The Road to Avalon (40 page)

The key to such a peace was a strong high king. That was why he had built this capital. That was why he was opening communications with the leaders in Gaul, with the emperor in Rome. That was why he needed a son.

Gwenhwyfar would have to see that. Perhaps Bedwyr could make her understand.

He put his elbows on the table and rested his forehead in his hands. In less than an hour’s time he would be meeting his son. It was one of the most momentous occasions of his entire life. He had no idea what he was going to say. His fingers were pressed so hard against his forehead that the skin around them was white. Then the door opened. “My lord,” said one of his clerks, “the Queen of Lothian to see you.”

Arthur rose to his feet. “Send her in.”

He had been surprised when first he had seen Morgause last night. She looked nothing like either Morgan or Igraine. The Queen of Lothian was a tall, full-bodied woman, with Gawain’s auburn hair and slightly prominent blue eyes. Her skin was clear as a girl’s, with fine lines around the eyes and the mouth. She smiled at Arthur, and he thought that the lines had come from laughter and not from sorrow.

“My lord king,” she said in a rich, contralto voice.

He gestured to a chair. “Won’t you be seated, my lady?”

Morgause seated herself with all the proud serenity of a ship coming into port. Her blue eyes regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “It seems strange that we have never met,” she said.

Arthur resumed his own chair. “You see,” he said excusingly, “Morgan told me that you had not forgiven me for Lot’s death. That is why I stayed away from Lothian for all these years.”

“Morgan is so clever,” Morgause said admiringly. She looked down at her well-tended hands and Arthur could see the faint beginnings of a double chin. “Pellinore also insisted that we keep our distance from you. He was one of the only people in Lothian who knew you, of course, and he guessed that you were Mordred’s father quite some years ago.” Morgause looked candidly at the king’s face. “The resemblance is quite remarkable. I didn’t realize, otherwise I should never have brought Mordred to you like this.”

“But why did Pellinore allow him to come?” Arthur asked. “After all these years of care, it seems strange . . .”He broke off at the look on her face.

“I had forgotten that you didn’t know,” Morgause said sadly. “Pellinore is dead, my lord. That is the reason my sons and I have come to Camelot, to bring the news to my eldest son, Gawain.”

There was a pause. “I am sorry to hear about Pellinore. He was a good man and a good king.”

“Yes,” said Morgause. “I shall miss him.”

Arthur picked up a stylus from his desk and began to turn it over in his fingers. “But you did not bring all your sons to Camelot?”

“No. Gaheris, my second son, has stayed in Lothian. If Gawain does not wish to return home, then Gaheris will be king. Agravaine came because he would like to join your cavalry, my lord. It has long been his ambition.”

“And Mordred?” Arthur asked. “Why did he come?”

“He wanted to see the king, of course. And Camelot. But mainly I think he wanted to visit Morgan. He is very fond of her, you see.”

Arthur looked down at the stylus in his hand. “I suppose you realize that I knew nothing about Mordred until yesterday.”

Morgause sighed. “I know. Morgan is not going to be happy with me.” He looked up. “I suppose you guessed the story as soon as you saw him.”

“I went to Avalon last night to see Morgan. She told me the whole.”

Morgause’s blue eyes were full of curiosity. She had not meant to precipitate this moment, but now that she had, she was obviously enjoying herself. “I felt so sorry for her,” she said to Arthur. “We offered to find her a husband, but she wouldn’t marry. She refused to try to do away with the child. This seemed to be the best solution.” Arthur’s lashes fell, screening his eyes from hers. “She loves you very much, you know,” she added.

His lashes flickered but he did not reply. “So we went off into Wales and changed identities,” she continued briskly, “and when the fighting was over in Lothian, I went home with a new baby.”

He put the stylus down and looked up at her slowly. “Morgan told me she might have died in childbirth were it not for you. I owe you a great debt, Morgause. I shall probably never be able to repay you, but if there is anything I can ever do for you, you have only to ask.”

Morgause’s face was radiant. “She is my sister. I was happy to help.” ’

“Now,” Arthur said, “about Mordred.”

Morgause blinked and readjusted her thoughts. “Yes,” she said. “Mordred.”

