Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [481]
She said, “I think you must have dreamed it. Why do you not sleep a little? Shall I send for some food for you? I do not think you have eaten this morning—”
But when the food came, the sight and smell of it turned her queasy again. She turned sharply away, trying to conceal it, but Uriens had seen.
“What is it, Morgaine?”
“Nothing,” she said angrily. “Eat, and rest.”
But he smiled at her, reaching out his hand to draw her to the bedside. He said, “You forget, I have been married before this—I know a breeding woman when I see one.” Clearly, he was delighted. “After all these many years—Morgaine, you are pregnant! But that is wonderful—one son is taken from me, but I have another—shall we call this one Avalloch if it is a son, my darling?”
Morgaine flinched. “You forget how old I am,” she said, and her face was like stone. “It is not likely I can carry this child long enough that it would live. Do not hope for a son of your old age.”
“But we will take good care of you,” said Uriens. “You must consult with one of the Queen’s own midwives, and if the ride home would make you likely to miscarry, then you must stay here till the child is born.”
She wanted to lash out at him, what makes you think it would be your child, old man? This was Accolon’s child, certainly . . . but she could not dismiss the sudden fear that this was, indeed, Uriens’ child . . . an old man’s child, weakly, some monster like Kevin . . . no, she was surely mad! Kevin was no monster, but had suffered injuries—fire, burns, maiming in childhood, so that his bones had grown awry. But Uriens’ child would surely be twisted, deformed, sickly, and Accolon’s child would be healthy, strong . . . and she, she was old almost past childbearing; would her child be some monster? Sometimes, when women bore babies in their old age, it was so. . . . Was she mad, to let these fantasies turn and sicken her brain like this?
No. She did not want to die, and there was no hope she could bear this child and live. Somehow she must come by the herbs . . . but how? She had no confidante at court; none of Gwenhwyfar’s women could she trust enough to get her these things, and if it somehow became court gossip that old Queen Morgaine was pregnant by her still-older husband, how they would laugh!
There was Kevin, the Merlin—but she herself had turned him away, flung his love and loyalty back in his face . . . well, there must be midwives at court, and perhaps she could bribe one of them well enough to stop her mouth. She would tell some pitiful tale of how hard Gwydion’s birth had been, how she feared at her age to bear another. They were women, they would understand that well enough. And in her own bag of herbs she had one or two things—mixed with a third, harmless in itself, they would have the effect she wanted. She would not be the first woman, even at court, to rid herself of an unwanted child. But she must do it secretly, or Uriens would never forgive her . . . in the name of the Goddess, what did it matter? By the time it could come to light, she would be Queen here at Arthur’s—no, at Accolon’s—side and Uriens would be in Wales, or dead, or in hell—
She left Uriens sleeping and tiptoed from the room; she found one of the Queen’s midwives, asked her for the third, and harmless, herb, and returning to her room, mixed the potion over her fire. She knew it would make her deathly ill, but there was no help for it. The herb mixture was bitter as gall; she drank it down, grimacing, washed the cup, and put it away.
If only she could know what was happening in the fairy country! If only she could know how her lover fared with Excalibur. . . . She felt nauseated, but she was too restless to lie down on her bed beside Uriens; she could not bear to be alone with the sleeping man nor could she bear to close her eyes for fear of the pictures of death and blood that would torment her.
After a time she took her distaff