The air was heavy at the end of the day, like thick honey, and fat, fleshy lilies floated on waters that reeked of rot. Our guide threaded a path between puddles and backwaters, where unseen things plopped into the stinking soup as we approached. Once I felt something squishy underfoot that wriggled silently away in the dark waters.
My skin began to crawl. What if this wicca wasn’t a woman at all, but one of the hideous creatures the Saxons tell about around the fire? A horrid goblin, perhaps, or a were-creature, half beast, half human, that feeds on unsuspecting souls? The British sprites and spirits are generally bright and mischievous, but the sulky, bad-tempered creatures of the Saxon Otherworld are dark and ugly and thoroughly frightening.
By the time the shape of a hut rose out of the mists I wanted to bolt and run—only Frieda’s hand on my arm stopped me.
I stumbled across the doorstep into a chaotic mix of smells, but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, it was clear the place was neat and tidy, if crammed with jars and bags, hanging herbs and stacks of folded packets.
The hag who greeted us was blind in one eye and deaf to boot. She leaned so close to hear my request, I could count the hairs on the end of her nose. When Frieda and our guide had explained the bargain, the old woman shooed them outside, then turned to face me directly.
“Is it an easy delivery you want,” she croaked, scrutinizing me with her one good eye, “or barrenness you wish to cure?”
“Delivery,” I blurted out, refusing even to consider the other idea. “I need the assurance of a safe delivery.”
The crone nodded thoughtfully, but that rheumy eye continued to peer at me. One scrawny finger scrabbled loosely against the air and at last, muttering to herself, she turned to the shelf of herbs behind her.
The last light of the sun glowed beyond a window paned with horn. A fly had gotten caught in a cobweb in its corner and buzzed noisily in an effort to escape.
The old woman’s attention shifted to the sound; quick as lightning she captured the thing and held it prisoner in her fist while pulling the stopper out of a glass bottle. With a flick of the wrist she loosed the fly into the container and replaced the stopper. I could see the creature crawling over the desiccated bodies of similar captives, long since dead and dry.
“Everything’s got a place in nature’s pharmacy,” the wicca admonished, grinning gleefully as she put the bottle back on the shelf. “Barrenness, you said,” she went on, reaching for the leathery remains of a flattened toad.
“No, no, good woman,” I burst out. “Just a safe delivery, that’s all I need.”
“Come now, child! Can’t deliver what hasn’t been spawned,” she chided. “You trying to tell me you’ve conceived before but couldn’t carry it full term?”
Hot, angry tears sprang to my eyes, and I wanted to shout at the old fool that she was wrong. I wasn’t barren, I wasn’t! But my need for the potion overrode my frustration, so I blinked hard and held my tongue.
“There, you see,” she confirmed with a nod. “It’s barrenness we need to find a cure for.”
The woman puttered about at her workbench, pounding and crumbling bits of stuff into the mortar. Everything that went into it was dried and black or brown, sometimes crisp and sometimes lumpy, but all of it noxious. As a last precaution she added what she said was the wool of a bat, then filled the mortar with hot wine from a pan by the hearth and set it aside to steep. Seating herself on a stool next to the fire, the crone stared into the embers, musing as much to herself as to me.
“What if your moira doesn’t include children? Many another queen has found her duties as a monarch more than enough to fill her time.”
I started, wondering how she knew my rank, for neither I nor my companions had mentioned my name or title, and the dark cape didn’t reflect my royal status.
“Ah, well.” The wicca sighed with a cackle that might have been a laugh. “Arthur’s son will keep you more than busy, my dear, so don’t you fret.”
The hair on my nape rose like a dog’s; suddenly I wished I’d never sought help from this creature who knew too much. A fine, uneasy sweat broke out over my whole body.
“’Tis no doubt well-enough done,” she mumbled, sticking her finger into the brew and stirring it about. “Now you just drink it down, and see if that won’t fix the problem.”
