon warrior!" and caught the boy a great blow on the back with the flat of his sword, which hurled him, his sword flailing wildly, halfway across the yeard; he went down and lay half-stunned.

Lancelet hurried to him and bent over him, smiling. "I did not want to hurt you, lad, but you must learn to guard yourself better than that." He held out his arm. "Here, lean on me."

"You have honored me, sir," said the boy, his fresh face coloring, "and indeed it did me good to feel your strength."

Lancelet clapped him on the shoulder. "May we always fight side by side and not as foemen, Handsome," he said, and returned to the King. The youngster picked up his sword and went back to his playmates, while they clustered around and teased him. "So, Handsome, you came close to knocking down the King's captain of horse in a fight-"

Arthur smiled as Lancelet climbed back over the fence. "That was courteously done, Lance. He will make a bonny knight-like to his brother," he added, nodding at Gawaine. "Kinsman, do not tell him that I know who he is-his reasons for concealing his name were honorable. But tell him I have seen him, and I will make him a knight at Pentecost, when any petitioner may come before me, if he will come before me and ask me for a sword befitting his station."

Gawaine's face lighted. Now, Gwenhwyfar thought, anyone who had seen them both should have known the relationship, for their smiles were the same. "I thank you, my lord and king. May he serve you as well as have I."

"He could hardly do that," Arthur said affectionately. "I am fortunate in my friends and Companions."

Gwenhwyfar thought that, indeed, Arthur inspired love and devotion in everyone-it was the secret of his kingship, for though he was skilled enough in battle, he was no great fighter himself; more than once, in the mock battles with which they amused themselves and kept themselves fit for fighting, she had seen Lancelet, and even old Pellinore, unseat him or knock him from his feet. Arthur was never angry or wounded by pride, but always said good-naturedly that he was glad he had such fine fighters to guard him, and better friends than foemen.

Soon after, the boys picked up their practice weapons and departed. Gawaine went off to have a word with his brother, but Arthur drew Gwenhwyfar out toward the fortified wall. Camelot sat on a broad, high hill, flat at the top as a large town, and all over the hill, inside the wall, they had built their castle and city. Now Arthur led Gwenhwyfar up to his favorite vantage point, where he could stand atop the wall and look out over all the broad valley. She felt dizzy, and clung to the wall. From where they stood she could see the island home of her childhood, the country of King Leodegranz, and a little to the north of it, the island that coiled, from where they stood, like a sleeping dragon.

"Your father grows old, and he has no son," said Arthur. "Who will rule after him?"

"I know not-like enough he will have it that you should appoint someone to reign as regent for me," Gwenhwyfar said; one of her sisters had died in childbirth, far away in Wales, and another had died in a siege of their castle. And her father's second wife had borne him no living son, either, so that Gwenhwyfar was heir to that kingdom. But how could she, a woman, keep it from those who were greedy for land? She looked beyond her father's lands and asked, "Your father-the Pendragon-was he too made king on Dragon Island, I wonder?"

"So the Lady of the Lake told me, and so he pledged his faith always to shelter the old religion, and Avalon-as did I," said Arthur moodily, and stood staring at Dragon Island. She wondered what pagan nonsense was filling his head.

"But when you turned to the one true God, then did he give you that greatest of victories, so that you drove the Saxons forth from this island for all of time."

"It is foolish to say so," said Arthur. "Never, I think, can any land be secure for all time, but only as God wills-"

"And God has given you all this land, Arthur, so that you may rule as a Christian king. It is like to the prophet Elijah-the bishop told me the tale-when he went out with the priests of God, and met the priests of Baal, so that they each called on their God, and the One God was the greatest and Baal but an idol, so that he answered them not. If there was anything of power in the ways of Avalon, would God and the Virgin have given you such a victory?"

"My armies drove off the Saxons, but I may be punished hereafter for oathbreaking," Arthur said. She hated it when the lines of sorrow and dread came into his face.

She went a little toward the south, straining her eyes-from here, if you looked hard, you could see the very tip of the church of Saint Michael which rose on the Tor-the church which had been built because Michael was lord of the underworld, fighting to keep down the gods of the heathen in Hell. Only there were times when it blurred before her eyes, so that she saw the Tor crowned with ring stones. The nuns on Glastonbury had told her that it had been so, in the bad old heathen days, and the priests had labored to take down the ring stones and haul them away. She supposed it was because she was a sinful woman that she had this glance into heathendom. Once she had dreamed that she and Lancelet were lying together beneath the ring stones, and he had had of her what she had never given him ... .

Lancelet. He was so good, never did he press her for more than a Christian woman and a wedded wife could give him without dishonor ... yet it was written that the Christ had said himself, whoever looks upon a woman with lust has committed adultery already with her in his heart... so she had sinned with Lancelet, and there was no mitigation, they were both damned. She shivered and turned her eyes away from the Tor, for it seemed that Arthur could read her thoughts. He had spoken Lancelet's name-

"Don't you think so, Gwen? It's more than time Lancelet should marry."

She forced her voice to stay calm. "On the day when he asks you for a wife, my lord and my king, you should give him one."

"But he will not ask," Arthur said. "He has no will to leave me. Pellinore's daughter would make him a good wife, and she is your own cousin-don't you think it would suit? Lancelet is not rich, Ban had too many bastards to give much to any one of them. It would be a good match for both."

"Aye, no doubt you are right," Gwenhwyfar said. "Elaine follows him about with her eyes as the lads in the play yard do, eager for a kind word or even a look." Though it hurt her heart, perhaps it would be best if Lancelet should marry, he was too good to be tied to a woman who could give him so little; and then she could amend her sin with a firm promise to sin no more, as she could not do when Lancelet was near.

"Well, I will speak of it again with Lancelet. He says he has no mind to marry, but I will make him understand it means not exile from my court. Would it not be good for me and mine, if our children, some day, might have Lancelet's sons to follow them?"

"God grant that day may come," said Gwenhwyfar, and crossed herself. They stood together at the height, looking out over the Summer Country, which lay spread before them.

"There is a rider on the road," said Arthur, looking down the road which led toward the castle; then, as the rider drew nearer, "It is Kevin the Harper, come here from Avalon. And at least this time he has had sense enough to travel with a serving-man."

"That is no serving-man," said Gwenhwyfar, her sharp eyes resting on the slender form riding behind Kevin on his horse. "That is a woman. I am shocked-I had thought the Druids were like to priests, and stayed far from women."

"Why, some of them do, sweetheart, but I have heard from Taliesin that all those who are not in the highest rank may marry, and frequently they do," he said. "Perhaps Kevin has taken him a wife, or perhaps he has only travelled with someone coming this way. Send one of your women to tell Taliesin that he is here, and another to the kitchens-if we shall have music this night, it is only fitting we have something like a feast to celebrate it! Let us walk this way and welcome him-a harper of Kevin's skill is worthy of welcome from the King himself."

