Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [301]
“Oh, stay, stay if you want to,” she said, “but turn your back, I’ll not have you staring at me, sir Impudence!” Obediently he turned away, but as she rose and signalled her woman to bring her gown, he said, “No, put on your blue gown, foster-mother, the new one from the looms, and your saffron cloak.”
“And now you will be giving me advice on what I should wear? What’s this, what’s this?”
“I like to see you dressed like a fine lady and a queen,” he said, persuasively. “And tell them to dress your hair high with your gold coil, will you not, foster-mother? To please me?”
“Why, you would have me fine as a Midsummer feast, so that I should sit and card wool in all my best gear—my women would laugh, child!”
“Let them laugh,” Gwydion coaxed. “Will you not dress in your finest to please me? And who knows what may happen before the day is done? You might be glad of it.”
Morgause, laughing, gave way. “Oh, as you wish—if you will have it that I dress myself for a festival, let it be so . . . we will have our own festival here, then! And now I suppose the kitchen must bake honey cakes for this imaginary festival—”
A child, after all, she thought, he thinks in this way to tease for sweets. But then, he brought me berries, why not? “Well, Gwydion, shall I have them bake a honey cake for supper?”
He turned around. Her gown was still unlaced, and she saw his eyes linger for a moment on her white breasts. Not such a child, then. But he said, “I am always happy to have a honey cake, but perhaps there will be some fish to bake, too, for dinner.”
“If we are to have fish,” she said, “you will have to change your tunic again and go fishing for it yourself. The men are busy with the sowing.”
He answered quickly, “I will ask Lochlann to go—it will be like a holiday for him. He deserves one, doesn’t he, foster-mother, you are pleased with him, aren’t you?”
Idiotic! Morgause thought. I will not blush before a boy his age! “If you would like to send Lochlann fishing, love, do so. He can be spared today, I suppose.”
And she thought, she would like well to know what was really in Gwydion’s mind, with his holiday tunic and his insistence that she should wear her finest gown and provide a good dinner. She called her housekeeper and said, “Master Gwydion would like a honey cake. See to it.”
“He shall have his cake,” said the housekeeper, with an indulgent look at the boy. “Look at his sweet face, like one of those angels, he is.”
Angel. That is the last thing I would call him, thought Morgause; but she directed her woman to do her hair up with the gold coil. She would probably never learn what was on Gwydion’s mind.
The day wore slowly along in its accustomed way. Morgause had wondered at times whether Gwydion had the Sight, but he had never shown any of the signs, and when once she asked him point-blank he had acted as if he did not know what she was talking about. And if he had, she thought, at least once she would have caught him bragging of it.
Ah, well. For some obscure child’s reason, Gwydion had wanted a festival and had coaxed her into it. No doubt, with Gareth gone, he was lonely all the time—he had little in common with Lot’s other sons. Nor did he have Gareth’s passion for arms and knightly things, nor so far as she could tell, Morgaine’s gift for music, though his voice was clear, and sometimes he would bring out a little set of pipes like those the shepherd lads played and make strange, mournful-sounding music. But it was not a passion as it had been with Morgaine, who would have sat happy all day at her harp if she could.
Still, he had a quick and retentive mind. For three years, Lot had sent for a learned priest from Iona to dwell in their house and teach the boy to read; he had said the priest was to teach Gareth too while he was about it, but Gareth had no mind to his book. He struggled obediently with letters and Latin, but no more than Gawaine—nor Morgause herself, for that matter—could he keep his mind fixed on written symbols or the mysterious tongue of those old Romans.