The Road to Avalon (15 page)

Morgan sighed. “Yes. I suppose that will be best.”

Morgause, however, surprised her father and her sister by having a very different idea. “If Lot were there, then of course I would return to Lothian,” she said to Morgan later in the afternoon. “However, according to Father, he will not be there; he will be away somewhere fighting. You have no idea of how tedious life is when Lot is away, Morgan. I shall enjoy myself more at Avalon.”

Morgause had come out to the small garden where Morgan grew the herbs she used for medicines. The herbs used for seasoning food were grown in the kitchen garden along with the vegetables and were attended to by slaves. The herb garden was Morgan’s domain. Now she put down the small digging tool she was holding and looked in amazement at her sister’s vivid face. Then she got to her feet and brushed the earth from the skirt of her old brown gown. “But won’t Lot think you disloyal if you remain here?” she asked.

Morgause looked puzzled. “Why should he think that? If there were something I could do for him in Lothian, of course I should return. But there is nothing. I see no point in making that great journey only to sleep in an empty bed.”

Morgan brushed a strand of hair that had escaped its tie away from her face. Her fingers left a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Morgause,” she said with infinite kindliness, “perhaps Father did not make it clear. Lot will probably be fighting Arthur.”

Morgause reached out with a mother’s capable hand to brush the dirt off her sister’s cheek. “Lot is always fighting someone,” she said.

Morgan stared. “And do you usually reside with his enemies during the hostilities?”

Sarcasm was lost on Morgause. She merely smiled. “If Lot wins,” she explained, “he will come to Venta to be named high king. It will be much more convenient for me to wait for him here at Avalon than it would be for me to return to Lothian and then have to come south again.”

“I see,” said Morgan little acidly. “And if Lot loses?”

“Lot never loses,” his wife replied with simple faith.

Morgan bit her tongue to keep from answering with the words that leapt to her lips: But Lot has never fought Arthur. Instead she made herself kneel once more and pluck an herb from a cluster. “Here,” she said a little desperately, “I believe you were interested in how I extract oil from thyme for dressing wounds.”

The days went by. Merlin went back to Venta and Ector came home to Avalon to take up his job of supervising the farms. He had no knowledge of what had passed between Morgan and Arthur, and so talked of Arthur and his plans freely and enthusiastically. Morgan clung to his every word. News of Arthur was like water to her drought-stricken soul.

She had sacrificed her happiness to make him high king. It was necessary for her to hear that he was succeeding in his new life. She was not succeeding very well, she thought dully, in her own.

But Arthur would find fulfillment, and eventually some measure of happiness, in the work he had taken on. Once he got over the initial pain of losing her, his brain would take over from his heart. He had studied the use of cavalry for so long, had fought so many hypothetical battles, had trained his body so relentlessly. He was bound to find satisfaction in doing at last what he had longed to do for so many years.

Cai would stand by him. Cai loved him too. He would not be alone.

Whereas she . . .

The days were almost unendurable. It was Morgause and the boys who kept her going. She had to dissemble before them, force herself to show some semblance of normality.

At night she dreamed of Arthur. It was almost more unbearable that all her dreams were happy ones: they would be children again, playing in the tree house; or they were older, and he was holding her in his arms. She woke with a smile from dream to nightmare. For it was a nightmare she was living, and every morning when she opened her eyes it was to find with anguish that the nightmare had not gone away.

She began to feel physically ill. She was nauseated and could not eat. Fatigue seemed to permeate her very bones. It was an almost unendurable effort to arise and dress in the mornings. Justina clucked over her like a mother hen, and made her possets, which Morgan threw away when Justina wasn’t looking. She knew what was wrong with her. She lacked Arthur.

It was her sister who first suggested there might be another cause for her sickness and her fatigue. She and Morgause were sitting together in the small family chamber one evening after dinner when Morgause brought the subject up. She put down the harp she had been playing, and which Morgan had been pretending to listen to, and asked gently, “Do you need help, Morgan? You can talk to me, you know. We have not met very often, it’s true, but I am your sister. I would like to help you.”

