Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [53]
“Mother,” Morgaine asked at her side, “why can we not go to the market with Auntie?”
“Because your father does not wish us to go, my poppet.”
“Why does not he want us to go? Does he think we will be naughty?”
Igraine laughed and said, “Indeed, I think that is what he believes, daughter.”
Morgaine was silent—a small, quiet, self-possessed little creature, her dark hair now long enough to plait into a little braid halfway down her shoulder blades, but so fine and straight that it slipped out into loose elf locks around her shoulders. Her eyes were dark and serious, and her eyebrows straight and level, so heavy already that they were the most definite feature of her face. A little fairy woman, Igraine thought, not human at all; a pixie. She was no larger than the shepherd girl’s babe who was not yet quite two, though Morgaine was nearing four, and spoke as clearly and thoughtfully as a great girl of eight or nine. Igraine caught up the child in her arms and hugged her.
“My little changeling!”
Morgaine suffered the caress, and even kissed her mother in return, which surprised Igraine, for Morgaine was not a demonstrative child, but soon she began to stir fretfully—she was not the kind of child who wished to be held for long; she would do everything for herself. She had even begun to dress herself and buckle her own shoes on her feet. Igraine set her down and Morgaine walked sedately at her side back into the castle.
Igraine sat down at her loom, telling Morgaine to take her spindle and sit beside her. The little girl obeyed, and Igraine, setting her shuttle in motion, stopped for a moment to watch her. She was neat-handed and precise; her thread was clumsy, but she twirled the spindle deftly as if it were a toy, twisting it between her small fingers. If her hands were bigger, she would already spin as well as Morgause. After a time Morgaine said, “I do not remember my father, Mother. Where is he?”
“He is away with his soldiers in the Summer Country, daughter.”
“When will he come home?”
“I do not know, Morgaine. Do you want him to come home?”
She considered a moment. “No,” she said, “because when he was here—I remember it just a little—I had to go sleep in Auntie’s room and it was dark there and I was afraid at first. Of course I was very little then,” she added solemnly, and Igraine concealed a smile. After a minute she went on, “And I do not want him to come home because he made you cry.”
Well, Viviane had said it; women did not give babes enough credit for understanding what was going on around them.
“Why do you not have another baby, Mother? Other women have a baby as soon as the older one is weaned, and I am already four. I heard Isotta say you should have given me a baby brother. I think I would like to have a little brother to play with, or even a little sister.”
Igraine actually started to say, “Because your father Gorlois—” and then stopped herself. No matter how adult Morgaine might sound, she was only four years old, and Igraine could not confide such things to her. “Because the Mother Goddess did not see fit to send me a son, child.”
Father Columba came out on the terrace. He said austerely, “You should not talk to the child of Goddesses and superstition. Gorlois wishes her to be reared as a good Christian maiden. Morgaine, your mother did not have a son because your father was angry with her, and God withheld a son to punish her for her sinful will.”
Not for the first time, Igraine felt that she would like to throw her shuttle at this black crow of ill omen. Had Gorlois confessed to this man, was he aware of all that had passed between them? She had often wondered that, in the moons that had passed, but she had never had any excuse to ask and knew he would not tell her if she did. Suddenly Morgaine stood up and made a face at the priest, “Go away, old man,” she said clearly. “I don’t