Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [13]
She said sharply to Morgause, who was still lying with her head in Viviane’s lap, “Get up at once, Morgause, and go to your room; you are almost a woman, you must not behave like a spoilt child!”
Morgause raised her head, putting back her curtain of red hair from her pretty, sulky face. She said, “Why should you choose Igraine for your plans, Viviane? She wants no part in them. But I am a woman, and I too am a daughter of the Holy Isle. Why have you not chosen me for Uther the Pendragon? Why should I not be the mother of the High King?”
The Merlin smiled. “Will you fly so recklessly in the face of fate, Morgause?”
“Why should Igraine be chosen and not I? I have no husband—”
“There is a king in your future and many sons; but with that, Morgause, you must be content. No man or woman can live another’s fate. Your fate, and that of your sons, depends on this great High King. More than that I cannot say,” said the Merlin. “Enough, Morgause.”
Igraine, standing, Morgaine in her arms, felt more in command. She said in a dead voice, “I am remiss in hospitality, my sister, my lord Merlin. Let my servants take you to the guest chambers prepared for you, bring you wine, and water for washing, and at sundown a meal will be prepared.”
Viviane rose. Her voice was formal and correct, and Igraine, for a moment, was relieved; she was again mistress of her own hearth, not a passive child but the wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.
“At sunset, then, my sister.”
But Igraine saw the glance Viviane exchanged with the Merlin, and she could read it as clearly as words: Leave it for now, I will manage her, as I have always done.
And Igraine felt her face harden into iron. That is what she has always done, indeed. But this time it shall not be so. I did her will once, when I was a child and knew no better. But now I am grown, I am a woman, not so easily led as the child she gave away to be Gorlois’s bride. Now I will do my own will, and not that of the Lady of the Lake.
Servants took her guests away; Igraine, in her own chamber, laid Morgaine in her bed and fussed around her nervously, her mind full of what she had heard.
Uther Pendragon. She had never seen him, but Gorlois was full of the tales of his valor. He was a close kinsman, sister’s son, of Ambrosius Aurelianus, High King of Britain, but unlike Ambrosius, Uther was a Briton of Britons, with no taint of Roman blood, so that the Cymry and the Tribes did not hesitate to follow him. There was little doubt that one day Uther would be chosen High King. Ambrosius was not a young man; that day could not be so far.
And I would be queen. . . . What am I thinking of? Would I betray Gorlois and my own honor?
Behind her, as she took up the bronze mirror again, she saw her sister in the door. Viviane had taken off the breeches she wore for riding, and put on a loose gown of undyed wool; her hair hung down, soft and dark as the wool of a black sheep. She looked small and fragile and aging, and her eyes were the eyes of the priestess in the cave of initiation, years away and in another world. . . . Igraine cut off the thought, impatiently.
Viviane came close to her, reaching up to touch her hair.
“Little Igraine. Not so little, now,” she said, tenderly. “Do you know, little one, I gave you your name: Grainné, for the Goddess of the Beltane fires. . . . How long has it been since you did service to the Goddess at Beltane, Igraine?”
Igraine’s mouth only stretched a little; the smile went no deeper than her teeth. “Gorlois is a Roman, and a Christian. Do you truly believe his household keeps the rites of Beltane?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Viviane, amused, “though, if I were you, I would not take oath that your servants do not slip out at Midsummer to burn fires and