By the time they reached the great gates, they had been opened, and Cai himself had stepped forward to welcome the great harper to Camelot. Kevin bowed to the King, but Gwenhwyfar's eyes were on the slender, ill-clad form behind.

Morgaine bowed and said, "So I have returned to your court, my brother."

Arthur went and embraced her. "Welcome back, my sister-it has been so long," he said, his cheek lingering against hers. "And now that our mother has gone from us, we who are kinfolk should be together. Do not go from me again, sister."

She said, "I had no thought of it."

Gwenhwyfar came and embraced her too, feeling the other woman's body sharp-boned and thin against her arms. She said, "You look as if you had been long on the road, my sister."

"True-I have come very far," Morgaine said, and Gwenhwyfar kept her hand as they walked within.

"Where have you been? You were so long away-almost I thought you would never return," Gwenhwyfar said.

"Almost I thought so myself," said Morgaine. But, Gwenhwyfar noticed, she did not say, either, where she had been.

"Such gear as you left with us-your harp, your gowns, all these things-they were left at Caerleon. Tomorrow I will send for them as swiftly as a messenger can ride," Gwenhwyfar said, as she took her to the room where her women slept. "Till then, if you will, I will lend you a gown -you have been travelling long, sister, and you look as if you had been sleeping within a cow byre. Were you attacked by robbers and your gear stolen?"

"I had ill fortune indeed on the road," Morgaine said, "and if you will send someone to me that I may bathe, and dress myself clean, I will bless you. I would ask the loan of a comb too, and pins for my hair, and a shift."

"My gown will be too long for you," said Gwenhwyfar, "but no doubt you can pin it up somehow until your own clothes have come. Combs and veils and shifts I will give you gladly, and shoes as well-those look as if you had walked in them from here to Lothian and back!" She beckoned to one of her waiting-women and said, "Bring the red gown, and the veil that goes with it, and a shift and my other indoor shoes and hose-choose everything so that my lord's sister is dressed as is fitting to her station. And send for a bath and a bath-woman too." She looked disdainfully at the gown Morgaine was taking off, and said, "If that one cannot be fitly aired and cleaned, give it to one of the dairy-women!"

When Morgaine appeared at the King's table she wore the red gown, which lent color to her dark skin and became her well; they besought her to sing, but she would not, saying that as Kevin was at hand, no one would listen to a robin's chirping when a nightingale was near.

The next day Kevin sought private audience with Arthur, and he and the King and Taliesin, too, were closeted for many hours, and even had supper brought to them there; but Gwenhwyfar never knew what they spoke of-Arthur told her little of affairs of state. No doubt, they were angered with him that he had chosen to renounce his vows to Avalon, but soon or late they must accept it-that he was a Christian king. As for Gwenhwyfar, she had other things to think of.

THAT SPRING THERE WAS fever at the court, and some of her women fell sick of it, so that until Easter was past she had no leisure to think of anything else. She had never thought she would be glad of Morgaine's presence, but Morgaine knew much of herb lore and of healing, and she thought it was due to Morgaine's wisdom that there were no deaths in the court-in the country round, she heard, many died, though mostly little children and old folk. Her little half-sister Isotta took the fever, but her mother heard and would not have her stay at court, so that she was sent back to the island, and later in that month Gwenhwyfar heard that she had died. She mourned for the girl-she had come to be fond of her, and had hoped to marry her to one of Arthur's Companions when she was older.

Lancelet fell sick of the fever too, and Arthur gave orders that he should be quartered in the castle and nursed by her own women. While there was still danger that she might take the fever she did not go near him- she had hoped herself pregnant again, but it turned out not to be so; only her own hopes and illusions. When he began to recover she went often and sat by his side.

Morgaine came too, to play the harp, while he was unable to leave his bed. One day, watching them when they spoke of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar caught the look in Morgaine's eyes, and thought, Why, she still loves him! She knew Arthur still hoped for this-a match between Morgaine and Lancelet and she watched, sick with jealousy, as Lancelet listened to Morgaine's harp.

Her voice is so sweet; she is not beautiful, but she is so wise and learned -beautiful women are so many, Elaine is beautiful, and Meleas, and the daughter of King Royns, and even Morgause is beautiful, but why should Lancelet care for that? And she marked the gentleness of Morgaine's hands as she lifted him and gave him her herb medicines and cooling drinks. She, Gwenhwyfar, was not good at all with the sick, she had no skills, she sat dumb while Morgaine talked and laughed and amused him.

It was growing dark, and at last Morgaine said, "I can no longer see the harp strings, and I am hoarse as a crow-I can sing no more. You must drink your medicine, Lancelet, and then I will send your man to you, to get you settled for the night-"

With a wry smile Lancelet took the cup she put in his hand. "Your drinks are cooling, kinswoman, but ugh! The taste of them-"

"Drink it," Morgaine said, laughing. "Arthur has put you under my command when you are sick-"

"Aye, and I do not doubt, if I refused you should beat me and put me supperless to bed, while if I drink my medicine like a good lad I shall have a kiss and a honey cake," Lancelet said.

Morgaine chuckled. "You cannot have a honey cake yet, you can have your nice gruel. But if you drink up your potion, you shall have a goodnight kiss and I will bake you a honey cake when you are well enough to eat it."

"Yes, Mother," Lancelet said, wrinkling up his nose. Gwenhwyfar could see that Morgaine did not like the jest, but when he had emptied the cup she bent over him and kissed him lightly on the brow, and drew up the covers under his chin as a mother smooths a child's cradle. "There, now, good child, go to sleep," she said, laughing, but the laughter sounded bitter to Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine went away.

Gwenhwyfar stood by Lancelet's bed, and said, "She is right, my dear, you should sleep."

"I am weary of Morgaine being always right," said Lancelet. "Sit you here by me for a little, dear love-"

It was seldom he dared speak so to her, but she sat herself on his bed and let him hold her hand. After a little he pulled her down beside him and kissed her; she lay along the edge of his bed and let him kiss her again and again, but after a long time he sighed, weary, and did not protest when she rose from his side. "My dearest love, this cannot go on like this. You must give me leave to depart from the court."

"What? To chase Pellinore's favorite dragon? Why, what will Pel-linore do in holidaytime, then? It is his favorite hunting," Gwenhwyfar said, jesting, but it was like a pain in her heart.

