The Road to Avalon (43 page)

“I . . .” He made a gesture, turned away, and said over his shoulder, “I will see you at dinner.” Then he was gone.

As soon as the door had closed Morgan pressed her clenched fists to her temples and shut her eyes. Careful, she thought. Push back the pain. Don’t feel it. Don’t think about it. Careful, or you will have Arthur here in a minute, before you can get control.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, she made her mind a blank, forbidding the picture of her son’s face to rise to her inner vision. Think of something else. Think of the apple trees at Avalon. Don’t think of Mordred, don’t think of him. . ..

She was still sitting motionless in the big wicker chair five minutes later when the door opened and Arthur came in. She turned her head as he came toward her; he was wearing the blue tunic she had seen him in earlier, but it looked rumpled and creased, as if it had lain on the floor and then been put back on in a hurry. His hair was wet. She sighed resignedly. “Where were you? In the bath?”

“Never mind. What happened? Why are you so distressed?”

“Is there no such thing as privacy?” she asked, her eyebrows fine aloof arches over her inquiring brown eyes.

“Not from me.” He sank on his heels in front of her wicker chair, so that his face was just below the level of hers. “What happened?” he asked again.

She leaned toward him and put her hands on either side of his face. He looked so like his son, and they were so different. “Arthur,” she asked softly, “how did you feel about Igraine?”

His eyes searched hers. “It is not the same thing.”

She smoothed her thumbs along the beautiful cheekbones. “In the most important way, it is the same. I gave him away. The why does not matter, not to a child. I gave him away and, what is perhaps worse in his eyes, I did not tell you. He finds it hard to forgive me.”

He put his hands up to encircle her wrists. “I will talk to him.”

“You will say nothing.” She stared forbiddingly into his eyes. “Do you hear me? This is between Mordred and me. I do not want you to interfere. The poor boy has enough to contend with without you bullying him to be nice to his mother.”

There was a long moment’s silence as they looked at each other. “I never bully people,” he said, and Morgan knew she had won. She leaned forward and lightly kissed the top of his wet black head. “Go finish getting washed for dinner. I shall be all right.”

He released her wrists and she dropped her hands from his face. He straightened with the ease of a boy. “Do you want to come to the dinner?”

“Yes. I shall be fine.”

“I told Gwenhwyfar to seat you between me and Cai.”

“Thank you. I am not much in the mood for making brilliant conversation.”

“Cai and I don’t care what you say.” He was standing and she was still sitting and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. “He will come around, Morgan,” he said.

“I’m sure he will. He has a much sweeter nature than you.”

He grinned. “He must take after his mother.” He touched the top of her head gently and turned toward the door. “Cai will come to escort you to dinner.”

“Will you go away so I can get dressed?”

“I’m going,” he said and, having reached the door, suited action to words.

Chapter 35

T
HE
tables in the dining room had been arranged along the walls for the evening meal in order to leave the center of the floor free for entertainment. Seated around the room, in an order that carefully designated their rank, were the kings and princes of Celtic Britain together with their sons and wives and daughters. The high king, with his family beside him, presided over the meal from the front of the room.

Cador, King of Dumnonia, was, as befitted his rank, seated at one of the tables nearest to the king. As his son and heir, Constantine, ate hungrily beside him, Cador watched the king’s table out of his deepset dark eyes. He was considering once again the possibility of persuading the king to take another wife.

The boy Mordred was at least an heir, although Cador would have preferred a son of unquestioned legitimacy. But even if Mordred were to be given the preference over younger children, Cador felt it would be safer to have others behind him. Life was precarious.

It was not possible for Arthur to marry the boy’s mother. She was still a handsome woman—and here Cador’s eyes flicked approvingly over the vibrant figure of the Queen of Lothian—but too old for childbearing. Besides, there was always the question of incest.

A few murmurs had been heard when Arthur had announced the name of Mordred’s mother, but by and large the tribal Celts had a forgiving view of such things. They were all accustomed to blood marrying blood within the clan. It was almost impossible to avoid, given the nature of Celtic society. But Morgause could never be his wife.