“I do not think it will be possible to hide the fact that he is my son.”

“That is what Pellinore always said.”

“He is my son and must be known to be my son by everyone who sees him. That is one fact. The second fact is that I have no other children, nor am I likely to have.”

“The queen is barren, then?”

“Yes.”

Morgause pursed her full lips. “Poor thing.” There was more than a hint of complacency in her voice.

“It is a great sorrow to her,” Arthur said levelly. “It has, as well, always posed a severe problem for the state. I need an heir to follow me in the high kingship.” He held her eyes. “It seems now that I have one.”

The prominent blue eyes became even more prominent. “You are proposing to make Mordred your heir?”

“He is my only son.”

Morgause sat very straight. “So he is.” This was evidently not a possibility she had considered.

“Morgause.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“I do not want it known that Morgan is Mordred’s mother,” he said. “You have been a mother to him. Will you say he is your child?”

She looked at him with calculation. “But why?”

“Why not?” he countered. “It is an enviable position, that of mother to the next high king.”

“I would have to say I was unfaithful to Lot.”

“Yes, you would. But it was many years ago. And you are a very beautiful woman. No one will question the likelihood of an attraction between the two of us.”

“What does Morgan say to this idea?”

“If you agree, she will be grateful.”

He could tell from the look on Morgause’s face that she understood perfectly why he was asking this of her. She might not be overly shrewd about matters of policy, but matters of sex were another matter altogether. She said after a minute, “But we have never met until now.”

“You were at Avalon for some months. Who is to say I did not meet you there? I was very young, you are very beautiful—”

“Stop!” She was laughing. “You almost make me believe it did happen.” Her face sobered. “All right, I’ll do it. As you say, it was too many years ago for it to matter much now. And Lot has been long dead.”

Arthur smiled at her. “Morgan has always told me you are wonderful,” he said. “I thoroughly agree.”

She was suddenly immensely glad she was doing this for him. Really, she wondered, where did he get his charm? Certainly not from his mother.

“I am going to tell Mordred the whole truth,” he was saying.

She would have thought Mordred was one of the last persons he would want to know the truth. She stared at him in puzzlement. “You will tell him about Morgan? But why?”

The infectious gaiety had quite left his face. “He deserves to know who he is. I, of all people, know how important that is.”

The truth of that statement struck Morgause for the first time. “Really,” she said, “when you think of it, it is rather extraordinary. Both you and Mordred were unaware you were sons of high kings.” Her blue eyes were wide with amazement. “Isn’t that extraordinary?” she repeated.

Arthur looked back at her with a mixture of amusement and something she could not quite decipher. “Yes,” he said dryly. “It is.”

Chapter 33

T
WENTY
minutes later, Cai was escorting Mordred to Arthur’s office. Gwenhwyfar, as promised, had had the packhorses brought to the palace, and Mordred was appropriately dressed in a tunic fine enough for any prince. Cai thought he looked very young and very lonely. He gave Arthur’s son a warm encouraging smile before opening the door to the king’s office. “Prince Mordred is here,” he said briefly, gently urged the boy forward by a hand on his back, then closed the door on father and son.

As Cai walked away across the great hall, a long-buried memory surfaced in his mind: Arthur on the day he had first come to Avalon. He had been six years younger than the boy Cai had just left in the king’s office, but even then Arthur had had defenses this boy knew nothing of. There had never been anything vulnerable about Arthur.

Left alone in the king’s office, Mordred paused for a moment by the door, looking around with cautious curiosity. The room was simple, obviously furnished for work and not for show. There was a long walnut table against the window wall to Mordred’s right, covered with hundreds of neatly stacked scrolls. The walls were hung with maps. The king sat behind another large walnut table in a chair with a dragon crest carved on its high wooden back. There were two other carved chairs placed in front of the king’s table.

Arthur rose and came around his desk as Mordred stood in the doorway, and then he beckoned the boy forward, placing the two chairs in front of the desk to face each other. “Come and sit down, Mordred,” he said.

The boy came and took the chair Arthur had indicated. For the first time since he had come into the room, he looked directly at the king.