He seized both her arms, pulling her down. "No, make this not a jest, Gwen-you know it and I know it, and God help us both, I think even Arthur knows it, that I have loved none but you, or ever will, since first I set eyes on you in your father's house. And if I am to remain a true man to my king and my friend, then I must depart from this court and never set eyes on you again-"

Gwenhwyfar said, "I would not hold you, if you feel that you must go-"

"As I have gone before," he said violently. "Every time I rode forth to war, half of me longed that I should fall at Saxon hands and return no more to hopeless love-God forgive me, there were times when I hated my king, whom I have sworn to love and serve, and then I thought, no woman should part the friendship that was between us two, and I have sworn I would think of you no more, save as the wife of my king. But now there are no more wars, and I must sit here day by day and look upon you at his side in his high seat, and think of you in his bed, his happy and contented wife-"

"Why do you think I am any more happy or contented than you?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "At least you can choose whether to stay or to go, but I was given into Arthur's hands without even so much as 'will you or no?' Nor can I rise and ride forth from court when things go not to my will, but must stay here within walls and do what is expected of me ... if you must go, I cannot say, Stay; and if you stay, I cannot say to you, Go! At least you are free to go or to stay as makes you happiest!"

"Do you think there is happiness for me, either in staying or going?" Lancelet demanded, and for a moment she thought that he would weep. Then he mastered himself and said, "Love, what do you want me to do? God forbid I should give you more unhappiness. If I am gone from here, then is your duty plain, to be a good wife to Arthur, no more and no less. If I stay here-" He broke off.

"If you feel it is your duty to go," she said, "then you must go." And tears flooded down her face, blurring her sight.

He said, and his voice was strained as if he had had a mortal wound, "Gwenhwyfar-" He so seldom spoke her formal name, it was always my lady or my queen, or when he spoke to her in play it was always Gwen. When he spoke it now, it seemed to her she had never heard a sweeter sound. "Gwenhwyfar. Why do you weep?"

Now she must lie, and lie well, because she could not in honor tell him the truth. She said, "Because-" and stopped, and then, in a choking voice, she said, "because I do not know how I shall live if you go away."

He swallowed hard and took her hands between his own and said, "Why, then-why, love-I am not a king, but my father has given me a small estate in Brittany. Would you come with me away from this court? I-I know not, perhaps it would be the more honorable way, than stay here at Arthur's court and make love to his wife-"

He loves me, then, Gwenhwyfar thought, he wants me, this is the honorable way ... but panic flooded through her. To go forth alone, so far, even with Lancelet... and then the thought of what everyone would say of her, should she be so dishonored ... .

He lay clasping her hand in his. He said, "We could never return, you know-never. And it's likely we should be excommunicated, both of us- that would mean little to me, I am not so much a Christian as all that. But you, my Gwenhwyfar-"

She put up her veil over her face and wept, knowing what a coward she was.

"Gwenhwyfar," he said, "I would not lead you into sin-"

She said bitterly, "We have sinned already, you and I-"

"And if the priests are right we will be damned for it," Lancelet said bitterly, "and yet have I never had more of you than these kisses-we have had all the evil and the guilt, and none of the pleasure which is said to come from sin. And I am not so sure I believe the priests-what sort of God goes about every night like a night watchman, peeping here and prying there like an old village gossip to see if any man beds with his neighbor's wife-"

"The Merlin said something like that," Gwenhwyfar said, low. "And sometimes it seems to me sensible, and then again I wonder if it is the Devil's work to lead me into evil ... ."

"Oh, talk not to me of the Devil," he said, and pulled her down beside him again. "Sweetheart, my own, I will go away if you want me to, or I will stay, but I cannot bear to see you so unhappy ... ."

"I do not know what I want," she wept, and let him hold her, sobbing. At last he murmured, "We have paid for the sin already ..." and his mouth covered hers. Trembling, Gwenhwyfar let herself surrender to the kiss, his eager hands searching at her breast. She almost hoped that this time he would not be content with that, but there was a sound in the hallway and Gwenhwyfar drew herself upright, in sudden panic. She sat on the edge of the bed as Lancelet's esquire came into the room. He coughed and said, "My lord? The lady Morgaine told me you were ready to go to your rest. By your leave, my lady-?"

Morgaine again, damn her! Lancelet laughed and let go of Gwenhwyfar's hand. "Yes, and I doubt it not, my lady is weary. Will you promise to come and see me tomorrow, my queen?"

She was both grateful and angry that his voice sounded so calm. She turned away from the light the serving-man carried; she knew her veil was crushed and her dress rumpled, her face smeared with crying and her hair coming down. How she must look-what would the man think they had been doing? She put her veil over her face and rose. "Good night, sir Lancelet. Kerval, care you well for my king's dear friend," and went out, hoping forlornly that she could get down the hall to her own room before she burst into weeping again. Ah God, how-how dare I pray to God that I may sin further? I should pray to be free of temptation, and I cannot!

16

A day or two before Beltane-eve, Kevin the Harper came again to Arthur's court. Morgaine was glad to see him; it had been a long and weary springtime. Lancelet had recovered from the fever and gone north to Lothian, and Morgaine had thought she should ride to Lothian too, to see how it was with her son; but she did not want to go in Lancelet's company, nor would he have wished for her as a travelling companion; she thought, My son is well where he is, another time I will go and see him.

Gwenhwyfar was sorrowful and silent; in the years Morgaine had been absent, the Queen had altered from a lighthearted, childish woman to a silent, thoughtful one, more pious than was reasonable. Morgaine suspected that she pined after Lancelet, and knowing Lancelet, Morgaine thought with a touch of contempt that he would neither leave the woman in peace nor lead her wholeheartedly into sin. And Gwenhwyfar was a good match for him-she would neither give in to him nor give him up. She wondered what Arthur thought, but it would have taken a braver woman than she to ask him.

Morgaine welcomed Kevin to court, and to herself she thought it not unlikely that they would keep Beltane together-the sun tides ran hot in her blood, and if she could not have the man she wanted (and she knew it was still Lancelet to whom she was drawn), it might be as well to take a lover who found delight in her; it was good to be cherished and sought after. And, as neither Arthur nor Lancelet would do, Kevin spoke with her freely of affairs of state. She thought, with a moment of bitter regret, had she stayed in Avalon, by now, she would be consulted in all the great affairs of her time.

Well, it was too late for that; done was done. So she greeted Kevin in the great hall and had him served food and wine, a task Gwenhwyfar gladly gave over to her-Gwenhwyfar liked well enough to hear Kevin play on the harp, but she could not bear the sight of him. So Morgaine served him, and spoke to him of Avalon.

"Is Viviane well?"

"Well, and still resolved to come to Camelot at Pentecost," said Kevin, "and it is well, for Arthur would scarce listen to me. Though he has promised not to forbid the Beltane fires this year, at least."

"It would do him little good to forbid them," said Morgaine. "But Arthur has trouble nearer home, too." She gestured. "Beyond that window, almost within sight from the heights of the castle, lies the island kingdom of Leodegranz-had you heard?"

"A chance-come traveller told me he was dead," Kevin said, "and he left no son. His lady Alienor died with her last child, a few days after his death. The fever was cruel in that country."

"Gwenhwyfar would not travel thither for the burying," Morgaine said. "She had little to weep for-hers was not a loving father. Arthur will have consulted her about setting a regent there-he says that now the kingdom is hers, and if they should have a second son, that son shall have it. But it seems not likely now that Gwenhwyfar will have even one."