Cador’s eyes circled the tables, stopping at the face of a particularly pretty young girl who was seated toward the bottom of the room. Nola, Madoc’s daughter. Madoc, a prince from the extreme west of Wales, was of good blood. And the girl was very pretty. She would have to be, if the king were to be brought to consider putting aside Gwenhwyfar.

Cador’s eyes moved back to the head table, to the face of the queen. It was sheer physical pleasure just to look at her, he admitted. He could quite understand Arthur’s reluctance to put her aside. Any man who had got Gwenhwyfar into his bed would feel the same.

But she was barren. Five years they had been married, and never any sign of a child. Not even a miscarriage.

The boy, Mordred, was the final proof. Until his appearance it had always been possible to wonder if the fault was perhaps Arthur’s. One had never heard of his leaving any bastards behind during all the long years of his campaigns against the Saxons. But then, even as a boy he had been fastidious.

Cador wondered if perhaps Arthur himself had feared to find out if he were the one responsible for his childless marriage. Perhaps that was why he had so adamantly refused to consider replacing Gwenhwyfar. He might feel differently now, with the proof of his own potency sitting at the table with him, looking so uncannily like Arthur himself had looked when first he came to Venta.

As Cador watched, the king’s dark head bent closer to the red-gold one of his wife. Gwenhwyfar looked up at him, saying something. The green of her eyes was visible all the way across the room. Cador’s senses leapt, and his mouth curled with wry self-knowledge. No, it was not going to be easy to persuade the king to set aside Gwenhwyfar.

The seat to the right of the queen was empty, and it was not until the main course was being removed that Bedwyr put in an appearance. Cador watched him stride across the floor, his fair head held with unconscious arrogance, his big body as powerful and graceful as the lion he was called after. There had been some problem with a horse, Cador knew. That was why the prince was late.

“I wish I could join the cavalry,” Constantine said, and Cador looked at his heir.

“Would you like to? There is not likely to be much fighting now, you know.”

“But to serve under the prince!” Constantine’s dark eyes were shining.

The prince. In a room full of princes, there was only one who was the prince. In all of Britain, when you spoke of the prince, there was never any doubt as to whom you meant. Cador watched as Bedwyr took his usual seat next to the queen and leaned across her to speak briefly to the king.

They would be talking about the horse.

Gwenhwyfar listened quietly and said nothing. Then Arthur gave Bedwyr a quick smile and turned away to talk to the woman on his other side, Morgan, the Lady of Avalon. Gwenhwyfar poured wine into Bedwyr’s cup while a servant filled his plate. Then the queen watched with amused affection as Bedwyr began to eat. He glanced up from his plate, saw her watching him, and they both laughed. A thought flitted across Cador’s mind and he frowned and looked quickly at Arthur.

The king was talking to Cai. Morgan, seated between them, appeared to be listening. Cador had never before seen Merlin’s youngest daughter, and he had been surprised by how small she was, how young. He had expected her to be a much more imposing figure, the famous Lady of Avalon. It was a title that somehow did not suit this small, fragile woman with the great brown eyes.

She looked up suddenly and those eyes met his. She had felt him watching her, he realized, as she held his gaze with her own. They looked at each other for a long moment, their faces grave, and then she smiled very faintly and nodded. Cador had the disconcerting feeling that his mind had been read.

There was obviously more to that small figure than appeared on the surface.

The after-dinner entertainment consisted of some excellent jugglers, then a troop of acrobats, and then a harper. As the program concluded, Arthur rose and said pleasantly that he had not yet met all of the wives and sons and daughters and would be happy to do so now. Prince Mordred, he added, would also be pleased to speak to any of the princes who had not yet had a chance to be introduced.

As Cador watched, the center of the dining room became filled with people, talking among themselves in small groups, waiting for their chance to speak to either the king or to Mordred. The boy, Cador was happy to see, appeared to be carrying out his role very well. Morgause was not far from him, but he never once looked her way for guidance.

He might do very well, this Mordred. He was not Arthur, of course. You couldn’t picture this boy taking the kind of instant command Arthur had. But he did not have to. The king was only thirty-one. There would be many years for Mordred to grow in authority.

