Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [165]
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