Kevin nodded slowly. "Aye, she miscarried of a child before Mount Badon, and was very ill. Since then I have not heard even a rumor that she was pregnant," said Kevin. "How old is the High Queen?"

"I think she is at least five-and-twenty now," said Morgaine, but she was not certain, she had dwelt so long in the fairy country.

"That is old for a first child," said Kevin, "though, I doubt not, like all barren women, she prays for a miracle. What ails the Queen that she does not conceive?"

"I am no midwife," said Morgaine. "She seems healthy enough, but she has worn out her knees in prayer, and there is no sign."

"Well, the Gods will have it as they will," Kevin said, "but we will need their mercy on this land if the High King dies with no son! And now there are no threats from the Saxons outside to keep the rival kings of Britain from falling one upon the other and tearing this land to shreds. I never trusted Lot, but he is dead, and Gawaine is Arthur's staunchest man, so there is little to fear from Lothian, unless Morgause finds herself a lover with ambition to be High King on his own."

"Lancelet has gone there, but he should return quickly," said Morgaine, and Kevin added, "Viviane, too, would ride to Lothian for some reason, though we thought, all of us, that she was too old for such a journey." Why, then, she will see my son ... . Morgaine's heart leapt, and there was a tightness like pain, or weeping, in her throat. Kevin seemed not to see.

"I met not with Lancelet on the road," he said. "No doubt he took another road, or stayed to greet his mother, or perhaps"-he grinned slyly -"to keep the Beltane feast. That would give joy to every woman in Lothian, if he tarried there. Morgause would not let such a tender morsel escape her clutches."

"She is his mother's sister," Morgaine said, "and I think Lance is too good a Christian for that. He has courage enough to face the Saxons in battle, but small courage for that battle."

Kevin raised his eyebrows. "Oh ho, is it so? I doubt not you speak from knowledge," he said, "but for politeness' sake we will say it is from the Sight! But Morgause would like well to see Arthur's best knight brought low by scandal-then would Gawaine stand nearer to the throne. And the lady is liked well by all men-she is not so old, either, but still beautiful, her hair still red as ever without a line of grey-"

"Oh," said Morgaine caustically, "they sell henna from Egypt in the markets of Lothian."

"And her waist is slim, and they say she practices magic arts to spellbind men to her," Kevin said, "but this is gossip and no more. I have heard she has ruled well enough in Lothian. Do you dislike her so much, Morgaine?"

"No. She is my kinswoman and has been good to me," Morgaine said, and started to say, She fostered my child, and that would open the way to ask if he had heard news of Gwydion ... then she stopped herself. Even to Kevin she could not confess that. She said, instead, "But I like it not that my kinswoman Morgause should be the common talk of Britain as a bawd."

"It is not so bad as that," Kevin said, laughing, and put away his wine cup. "If the lady has an eye to handsome men, she would not be the first or last. And now Morgause is widowed, no man can call her to account for who lies in her bed. But I must not keep the High King waiting. Wish me fortune, Morgaine, for I must bring ill news to my king, and you know the doom meted of old to him who brought the king news he had no mind to hear!"

"Arthur is not that sort," said Morgaine. "But if it is not secret, what ill news do you bring?"

"Not news at all," said Kevin, "for it has been said more than once that Avalon will not have it that he rule as a Christian king, whatever his private faith may be. He shall not allow the priests to put down the worship of the Goddess, nor touch the oak groves. And if he does so, then am I to say to him from the Lady: the hand which gave him the sacred sword of the Druids can turn it in his hand to smite him."

"That will not be pleasant hearing," said Morgaine, "but perhaps it will call his oath to mind."

"Aye, and Viviane has still one other weapon she can use," said Kevin, but when Morgaine asked what, he would tell her no more.

When he had gone from her, Morgaine sat thinking of the night to come. There would be music at dinner, and later-well, Kevin was a pleasant lover, gentle and eager to please her, and she was wearied of sleeping alone.

She was still sitting in the hall when Cai came to announce that another rider had come-"A kinsman of yours, lady Morgaine. Would you greet him and serve him wine?"

Morgaine agreed-had Lancelet returned so soon already?-but the rider was Balan.

She hardly knew him at first-he was heavier, so big now that she supposed it must take an oversized horse to carry his weight. But he recognized her at once.

"Morgaine! Greetings, kinswoman," he said, and sat beside her, taking the cup she offered. She told him that Arthur was speaking with Kevin and the Merlin, but would see him at dinner, and asked him for the news.

"Only that a dragon has been sighted again in the North," Balan said, "and no, this is no fantasy like old Pellinore's-I saw the track where it had been, and talked with two of the people who had seen it. They were not lying, nor telling a tale to amuse or give themselves importance; they were in terror of their lives. They said it had come out of the lake and taken their serving-man-they showed me his shoe."

"His-shoe, kinsman?"

"He lost it when he was taken, and I did not like touching the-slime -that besmeared it," Balan said. "I am going to ask Arthur for half a dozen knights to ride with me and put an end to it."

"You must ask Lancelet, if he returns," Morgaine said, as lightly as she could. "He will need some practice with dragons. I think Arthur is trying to make a match between Lancelet and Pellinore's daughter."

Balan looked at her sharply. "I do not envy the girl who has my little brother for husband," he said. "I have heard his heart is given-or should I not say-"

"You should not say it," said Morgaine.

Balan shrugged. "So be it. Arthur then has no special reason for wishing to find Lancelet a bride well away from court," he said. "I had not heard that you had come back to court, kinswoman. You look well."

"And how is it with your foster-brother?"

"Balin is well enough, when last I saw him," said Balan, "though he still has no love for Viviane. Still, there is no reason to believe he bears grudge for our mother's death. He raved and swore revenge then, but he would have to be a madman indeed to think still of such things. In any case, if such was his thought, he spoke not of it when he was here at Pentecost a year ago. That is Arthur's newest custom, you may not know-that wherever we may travel in all of Britain, every one of his old Companions should gather at Pentecost and dine at his table. At that time, too, he makes new Companions in the order of knighthood, and he will accept any petitioner, however humble-"

"Yes, I had heard of that," said Morgaine, and a flicker of unease passed over her. Kevin had spoken of Viviane-she told herself it was only disquiet at the idea that a woman of the Lady's years might come here as a common petitioner. As Balan said, it would take a madman to harbor thoughts of revenge after all this time.

That night there was music, Kevin's fine playing and singing; and later still that night, Morgaine slipped from the chamber where she slept with Gwenhwyfar's unwedded ladies, as noiselessly as a ghost-or as a priestess trained in Avalon-and made her way to the chamber where Kevin slept. She left there before daylight, well contented, but one thing Kevin had said -though they had had other things to speak of than Arthur-troubled her mind.