But it would be safer to have other sons behind him.

Arthur was talking to Madoc now, and as Cador watched intently, the Welsh prince presented his wife and his golden-haired daughter. The king said something to the girl and she smiled, showing pretty white teeth. Then Arthur’s head turned—like an animal scenting danger, Cador thought. With a murmured excuse, the king moved over to the group around Mordred, which now included the Lady of Avalon.

Before Cador could see what it was that had brought Arthur so quickly, his attention was claimed by Ban of Dyfed. The two of them backed into a corner and proceeded to talk about the problems of the succession.

Morgause had called Mordred and Morgan to her side, and in too public a fashion for either of them to demur. Morgan reluctantly left her small group of former patients and walked over to stand beside her sister.

It had quite obviously never occurred to the Queen of Lothian that the formerly happy relationship between Mordred and Morgan was necessarily going to be changed. Mordred was very pale as Morgan arrived at Morgause’s side. He did not look at his mother. The occasion for the queen’s summons was an old man who, she told them triumphantly, had actually fought under Merlin in Constantine’s wars. Wasn’t that amazing?

Morgan made some sort of remark which must have been acceptable, as the old man beamed at her. Mordred stood stiff and white and said nothing. Morgan wondered despairingly how she was going to extricate them from this awkward situation, when there was a quiet step at her side and Arthur was there.

He spoke to the old man. He was charming to Morgause. He called over a prince whose father had fought under Merlin too. Then he excused himself and Morgan, saying there were other people who wanted to meet her, and in a gesture that dated back to their childhood, he put his hand on the nape of her neck and steered her away.

It was silly to be distressed by such a small incident, Morgan told herself. But she was nonetheless grateful for the comforting pressure of Arthur’s familiar hand on her neck. The hand tightened suddenly and she looked up to see Urien approaching her, a faintly apprehensive look in his light blue eyes. He looked at the king’s face, faltered, and stopped.

Don’t be an idiot.
The thought ran in Arthur’s mind as clearly as if she had spoken to him. He glanced down, saw the look in her eyes, and suddenly grinned.

“Urien,” he said cheerfully. “Come and say hello to the Lady Morgan.”

The handsome face brightened and the Prince of Rheged came to join them. Arthur dropped his hand and turned to speak to Urien’s father, who had come up beside him.

The crush of people around Mordred seemed to have lessened and Arthur judged he could now properly make a formal departure from the dining room. He looked around for his wife. She was surrounded by a group of admiring men, not all of them young. His eyes passed on and found Bedwyr, talking to his brother on the far side of the room. Cai, Arthur knew, had already left.

Arthur caught Bedwyr’s eye and the prince moved to join him. “The queen and I are going to retire,” Arthur said. “Will you escort the Lady Morgan?”

“Of course,” Bedwyr replied promptly, and turned to Morgan, offering her his arm. Urien reluctantly stepped back. Bedwyr was wearing a short-sleeved tunic and his bare muscular arm was covered with short golden hairs. Morgan put her small square hand on his forearm and smiled up at him. “I’m sorry I missed your program this afternoon,” she said. “Cai tells me you got Arthur out on the field. How clever of you, Bedwyr.”

He smiled back, very blond and blue in the light from the chandelier, and answered her humorously. They chatted with ease while they waited for Arthur to collect Gwenhwyfar and make a ceremonious exit.

The queen’s admirers parted at the king’s advance. He came to a halt beside her, said, “Time to let all these people go to bed,” and with a polite formal gesture, he offered her his arm. They began to walk with dignity down the center of the room. Bedwyr and Morgan fell in behind them, followed by Morgause and Mordred.

Gwenhwyfar looked at her hand reposing so formally on her husband’s arm. He had put his hand on Morgan’s neck in a gesture that had looked to Gwenhwyfar to be purely instinctive. Arthur, who never touched anyone without making a conscious decision to do so.

Jealousy, so physical that it made her feel sick, rose within her. I will not feel like this, she told herself fiercely. I will not.