Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [302]
He is such a son as should make his father proud, Morgause thought. And Arthur has no son at all by his queen. One day—yes, one day, I shall have a secret to tell Arthur, and then I can hold the King’s conscience in my hand. The thought amused her vastly. She was surprised Morgaine had never used that hold she had on Arthur—she could have forced him to negotiate a marriage for her with the richest of his subject kings, could have had jewels, or power . . . but Morgaine cared nothing for such things, only for her harp and for the nonsense the Druids talked. At least she, Morgause, would make better use of this unexpected power thrust into her hand.
She sat in her hall, dressed in her unaccustomed finery, carding the wool from the spring shearing, and making decisions: Gwydion must have a new cloak—he grew so fast, his old one was about his knees already and no good to him in the winter cold, and no doubt he would grow faster yet this year. Should she, perhaps, give him Agravaine’s cloak, cut down a little, and make a new one for Agravaine? Gwydion, in his saffron holiday tunic, came and sniffed appreciatively as the scent of the honey cake, rich with spices, began to drift through the room, but he did not hang about to tease that it should be cut and that he should have a slice early, as he would have done only a few months ago. At midday he said, “Mother, I will have a piece of bread and cheese in my hand and I will be off to walk the boundaries—Agravaine said I should go and see if all the fences are in good order.”
“Not in your holiday shoes,” said Morgause.
“Certainly not. I will go barefoot,” Gwydion said, unfastening his sandals and leaving them beside her near the hearth; he tucked up his tunic through his belt so that it was well above his knees, took up a stout stick, and was off, while Morgause frowned after him—this was not a task Gwydion ever took upon himself, no matter what Agravaine wanted! What was with the lad this day?
Lochlann came back after midday with a fine large fish, so heavy Morgause could not lift it; she surveyed it with pleasure—it would feed everyone who ate at the high table and there would be cold baked fish for three days. Cleaned, scented with herbs, it lay ready for the baking oven when Gwydion came in, his feet and hands scrubbed clean, his hair combed, and slipped his feet into his sandals again. He looked at the fish and smiled.
“Yes, indeed, it will be like a festival,” he said with satisfaction.
“Have you done walking all the fences, foster-brother?” Agravaine asked, coming in from one of the barns where he had been doctoring a sick pony.
“I have, and they are mostly in good order,” said Gwydion, “but at the very top of the north fells where we had the ewes last fall, there is a great hole in the fences where all the stones have fallen down. You must send men to fix it before you put any sheep to pasture there, and as for goats, they’d be away before you could speak to them!”
“You went all the way up there alone?” Morgause frowned at him in dismay. “You are not a goat—you could have fallen and broken a leg in the ravine and no one would have known for days! I have told you and told you, if you go up on the fells, take one of the shepherd lads with you!”
“I had my reasons for going alone,” retorted Gwydion, with that stubborn set of his mouth, “and I saw what I wanted to see.”
“What could you possibly see that would be worth risking some injury and lying there all alone for days?” demanded Agravaine crossly.
“I have never fallen yet,” Gwydion said, “and if I did, it