Morgan’s eyes had been half-closed, but at Morgause’s words they opened wide. “Need help?” she echoed. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’ve borne three children,” said Morgause. “I know what pregnancy looks like, and unless I’m very much mistaken, my dear, you are pregnant.”

Morgan felt the blood drain from her head. She felt suddenly cold. The room swayed before her. She made herself sit upright. I will not faint, she told herself furiously. I will not faint.

Morgause was standing beside her holding a cup of water. Morgan took it and raised it to her lips. Her hand was shaking. When she gave it back she said, her voice as shaky as her hand, “I don’t know if I am pregnant or not. I hadn’t thought about the possibility.”

“Could
you be?”

Morgan’s fine nostrils flared. “Yes.”

“Let me ask you a few questions,” Morgause said, and at the end of them neither sister was left with much doubt about Morgan’s condition.

Morgause’s advice was immediate and practical. “Well, we had better see about getting you married.”

Morgan bent her head. Seated in the big wicker chair, her fragile figure looked like a child’s. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

Morgause looked at her with pity. “Why?” Then, as Morgan did not answer, “Surely you haven’t been sleeping with some slave?”

Morgan shook her head.

“He is married?”

Again Morgan shook her head.

“Then why cannot you marry him?” Morgause sounded very patient.

“Father has forbidden it,” came the whispered reply.

Morgause shrugged. “Father will have to change his mind.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Morgan pressed clenched fists against her temples. “It is impossible.”

“It is impossible. It is impossible. Is that all you can say?” Morgause’s patience was slipping. When Morgan made no response, she went on, “Then, if one marriage is impossible, Father will have to arrange another.”

“No!” Morgan looked up, her frozen misery edging into panic. “No, I could never marry anyone else! It’s not to be thought of, Morgause.”

“Bearing a bastard child is not to be thought of either.”

Morgan bowed her head once more so that her hair swung forward to hide her face. Morgause was right, but not for the reason she was thinking. The disgrace to herself mattered not at all; what mattered was that there was danger to Arthur in this pregnancy of hers.

He would never keep silent. Once he knew she was having a child, he would step forward immediately. He would never allow her to face this by herself.

Arthur must never know.

“You know the use of herbs,” Morgause was saying. “Perhaps you could get rid of it.”

Get rid of it: Kill it. Her child and Arthur’s.

“No! I can’t do that!” She looked at her sister out of huge shadowed eyes. “Oh, God, Morgause. You said you would help me. What am I going to do?”

Morgause came to sit beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Morgan let herself be drawn against the soft shelter of her sister’s breast. “Hush now,” Morgause said. “We’ll find a solution, never fear. Don’t make youself ill, Morgan. I’ll send for Father, shall I?” She stroked Morgan’s hair and, mutely, Morgan nodded.

Morgan was sleeping when Merlin arrived at the villa late in the afternoon three days later. Morgause had been making Morgan take a nap in the afternoon, and Morgan found herself obeying her sister quite as if she were Gawain or Gaheris. Consequently it was Morgause Merlin talked to first. He was drinking a cup of wine in the family chamber when she came in. The ride from Venta had put color in his cheeks and his eyes were the exact shade of blue as the summer sky. His tall body still had not an ounce of fat on it. He was sixty-three years old and looked ten years younger. Morgause smiled when she saw him and said admiringly, “I hope I wear as well as you, Father”

Merlin’s response was rueful. “It’s an illusion. This ride back and forth from Venta is aging me by the minute.” He put down his wine cup. “Now, Morgause, what has happened that you felt it necessary to summon me so peremptorily? Have you changed your mind? Do you wish to return to Lothian after all?”

Morgause chose a wicker chair and folded her hands in her lap. She was twenty-eight and the bloom of ripe femininity was still upon her. “No, it’s nothing to do with me, Father,” she replied. “It’s about Morgan.”

Merlin looked instantly alert. “What of Morgan? Isn’t she well? Marcus said she was lying down.”

“She is with child,” said Morgause, and watched as all the blood drained from her father’s face.

There was a catastrophic silence.

“She did not realize it herself,” Morgause said finally, just to break the quiet. “I noticed it first.”

“
You
noticed it?” Merlin still had not regained his color. “Has anyone else noticed?”