"Arthur would not listen to me," he said. "He told me that the folk of England were a Christian people, and while he would not persecute any man for following what Gods he liked, still he would stand with the priests and the church, as they had stood by his throne. And he sent word to the Lady of Avalon that if she would have back the sword, she could come and take it."

Even after she had crept back into her own bed, Morgaine lay wakeful. It was the legendary sword which had bound so many of the Tribesmen and Northmen to Arthur; and it was his allegiance to Avalon which had bound the dark pre-Roman people. Now, it seemed, Arthur was further from that allegiance than he had ever been.

She could speak with him-but no, he would not listen to her; she was a woman and his sister-and always, between them, lay the memory of that morning after the kingmaking, so that never could they speak freely as they might have done before. And she did not carry the authority of Avalon; with her own hands had she cast that away.

It might be that Viviane could make him see the importance of keeping to his oath. But tell herself this as she would, it was long before Morgaine could close her eyes and sleep.

17

Even before she rose from her bed, Gwenhwyfar could feel the bright sunlight through the bed-curtains-Summer is here. And then, Beltane. The very fullness of pagandom-she was sure that many of her serving-men and women would be slipping away from the court tonight, when the Beltane fires were lighted on Dragon Island in honor of their Goddess, there to lie in the fields ... some of them, no doubt, to come home again with their wombs quickened with the child of the God ... and I, a Christian wife, cannot bear a son to my own dear lord ... .

She turned over in bed and lay watching Arthur's sleep. Oh, yes, he was her dear lord, and she loved him well. He had taken her as part of a dowry and sight unseen; yet he had loved her, cherished her, honored her -it was not her fault that she could not do the first duty of a queen and bear him a son for his kingdom.

Lancelet-no, she had sworn to herself, when last he went from court, she would think no more of him. She still hungered for him, heart and soul and body, but she had vowed that she would be a loyal and a faithful wife to Arthur; never again should Lancelet have from her even these games and toyings which made them both ache for more ... it was playing at sin, even if there was nothing worse.

Beltane. Well, perhaps, as a Christian woman and queen of a Christian court, it was her duty to make such feastings and play this day as all the people of the court should enjoy without harm to their souls. She knew that Arthur had sent out word of games and arms practice to be held for prizes, at Pentecost-as he had done each year since the court came here to Camelot; but there were enough of his people here that some sport could be had this day too-she would offer a silver cup. And there should be harping and dancing, too, and she would do for the women what sometimes they did in play, offer a ribbon for the woman who could spin the most yarn in an hour, or work the largest piece of tapestry-yes, there should be innocent sport so that none of her people should regret the forbidden play on Dragon Island. She sat up and began to dress herself; she must go and talk to Cai.

But, although she busied herself all the morning, and Arthur when she spoke of it was pleased, thinking it the best of devices, so that he and Cai spent the morning in talking of the prizes they would offer for the best sword play and horsemanship, yes, and there should be a prize, perhaps a cloak, for the best among the boys-still, inside her heart, the thought gnawed. It is the day on which the ancient Gods demand that we honor fertility, and I, I am still barren. And so, an hour before high noon, at which hour the trumpets would be blown to gather men before the arms field to begin their sport, Gwenhwyfar sought out Morgaine, yet not quite certain what she would say to her.

Morgaine had taken charge of the dyeing room for the wool they spun, and was also in charge of the Queen's brew-women-she knew how to keep ale from spoiling when it was brewed, and how to distill strong spirit for medicines, and make perfumes of flower petals which were finer than those brought from over the seas and more costly than gold. There were some women in the castle who believed this was magic art, but Morgaine said no, it was only that she had been taught about the properties of plants and grains and flowers. Any woman, Morgaine said, could do what she did, if she was neat-handed and willing to take the time and trouble to see to it.

Gwenhwyfar found her with her holiday gown tied up and her hair covered with a cloth, sniffing at a batch of beer which had spoilt in the vats. "Throw it away," she said. "The barm must have got cold, and it has soured. We can start with another batch tomorrow-there is plenty for this day, even with the Queen's feasting, whatever put it into her head."

Gwenhwyfar asked, "Have you no mind to feasting, sister?"

Morgaine turned. "Not truly," she said, "but I marvel that you have, Gwen-I thought on Beltane you would be all for pious fasting and prayer, if only to show you were not one of those who made merry in honor of the Goddess of the crops and fields."

Gwenhwyfar colored-she never knew if Morgaine was making fun of her. "Perhaps God has ordained it, that people shall make merry in honor of the coming of the summer, and there is no need to speak of the Goddess ... oh, I know not what I think-believe you that the Goddess gives life to crops and fields and the wombs of ewes and heifers and women?"

"I was so taught in Avalon, Gwen. Why do you ask this now?" Morgaine took off the headcloth with which she had covered her hair, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly that Morgaine was beautiful. Morgaine was older than Gwenhwyfar-she must be past thirty; but she looked no older than when Gwenhwyfar had first seen her ... it was no wonder all men thought her a sorceress! She wore a fine-spun gown of dark blue wool, very plain, but colored ribbons were braided into her dark hair, which was looped about her ears and fastened with a gold pin. Next to her, Gwenhwyfar felt dull as a hen, a simple homekeeping woman, even though she was High Queen of Britain and Morgaine only a heathen duchess.

Morgaine knew so much, and she herself was so unlearned-she could do no more than write her name and read a little in her Gospel book. While Morgaine was skilled in all the clerkly arts, she could read and write, and yes, she knew the housewifely arts too-she could spin and weave and do fine embroideries, and dyeing and brewing, yes, and herb lore and magic as well. At last Gwenhwyfar faltered, "My sister-they have said it as a jest, but is it-is it true, that you know-all manner of charms and spells for fertility? I-I cannot live with it any longer, that every lady at court watches every morsel I eat to see if I am breeding, or takes note of how tight I tie my girdle! Morgaine, if indeed you know these charms they say you know-my sister, I beg you-will you use those arts for me?"

Moved and troubled, Morgaine laid a hand on Gwenhwyfar's arm. "In Avalon, it is true, it is said that such and such things can help if a woman does not bear when she should-but Gwenhwyfar-" She hesitated, and Gwenhwyfar felt her face flooding with shame. At last Morgaine went on. "I am not the Goddess. It may be that it is her will that you and Arthur should have no children. Would you really try to turn the will of God with spells and charms?"

Gwenhwyfar said violently, "Even Christ in the garden prayed, 'If it be thy will, let this cup pass from me-' "

"But he said also, Gwen-'Not my will, Lord, be done, but thine,' " Morgaine reminded her.

"I wonder that you know such things-"

"I dwelt in Igraine's household for eleven years, Gwenhwyfar, and I heard the gospel preached as often as you."

"Yet I cannot see how it should be God's will that the kingdom be torn again by chaos if Arthur should die," Gwenhwyfar said and heard her own voice rise, sharp and angry. "All these years I have been faithful-yes, I know you do not believe it, I suppose you think what all the women in the court think, that I have betrayed my lord for the love of Lancelet- but it is not so, Morgaine, I swear it is not so-"

"Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar! I am not your confessor! I have not accused you!"

