But his words only made Igraine more miserable, for she could not tell him that she feared her own desire more than Uther’s, and the notion that she was just another woman to be conquered and forgotten cut deep against the quick.
Great, racking sobs began to shake her and nothing Gorlois said could calm her panic. Before long the Duchess was wailing like a sidhe out wandering in the wildwood, pleading hysterically with her husband.
“Take me home, M’lord…please, by all the Gods that be, take me away from here, I beg you.”
“We’ll go directly after the King Making,” he promised, hoping to settle the matter, but the distraught woman only moaned more deeply, and in the end he grew frightened for her sanity, so they left as soon as it was light.
***
“Perhaps,” the Queen Mother mused, “Gorlois was right, and if we had stayed, Uther’s interest would have flagged.”
She began to cough, and her breathing became more labored.
“You shouldn’t be talking so much, M’lady…you need to save your strength,” I admonished her.
“What for?” she wheezed, gesturing toward the water pitcher.
Her hands were too shaky to hold the goblet, but when I raised it to her lips she looked at me over the rim, her eyes crinkling in a half-smile. “The only strength I need is to tell the story straight out, as the Goddess would expect…
“You must understand that I was not intentionally complicit in what happened. Caught in a web of the Old Gods’ making, clothed in a moira beyond my comprehension, I was, up to that point, honest and honorable in all that I had done or said. Even after we left, racing for the safety of Cornwall, I hoped to avoid the fate I didn’t understand.” There was a pause before she added, “No one can outrun the Gods.”
They had no sooner settled into Tintagel than a messenger from King Mark of Cornwall arrived. He warned them that Uther had declared Gorlois a traitor for not swearing fealty and was leading an army into Cornwall.
“Mark rides with him, but he wants you to know he will not take arms against you, since you are his own Duke,” the courier announced glumly.
Gorlois gave a hollow laugh. “We appreciate His Highness’s reassurance. But I don’t suppose that means he will take arms
for
me.”
Embarrassed, the fellow stumbled through an explanation that Mark didn’t want to further upset the High King, but after he had left Gorlois let out a string of oaths, calling the pudgy young King of Cornwall every kind of coward he could think of.
“Ah well, as long as you stay here there’s nothing to fear,” the grizzled warrior concluded, slinging his cape of black Spanish goathair over his shoulder. “There’s no way outside of magic that Tintagel can be taken—even one warrior can hold the path, if necessary. So I’ll leave the houseguard under your command and take the rest of the men to Dimilioc to wait for Uther. If he won’t listen to reason, he’ll have to listen to the song of swords.”
Igraine nodded in agreement, but trembled nonetheless.
Gorlois wrapped his solid arms about his wife and she leaned in against him, sheltered and protected in the folds of his fuzzy cloak. He held her tightly, promising to return with word as to how things were going unless Uther had him and his men besieged at the hill-fort. Then he strode away across the Hall and Igraine was alone.
***
“I do not know how to describe the terror that filled me after Gorlois left,” she whispered. “At night I huddled in the middle of our big carved bed, praying for my husband’s return. Sometimes during the day I climbed to the top of the rampart, looking down on the gate that guards Tintagel and reminding myself that as long as I stayed on this side, I’d be safe from the forces Uther had unleashed. Yet all the while the booming of the surf at the base of the cliffs was pounding in my blood, and the murmur of the tide over the shingle whispered to my heart. Whenever I remember those days, I think the Goddess Herself had taken up residence in the cave below the fortress, for every moment pulsed with a fierce, primeval power.”
On the third night Igraine was so filled with tension that she walked the ramparts under the sparkling stars long after the servants thought she was in bed. A treasure of brilliance lit the western horizon, and the breeze off the water was unusually soft and warm, as though the calendar said June instead of March. The night was dazzling in its beauty, promising birth and renewal, and the young Duchess’s mood shifted from dread to delight. Like a flower unfolding, the petals of the universe opened for her, and she stood in rapture on the edge of the world.