“I shouldn’t think so. She hasn’t got a belly yet, if that’s what you fear. But she has that big-eyed, thin-cheeked look.” Morgause looked complacent. “I know it well,” she added.

“You can’t be mistaken?” He stared at her fiercely.

“I don’t think so. All the other signs are there as well. And she says it is a likely result of her . . . ah . . . activities.”

Merlin buried his face in his hands. “This is terrible,” she heard him groan. “Terrible.”

Morgause leaned back in her wicker chair and watched her father with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Finally, when he looked up once more: “It is not the end of the world, Father. All it needs is a little shrewd management on our part.”

Merlin looked at his middle daughter. She was very lovely as she sat across the room from him, her long auburn hair touched with fire by the sun. “Did she tell you who it was?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “All she would say was that you would not allow her to marry him.”

“Marriage is out of the question.” The illusion of youth had quite fallen from Merlin. He looked every one of his sixty-three years.

“If she cannot marry the child’s father, then she must marry someone else.” Morgause sounded very practical.

“Marry someone else,” he repeated.

“Good heavens, Father. Surely it is the obvious solution. There must be someone you know who would be willing to take her and give her child a name in return for the honor of being connected with our family.”

Merlin gripped his hands on the arms of his chair. “If I could get her to marry . . . You are right, Morgause. That would answer the problem.”

“It is certainly a good thing I was here. You are almost as useless as Morgan, Father. Now, think. Do you know anyone who would be willing to marry her?”

“Yes,” said Merlin. “I do.”

“Good. I must warn you, however, that she is likely to prove difficult.” Her blue gaze was frankly speculative. “She evidently loved this man very much. I suggested she try to get rid of the baby, and she refused instantly. She would not feel that way if she did not love him.”

Merlin would not meet her eyes. “Yes. I believe she loves him.”

“Then, if she refuses to consider marriage to someone else, tell her this. Tell her that her only alternative is to go away, have the child in secret, and give it to someone else to rear. It is done all the time, as you know.”

Merlin was looking like an eager student receiving advice from a knowledgeable teacher. “Yes. I will tell her that, Morgause.”

“Father.” Her voice was very soft. “Who is this man whom Morgan cannot marry?”

Blue eyes looked into blue eyes. “I cannot tell you that, Morgause,” Merlin said finally.

And Morgause replied, even more softly, “Never mind. I think I know.”

Chapter 13

M
ERLIN
knocked softly on the door to Morgan’s bedroom. When there was no answer he pushed the door open and entered the room on quiet feet.

She was curled on the top of her bed like a kitten, fast asleep. Her short-sleeved, round-necked gown showed him the thinness of her arms and neck. Her long brown lashes looked very dark against the pallor of her cheeks. He did not awaken her, but went to the chair by the window and sat down to wait.

It was another ten minutes before her lashes lifted. When she saw his figure silhouetted against the window, her whole body went rigid. “It’s Father, Morgan,” he said quickly, and knew from the look on her face that she had thought for a moment he was someone else.

After a minute she sat up, her bare feet not quite reaching to the floor. “Hello, Father.” She pushed her loose hair off her face. “Have you spoken to Morgause?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, you know.” The brown eyes that met his held the faintest of challenges. She was so thin, he thought. It hurt him to look at her.

“I know well that this is my fault, Morgan,” he said to her. His voice was harsh with feeling. “I should have told Arthur who he was. I should not have given you two the freedom I did. But, by the cross of Christ, I had no idea that you regarded each other as aught but sister and brother.”

At that she turned her head away and shut her eyes, a gesture that so clearly begged for silence that he fell quiet. Finally she said, her face still averted, “What shall I do?”

He drew a deep breath and said the words he had been thinking since he spoke to Morgause. “Marry Cai.”

Her head snapped around. “
What
did you say?”

“I said to marry Cai.” He leaned a little forward in his eagerness to persuade her. “Cai loves you, Morgan. I have seen that for a long time. In fact, once I even thought that if you ever wished to marry him, I would agree. He is not of princely birth, but he is a good boy and I am fond of him. He would take care of
you.”