"But you would if you could, and I think you are jealous," Gwenhwyfar retorted at white heat, and then cried out in contrition, "Oh, no! No, I do not want to quarrel with you, Morgaine, my sister-oh, no, I came to beg you for your help-" She felt the tears break from her eyes. "I have done no wrong, I have been a good and loyal wife, I have kept my lord's house and strove to bring honor to his court, I have prayed for him and tried to do the will of God, I have failed no whit of my duty, and yet- and yet-for all of my loyalty and duty-I have not even had my part of the bargain. Every whore in the streets, every soldier's camp follower, they go about flaunting their big bellies and their fruitfulness, and I-I have had nothing, nothing-" She was sobbing wildly, her hands over her face.

Morgaine's voice sounded puzzled but tender, and she put out her arms and drew Gwenhwyfar to her. "Don't cry, don't cry-Gwenhwyfar, look at me, is it so much a sorrow to you that you have no child?"

Gwenhwyfar struggled to control her weeping. She said, "I can think of nothing else, day and night-"

After a long time, Morgaine said, "Aye, I can see it is hard for you." It seemed she could actually hear Gwenhwyfar's thoughts:

If I had a child, I would not think night and day of this love which tempts my honor, for all my thoughts would be given to Arthur's son.

"I would that I could help you, sister-but I am unwilling to have doings with charms and magic. We are taught in Avalon that simple folk may need such things, but the wise meddle not with them, but bear the lot the Gods have sent them." And as she spoke she felt herself a hypocrite; she was remembering the morning when she had gone out to find roots and herbs for a potion which would keep her from bearing Arthur's child. That had not been surrendering herself to the will of the Goddess! But in the end she had not done it, either-

And then Morgaine wondered, in sudden weariness: I who did not want a child, and who came near to death in bearing it, I bore my child; Gwenhwyfar, who longs night and day for one, goes with empty womb and empty arms. Is this the goodness of the will of the Gods?

Yet she felt compelled to say, "Gwenhwyfar, I would have you bear this in mind-charms often work as you would not that they would do. What makes you believe the Goddess I serve can send you a son when your God, who is supposed to be greater than all the other Gods, cannot?"

It sounded like blasphemy, and Gwenhwyfar was ashamed of herself. Yet she found herself thinking, and saying aloud in a voice that choked as she spoke, "I think perhaps God cares nothing for women-all his priests are men, and again and again the Scriptures tell us that women are the temptress and evil-it may be that is why he does not hear me. And for this I would go to the Goddess-God does not care-" And then she was weeping stormily again. "Morgaine," she cried, "if you cannot help me, I swear I will go tonight to Dragon Island in the boat, I shall bribe my serving-man to take me there, and when the fires are lighted I too shall entreat the Goddess to give me the gift of a child ... I swear it, Morgaine, that I will do this.. .." And she saw herself in the light of the fires, circling the flames, going apart in the grip of a strange and faceless man, lying in his arms-the thought made her whole body cramp tight with pain and a half-shamed pleasure.

Morgaine listened in growing horror. She would never do it, she would lose her courage at the last moment. .. I was frightened, even I, and I had always known my maidenhead was for the God. But then, hearing the utter despair in her sister-in-law's voice, she thought, Aye, but she might; and if she did, she would hate herself all her life long.

There was no sound in the room but Gwenhwyfar's sobbing. Morgaine waited until it quieted a little, then said, "Sister, I will do for you what I can. Arthur can give you a child, you need not go to the Beltane fire, or seek one elsewhere. You must never say aloud that I have told you this, promise me that, and ask me no questions. But Arthur has indeed sired a ' child."

Gwenhwyfar stared at her. "He told me he had no children-"

"It may be that he does not know. But I have seen the child myself. He is being fostered at Morgause's court."

"Why, then, he has already a son and if I do not bear him one-"

"No!" said Morgaine quickly, and her voice was harsh. "I have told you-you must never speak of this, the child is not such a one as he could acknowledge. If you give him no child, then must the kingdom go to Gawaine. Gwenhwyfar, ask me no more, for I will not tell you more than this-if you do not bear, it is not Arthur's fault."

"I have not even conceived since last harvesttime-and only three times in all these years-" Gwenhwyfar swallowed, wiping her face on her veil. "If I offer myself to the Goddess-she will be merciful to me-"

Morgaine sighed. "It might be so. You must not go to Dragon Island. You can conceive, I know-perhaps a charm could help you to carry a child to birth. But I warn you again, Gwenhwyfar: charms do not their magic as men and women would have it, but by their own laws, and those laws are as strange as the running of time in the fairy country. Do not seek to blame me, Gwenhwyfar, if the charm acts other than you think it should."

"If it gives me even a slight chance of a child by my lord-" "That it should do," Morgaine said, and turned, Gwenhwyfar following after her like a child being led by her mother. What would the charm be, Gwenhwyfar wondered and what would it do, and why did Morgaine look so strange and solemn-as if she were that Great Goddess herself? But, she told herself, taking a deep breath, she would accept whatever came, if it might give her what she desired most.

An hour later, when the trumpets were blown and Morgaine and Gwenhwyfar were sitting side by side at the edge of the field, Elaine leaned over to them and said, "Look! Who is that riding into the field at Gawaine's side?"

"It is Lancelet," said Gwenhwyfar breathlessly. "He has come home." He was handsomer than ever. Somewhere he had gotten a red slash on his cheek, which should have been ugly, but it gave him the fierce beauty of a wild cat. He rode as if he were part of the horse's self, and Gwenhwyfar listened to Elaine's chatter, not really hearing, her eyes fixed on the man. Bitter, bitter, the irony of this. Why now, when I am resolved and pledged to think no more of him but to do my sworn duty by my lord and king ... Round her neck, beneath the golden torque Arthur had given her when they had been wedded a full five years, she could feel the weight of Morgaine's charm, sewn into a little bag between her breasts. She did not know, had not wanted to know, what Morgaine had put into it.

Why now? I had hoped that when he came home for Pentecost, I should be already bearing my lord's child, and he would look no more on me, since it was so clear I was resolved to honor my marriage.

Yet against her will, she remembered Arthur's words: Should you bear me a child, I would not question ... do you know what I am saying to you? Gwenhwyfar had known what he meant all too well. Lancelet's son could be heir to the kingdom. Was this new temptation offered her, now, because she had already fallen into grievous sin by meddling with Morgaine's sorcery, and making wild and unchaste threats, hoping to force Morgaine into helping her ... ?

I do not care, if so be it I can bear my king a son ... if a God would damn me for that, what have I to do with him? She was frightened at her own blasphemy, yet it had been blasphemy, too, to think of going to the lighted Beltane fires ... .