I wrapped both hands around the warm bowl of the mortar and taking a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to gulp the mixture—past experience had taught me that the recipes for fertility were more often revolting than pleasant, and best gotten down as quickly as possible. But before I had drained the contents my throat closed and my stomach rebelled. I lowered the vessel slowly, willing the potion to stay down as long as possible.
The wicca snuffled and snorted by her hearth, and when I was convinced I wasn’t going to vomit, I opened my eyes and found she had gone to sleep.
I stared at her closely, wondering if she was really the Goddess in her hag aspect. Saxon or Cumbri or Roman Briton, all old women draw closer to the Ancient Deity, no matter what name they call Her by. I searched for some sign of divinity, but all I found was a toothless crone whose fingers twitched as she snored by the fire.
Finally, clutching my cloak around me like a cocoon, I stole out the door and bumped into Frieda. That poor girl looked as frightened as I felt, and together with our guide we fled back to the gathering in London.
***
Ironically, between the mead that Arthur had drunk and the nausea the potion left me with, neither of us felt like making love that night. But I went to sleep convinced the experience had been worth it, for it had not escaped me that the witch had promised that Arthur and I would raise a son.
The Poisoning
Arthur was hopping up and down, trying to pull his legging over one foot while balancing on the other.
“Treaties, truces, and rights of trade,” he crowed. “Even more than I hoped for, Gwen. Why, some, like Wehha the Swede, have promised to join me in fighting the raiders, if need be. Do you realize what that means for the future?”
I nodded feebly, hard-pressed not to burst into tears. My belly ached from the brew I had drunk and my heart hurt each time I saw the bare spot on my finger where Mama’s ring should have been. I knew Arthur had every reason to be jubilant, but at the moment I was too miserable to manage more than a smile.
Fortunately he was so excited by the new developments, he didn’t question my indisposition. It was just as well—for some reason I didn’t want to explain about the wicca.
***
We left London that afternoon. Everyone else was in high spirits, so I sat my horse regally and tried not to moan. The aches and pains moved slowly through my body, and by the time we reached Caerleon I had begun to perk up, knowing that Brigit would be waiting to greet us.
“King Mark made quite a fuss over the silver tray, and the Saxons were all impressed with our pomp and presents,” I reported as she helped me unpack the lavish wardrobe. But when I told her the story of the wicca, she looked at me with growing horror. “Mostly I’m sorry I didn’t see more of London—I’d like to go back sometime when I’m feeling better,” I concluded.
“God listen to the child!” My Irish friend hastily made the sign of the cross. “They almost succeed in poisoning her and she talks about going back. You should be thankful the Good Lord watches over you…though He must be hard-pressed at times.”
I grinned at that, suddenly very, very glad to be home.
Brigit’s own summer had been less adventurous, but as she spoke of life at the convent a serenity came into her voice that reminded me of Igraine. I reached out and put my hand on her arm, interrupting her.
“It really is the right thing for you, isn’t it?”
She looked up, half glowing with an inner conviction, half worried about how I would react. We stared into each other’s eyes, the whole of our lives’ caring summed in that long, searching gaze. A smile of relief began to fill her face.
“Yes, Gwen…it really is.”
“Then go with God,” I whispered, looking away before my sorrow at losing her could spoil it.
“Well, I won’t be leaving quite yet—I’d like to stay with you through the winter, or even until the baby comes, assuming the wicca’s potion works.”
We threw our arms around each other then, laughing and crying at the same time, and I blessed whatever Gods were responsible for having given me so loyal a friend.
***
Since there had been no military victories to celebrate, Arthur decided to hold a tournament for the autumn gathering in Caerleon. That tidy little town, tucked in a loop of the river Usk, had long since taken the Pendragon to its heart; it was here he’d been crowned king and here he’d stopped the Irish invasion. The town itself is full of the stone walls and arches the Empire’s engineers loved to make, but the people are Cumbri to the core, and they welcomed us with music and fanfares and great waves of cheering. Even the dancing bear was brought out, and I wondered if it remembered when we were here two years ago.