Arthur suddenly had the strangest sensation that he was looking back in time: this boy’s face was his face, and he was once again the boy he had been; that boy, and this boy, both of them meeting for the very first time a father and a king. For one dizzy moment, past and present fused and became one; then the moment passed and he was himself again.

“I want to tell you a story, Mordred,” he said. His face was grave and composed; only the brilliant eyes betrayed his feelings. “It is about me, but it concerns you too, so be patient.”

“Yes, my lord king,” the boy replied. His voice had the uncertain note of the adolescent male whose voice has not yet reliably settled into its adult register.

Arthur linked his hands loosely in his lap and began. “When I was an infant, my parents, Uther and Igraine, sent me away and gave it out to the country that I was dead. You may perhaps be familiar with the story. I had been born too soon after their marriage, and they felt it would be best to have an heir whose birth was unblemished.” Mordred nodded. Every person in Britain was familiar with the story of Arthur’s childhood, he thought. The king was going on, “Years passed and Igraine bore no more living children. Then my grandfather, Merlin, took me from my hiding place in Cornwall and brought me to Avalon to be trained as a king. For reasons of safety, he kept my true identity a secret. Only he and Uther knew I was the son of the high king. I was never told, nor was anyone else.

“And so I lived at Avalon from the time I was nine until I was sixteen.”

Arthur’s eyes were on his hands. He unclasped them and then clasped them again. “There was another child growing up at Avalon at that time. Merlin’s daughter, Morgan.” The king paused. The room was so quiet that Mordred could hear the sound of his own breathing. “Morgan and I loved each other from the time I was nine and she was eight. We loved as children, and then, as we grew older, we loved as man and woman. We thought we would be able to marry. We neither of us, remember, knew who I was.”

The king glanced up from his hands, and gray eyes looked into gray eyes. “Then I found out, found out that I was Prince of Britain and the next high king. I found out also that I could not marry Morgan.”

“Why not?” Mordred was so held by the story that he did not feel it presumptuous to question the king. Nor did Arthur appear to mind.

“Merlin and Uther said we were too closely related,” he answered. “At that time the king of Lothian was one of the most powerful of the regional kings and he was not pleased to discover that Uther had a son. He had hopes of the high kingship for himself, you see, and he would be bound to raise the cry of incest to discredit me.”

“The King of Lothian,” Mordred repeated. “Do you mean my father?”

“I mean Lot.” A pinched look had suddenly appeared around Arthur’s nostrils. “To continue, I wanted to marry Morgan in spite of my father and my grandfather. I begged her to come away with me to Armorica. She would not. My duty was to Britain and not to her, she said and sent me away.” A muscle flickered along Arthur’s jaw. “She gave me to Britain and never told me she was carrying my child.”

The boy made a sudden movement and then was still again. To give him privacy, Arthur got to his feet and walked to the long table that held his correspondence and reports. He picked up a scroll and regarded it thoughtfully. “She knew if I found out, nothing would stop my claiming her. But Morgan is, above all, Merlin’s daughter. Duty to her country is bred into her bones, Mordred. She would not step between me and the kingship she believed I was born to hold. So she went secretly into Wales, had the child, and gave it to another woman to raise as her own.” He put the scroll down and looked at his son. “I think you must know now who that woman was.”

The boy was so pale he looked as if he might faint. He said, his voice an almost undistinguishable croak, “Morgause?”

“Morgause,” the king confirmed gently. “Morgause was her sister. Morgause was a warm and loving mother. And Morgan would be able to see her son, to assure herself of his welfare. So you went home with Morgause and were presented to all as the posthumous son of Lot.”

Two brilliant spots of color appeared in Mordred’s cheeks at Arthur’s use of the word “you.”

“Between them, Morgan and Morgause kept the secret of your birth for fifteen years,” Arthur continued. “I never knew of your existence until last night, when you walked into my banquet hall. I realized the moment I saw you who you were. You know, of course, how much you resemble me.”

“So I am your son?”

“You are my son.”

The color came back to the boy’s face. “They all stared at me so. First the men at the gate.” He looked a little dazed. “I even asked Agravaine if I had dirt on my face!”