"Look, Gawaine is down, even he could not stand against Lancelet's riding," Elaine said eagerly. "And Cai, too! How could Lancelet strike down a lame man?"

"Don't be more of a fool than you must, Elaine," said Morgaine. "Do you think Cai would thank Lancelet for sparing him? If Cai went into these games, surely he is able to risk whatever hurt he could take! No one bade him compete."

It had been foreordained from the moment Lancelet took the field who would win the prize. There was some good-natured grumbling among the Companions when they saw it. "There is no use in any of us entering the lists at all, while Lancelet is here," Gawaine said, laughing, his arm around his cousin. "Couldn't you have stayed away another day or so, Lance?"

Lancelet was laughing too, a high color in his face. He took the golden cup and tossed it in the air. "Your mother, too, besought me to stay in her court for Beltane. I came not here to defraud you of the prize-I have no need of prizes. Gwenhwyfar, my lady," he cried, "take this, and give me instead the ribbon you wear about your neck. The cup may go to the altar or to the Queen's high table!"

Embarrassed, Gwenhwyfar's hand flew to her throat and the ribbon on which she had tied Morgaine's charm. "This I may not give you, my friend-" But she fumbled at the sleeve which she had embroidered with small pearls. "Take this for a kindness to my champion. As for the prize- well, I will give prizes to all of you-" She gestured to Gawaine and Gareth, who had come in after Lancelet in the riding.

"Graciously done," Arthur said, rising in his place, while Lancelet took the embroidered silk and kissed it, then fastened it around his helm. "But my most valiant fighter must still be honored. You will sit with us at the high table, Lancelet, and tell us all that has befallen you since you left my court."

Gwenhwyfar excused herself with her ladies, the better to prepare for the feast. Elaine and Meleas were chattering about Lancelet's valor, his riding, his generosity in giving up all claim to the prize. Gwenhwyfar could think only of the look he had given her when he begged her for the ribbon about her throat. She looked up and met Morgaine's dark, enigmatic smile. I cannot even pray for peace of mind. I have forfeited the right to pray.

For the first hour of the feast she was moving about, making sure that all of the guests were properly seated and served. By the time she took her seat at the high table they were drunk, most of them, and it was very dark outside. The servants brought lamps and torches, fastening them into the wall, and Arthur said jovially, "See, my lady, we are lighting our own Beltane fire within walls."

Morgaine had come to sit close to Lancelet. Gwenhwyfar's face throbbed with heat and with the wine she had drunk; she turned away so that she might not see them. Lancelet said, with a great yawn, "Why, it is Beltane indeed-I had forgotten."

"And Gwenhwyfar had it that we must have a feast so that none of our folk would be tempted to slip away into the old rites," Arthur said. "There are more ways to skin a wolf than chasing him out of his fur-if I forbade the fires, then would I be a tyrant-"

"And," Morgaine said, in her low voice, "faithless to Avalon, my brother."

"But if my lady makes it more pleasant for my people here to sit at our feast instead of going out into the fields to dance by the fires, then is our purpose achieved more simply!"

Morgaine shrugged. To Gwenhwyfar it seemed that she was secretly amused. She had drunk but little-perhaps she was the only wholly sober person at the King's table. "You have been travelling in Lothian, Lancelet -do they keep the Beltane rites there?"

"So says the Queen," Lancelet said, "but for all I know, she may have been jesting with me-I saw nothing to suggest that Queen Morgause is not the most Christian of ladies." But it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he glanced uneasily at Gawaine as he spoke. "Mark what I say, Gawaine, I said nothing against the lady of Lothian, I have no quarrel with you or yours ... ."

But only a soft snore answered him, and Morgaine's laughter was brittle. "Look, yonder lies Gawaine asleep with his head on the table! I too would ask news of Lothian, Lancelet... I do not think anyone reared there could so quickly forget the Beltane fires. The sun tides run in the blood of anyone reared on Avalon, like me, like Queen Morgause-is it not so, Lancelet? Arthur, do you remember the kingmaking on Dragon Island? How many years ago-nine, ten-"

Arthur looked displeased, though he spoke gently enough. "That is many years past and gone, as you say, sister, and the world changes with every season. I think the time for such things is past, save, perhaps, for those who live with fields and crops and must call on the Goddess for their blessing

-Taliesin would say so, and I will not gainsay it. But I think those old rites have little to do with such as we who dwell in castles and cities and have heard the word of Christ." He raised his wine cup, emptied it, and spoke with drunken emphasis. "God will give us all we desire-all that is right for us to have-without need to call upon the old Gods, is it not so, Lance?"

Gwenhwyfar felt Lancelet's eyes on her for a moment before he said, "Which of us has all things he may desire, my king? No king, and no God, can grant that."

"But I want my-my subjects to have all they need," repeated Arthur thickly. "And so does my queen, giving us our own Bel-Beltane fires here-"

"Arthur," said Morgaine gently, "you are drunk."

"Well, and why not?" he asked her belligerently. "At my own feast and my own-own fire, and what else did I fight the Saxons for, all those years? Sit here at my own Round Table and enjoy the-the peace-good ale and wine, and good music-where is Kevin the Harper? Am I to have no music at my feast?"

Lancelet said, laughing, "I have no doubt he has gone to worship the Goddess at her fires, and to play his harp there, on Dragon Island."

"Why, this is treason," said Arthur thickly. "And another reason to forbid the Beltane fires, so I may have music-"

Morgaine laughed and said lightheartedly, "You cannot command the conscience of another, my brother. Kevin is a Druid and has the right to offer his music to his own Gods if he will." She leaned her chin on her hands, and Gwenhwyfar thought she looked like a cat licking cream from her whiskers. "But I think he has already kept Beltane in his own way-no doubt he has gone to his bed, for all the company here is too drunken to tell the difference between his harping and mine and Gawaine's howling pipes! Even as he sleeps he plays the music of Lothian," she added, as a particularly raucous snore from the sleeping Gawaine cut the silence, and she gestured to one of the chamberlains, who went and persuaded Gawaine to his feet. He bowed groggily to Arthur and staggered from the hall.

Lancelet raised the cup in his hand and drained it. "I too have had enough of music and feasting, I think-I have ridden since before daylight, since I would come to your games this day, and soon, I think, I will beg leave to be away to my bed, Arthur." Gwenhwyfar gauged his drunkenness by that offhanded Arthur; in public he was always very careful to speak formally to Arthur as "my lord," or "my king," and only when they were alone did he say "cousin" or "Arthur."

But indeed, so late in the feast, there were few sober enough to notice-they might as well have been alone together. Arthur did not even answer Lancelet; he had slipped down a little in his high seat, and his eyes were half closed. Well, Gwenhwyfar thought, he had said it himself-it was his own feast and his own fireside, and if a man could not be drunken in his own house, why had he fought so many years to make their feasts safe and secure?