During the next few days the warlords and heroes of the Round Table came streaming down the Road. Since the Fellowship was made up of hardy warriors more interested in gaming and gambling and wenching than courtly surroundings, most of them pitched their tents in the meadows.
King Urien arrived with his troops all wearing the badge of the Raven, while Cador, the Duke of Cornwall, made camp across the greensward from him. Men of the same generation, who’d been blooded warriors before Arthur was even born, there was a camaraderie of respect between them. It occurred to me that although Urien had led the northern kings in the civil war against Arthur and Cador was Gorlois’s son and therefore had ample reason to resent Uther’s heir, Arthur had won both men over so thoroughly that they were among our strongest allies.
Pelli had other business to attend to—no doubt involving a woman—but Lamorak brought the Wrekin contingent and they mixed with the men who lived with us—Gawain and his brother Gaheris, Palomides, Pelleas, Lancelot, and the rest. Added to these were strangers come to compete for a place in Arthur’s cavalry, or just to enjoy the show.
The only guest I worried about was Morgan. We had invited her, of course, not only because of her position as High Priestess, but because Arthur was fonder of her than any other of his immediate family. Even the accidental mention of Morgause’s name was enough to unleash an unreasonable anger in him, and both he and Igraine had suffered a kind of confused shyness toward each other. But he trusted Morgan. It was Morgan who had welcomed him after the Great Battle and acted as his spiritual mentor when he made a retreat at her Sanctuary. It was Morgan who encouraged him to accept the High Kingship and gave him the Sacred Sword Excalibur in a ceremony before the Kings of the Cumbri. So the idea of not including her at a High Court celebration was unthinkable. I just hoped that by now she and I could meet as friends—if she was willing to overlook her vexation with me, I’d forgive her for not coming to Bedivere’s aid.
Morgan’s arrival must have been impressive, for Enid burst into my room without even knocking. “The Lady of the Lake is here, M’lady, with a whole cadre of druids and men-at-arms!” Her voice mirrored her astonishment. “She wants to see you at the portico.”
I took a deep breath and went to greet my sister-in-law.
The portico was full of people—women in white robes fluttering like butterflies, armed bodyguards standing at attention, and peasants begging to be allowed access to the High Priestess. Morgan herself was hidden by her devotees, so it was her lieutenant who left the group and strode toward me.
He was as barrel-chested and big-shouldered as a blacksmith, but something had crippled his legs so that they never grew in proportion to the rest of him. Dressed in a green livery, with breeches and high boots specially tailored to fit his stunted legs, his bizarre appearance gave him an ominous air.
The dwarf stared right through me as he approached. I studied his face, broad-cheeked and flat-nosed, and found it to be as closed to scrutiny as his mistress’s was. Whatever went on behind those masks of power was well hidden from the world.
“Her Royal Highness, Queen Morgan le Fey, Co-ruler of Northumbria and High Priestess of the Old Gods,” the dwarf announced, his deep voice filling the room.
Arthur’s sister emerged from her entourage. Petite as she was, she moved with an absolute air of authority. An elegant golden coronet bearing the symbol of the Goddess held her black hair in place and the chill of her sea-green glance silenced everyone it fell on. She glided across the distance between us, inky shadows trailing in the sweep of her black cloak. Its richly embroidered border contained signs and symbols of the Goddess—I had no doubt a number of spells had been worked into their stitching, for Morgan was famous both as a needlewoman and a shamaness. I watched her approach, thinking she was also a master at making the grand entrance.
But when I stepped forward, arms extended for a kinsman’s embrace, my sister-in-law drew back. I was left standing there, stupidly reaching out to empty space.
“I understand you’ve been to see a Saxon wicca,” Morgan spat at me, ignoring my stammered welcome. “That was very ill advised, Guinevere—a stupid action, even for a girl of your limited background. The Old Gods are jealous of their power, and do not take lightly to such foolishness. I will not sanction the results of your little excursion, whatever they may be. Now if you’ll have a servant show me to my quarters…”