Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [162]
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