And if Arthur should be too drunk tonight to welcome her to his bed, after all... she could feel the ribbon about her neck, where the charm hung, and its weight heavy and hot between her breasts. 'Tis Beltane; could he not keep sober for that? Had he been bidden to one of those old pagan feasts, he would have remembered, she thought, and her cheeks burned with the immodesty of the thought. I must be drunk too! She looked angrily at Morgaine, cool and sober, toying with the ribbons of her harp. Why should Morgaine smile like that?

Lancelet leaned toward her and said, "I think our lord and king has had enough of feasting and wine, my queen. Will you dismiss the servants and Companions, madam, and I'll find Arthur's chamberlain to help him to his bed."

Lancelet rose. Gwenhwyfar could tell he was drunk, too, but he carried it well, moving with only a little more carefulness than usual. As she began to pass among the guests to bid them good night, she felt her own head swim and her steps unsteady. Seeing Morgaine's enigmatic smile, she could still hear the words of the damnable sorceress: Do not seek to blame me, Gwenhwyfar, if the charm acts other than you think it should ... .

Lancelet came back through the guests streaming out of the hall. "I can't find my lord's body servant-someone in the kitchens said they were all away to Dragon Island for the fires ... is Gawaine still here, or Balan? They are the only ones big and strong enough to carry our lord and king to his bed ... ."

"Gawaine was too drunk to carry himself," Gwenhwyfar said, "and I saw not Balan at all. And for sure you cannot carry him, for he is taller and heavier than you-"

"Still, I'll have at it," said Lancelet, laughing, and bent beside Arthur.

"Come, cousin-Gwydion! There's none to carry you to bed-I'll give you my arm. Here, come up, there's my brave fellow," he said, as if he spoke to a child, and Arthur opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. Lancelet's steps were none too steady, either, thought Gwenhwyfar as she followed the men, nor for that matter were her own ... a fine sight they must look, if any servants were sober enough to notice, High King and High Queen and the King's captain of horse all staggering to bed on Beltane-eve too drunk for their feet to carry them ... .

But Arthur sobered a little when Lancelet hauled him over the threshold of their room; he went to a ewer of water in the corner, splashed some on his face, and drank more.

"Thank you, cousin," he said, his voice still slow and drunken. "My lady and I have much for which to thank you, that is certain, and I know you love us both well-"

"God is my witness to that," said Lancelet, but he looked at Gwenhwyfar with something like despair. "Shall I go and find one of your servants, cousin?"

"No, stay a moment," Arthur said. "There is something I would say to you, and if I find not the courage for it now in drink, I shall never say it sober. Gwen, can you manage without your women? I have no mind that this should be carried beyond this chamber by idle tongues. Lancelet, come here and sit by me," and sitting on the edge of the bed, he stretched out his hand to his friend. "You too, sweeting-now listen to me, both. Gwenhwyfar has no child-and do you think I have not seen how you two look at each other? I spoke of this once to Gwen, but she is so modest and pious, she would not hear me. Yet now at Beltane, when all life on this earth seems to cry out with breeding and fertility ... how can I say this? There is an old saying among the Saxons, a friend is one to whom you will lend your favorite wife and your favorite sword ... ."

Gwenhwyfar's face was burning; she could not look at either of the men. Arthur went on, slowly, "A son of yours, Lance, would be heir to my kingdom, and better that than it should go to Lot's sons.... Oh, yes, Bishop Patricius would call it grievous sin, no doubt, as if his God were some elderly chaperone who went about at night looking to see who slept in whose bed ... I think it greater sin to make no provision for a son to inherit my kingdom. Then should we fall into such chaos as threatened before Uther came to the throne-my friend, my cousin-what do you say?"

Gwenhwyfar saw Lancelet moisten his lips with his tongue, and she felt the dryness of her own mouth. At last he said, "I know not what to say, my king-my friend-my cousin. God knows-there is no other woman on this earth-" and his voice broke; he looked at Gwenhwyfar and it seemed she could not endure the naked longing in his eyes. For a moment she thought she would swoon away, and put out a hand to steady herself on the bed frame.

I am still drunk, she thought, I am dreaming this, I cannot have heard him say what I thought I heard ... . and she felt an agonizing burst of shame. It seemed she could not live and let them speak of her like this.

Lancelot's eyes had not moved from hers.

"It is for my-for my lady to say."

Arthur held out his arms to her. He had drawn off his boots and the rich robe he had worn at the feast; in his undertunic he looked very like the boy she had wedded years ago. He said, "Come here, Gwen," and drew her down on his knee. "You know I love you well-you and Lance, I think, are the two I love best in the world, save for-" He swallowed and stopped, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly, I have thought only of my own love, I have had no thought for Arthur. He took me unseen, unwanted, and he has shown me love and honored me as his queen. But I never thought that as I love Lancelet, there may well be one whom Arthur loves and cannot have ... not without sin and betrayal. I wonder if that is why Morgaine mocks me, she knows Arthur's secret loves ... or his sins ...

But Arthur went on deliberately, "I think I would never have had the courage to say this, were it not Beltane ... . For many hundreds of years, our forefathers have done these things without shame, in the very faces of our Gods and by their will. And-listen to this, my dearest-if I am here with you, my Gwenhwyfar, then should a child come of this, then you may swear without any untruth that this child was conceived in your marriage bed, and none of us need ever know for certain-dear love, will you not consent to this?"

Gwenhwyfar could not breathe. Slowly, slowly, she reached out her hand and laid it in Lancelet's. She felt Arthur's touch on her hair as Lancelet leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.

I have been married many years and I am as frightened now as any virgin, she thought, and then she remembered Morgaine's words when she laid the charm about her neck. Beware what you ask for, Gwenhwyfar, for the Goddess may grant it to you ... .

At the time, she had thought Morgaine meant only that if she prayed for a child, then she might well die in childbirth. Now she knew it was more subtle than that, for it had come about that she should have Lancelet, and without guilt, with her husband's own will and permission ... and in a flash of awareness, she thought, It was this I wanted, after all; after all these years it is certain that I am barren, I will bear no child, but I will have had this at least ... .

With shaking hands she undid her gown. It seemed that the whole world had dwindled down to this, this perfect awareness of herself, of her own body aching with desire, a hunger she had never believed she could feel. Lancelet's skin was so soft-she had thought all men were like Arthur, sunburnt and hairy, but his body was smooth as a child's. Ah, but she loved them both, loved Arthur all the more that he could be generous enough to give her this ... they were both holding her now, and she closed her eyes and put up her face to be kissed, not knowing for certain which man's lips closed over hers. But it was Lancelet's hand that stroked her cheek, moved down to her naked throat where the ribbon clung.

"Why, what's this, Gwen?" he asked, his mouth against hers. "Nothing," she said, "nothing. Some rubbish Morgaine gave me." She pulled it free and flung it into a corner, sinking back into her husband's arms and her lover's.