And then she saw it—a firedrake that came leaping across the sky like one of the dragons Merlin had prophesied, racing toward her through the stars. It came out of the depths of beyond and flung itself earthward in a blaze of glory. Thinking it was going to crash upon Tintagel, Igraine threw herself against the tower wall.
The meteor fled westward, its light slowly dimming as the fiery head disappeared over the edge of the horizon. But the Duchess of Cornwall didn’t see its departure, for her attention was riveted on a commotion at the postern gate.
Hewn into the face of the cliff, the gate guarded the secret escapeway that led straight from the heart of the fortress. Few people knew of its existence, much less dared to risk the steep, spray-washed stairs by night. Yet three hooded figures were demanding entrance and Igraine watched intently, all but forgetting to breathe.
A sleepy sentry peered into the shadows cast by his guttering torch, then saluted quickly as the man in the black cloak brushed past him and entered the gatehouse. The young Duchess gave a cry of relief; Gorlois had returned. Safety and sanity were coming back to her, and with a rush of gratitude she ran down the steps and across the garden to their chamber.
He bounded up the inner stairs two at a time, and she paused in the doorway, her shadow filling the stairwell as it raced out to meet him. When he reached the landing she flung herself into his arms.
For one oblivious moment she was wrapped in the cloud of his cape before he lifted her off her feet and carried her across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them.
Maybe it was the spring in his step, or the ease with which he held her, so light and sure, that gave her warning. Even before he set her on her feet and stepped back, letting the hood fall away from his face, Igraine knew this was not her husband. Yet she stared into Uther’s eyes with surprise rather than outrage.
They stood in confrontation for a long, long minute, each silently probing the other. The High King watched her carefully, knowing that the longer she delayed in sounding the alarm, the less likely it was she would do so. And Igraine watched him, appalled and thrilled by the risk he was taking.
At last the Pendragon reached for her wrists and tried to draw her to him.
“What of Gorlois?” she asked, resisting the invitation in spite of her own desire. With a cold will she kept her voice as level as her gaze.
“He sleeps on his field-cot, safe at Dimilioc, M’lady,” Uther replied. “I am not here as a victor come to take the widow of my vanquished foe. I am here because you want me as much as I want you, and we are well met as equals.”
In spite of the fact that she was trembling visibly, Igraine studied the man before her, gauging the depth of his words, the pride of his tone. Like the red doe that makes no commitment to the stag until he has proven his ability to overtake her, the Duchess stood poised as if for further flight.
Neither of them moved, though her skin tingled where he held her wrists.
“There is a fever that rages between us,” Uther whispered, bending close above but not quite touching her. “I am as certain of that as I am of which way the wind blows at sunrise. But you must come to me of your own choice—-there shall be no thought of rape between us.”
He waited, his lips just short of hers.
Igraine felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, and the flutter of her heart as she stretched on tiptoe to reach his mouth. Passion leapt up within her and in one motion she freed her hands and twined them through his hair, her lips finding his mouth with a kiss as eager as his own. He gathered her up against his body and she wrapped her legs around his waist, hardly even aware when he lowered her to the bed.
***
“It was a night when I was the Goddess incarnate, and that huge carved bed was my altar,” the Queen Mother whispered. “After the first wild need was met, we turned to pillow talk and he told me how Merlin had worked out a plan for invading Tintagel through the postern gate. Somehow the Magician had learned the password for the night, and disguising Ulfin and himself to look like Gorlois’s men, led the little group up the secret, cliffside path. But it was the black Spanish cape that was the master stroke—even men on guard can be tricked into seeing what they expect, if one is careful.
“Uther was immensely proud of having gotten through the gate, and I marveled at his courage. And later, when he slept and I lay watching him, I knew that for this one night I had been given the trust of a fierce, free thing that must occasionally seek sanctuary or it will beat itself to death. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, Gwen, since you never met him.”
“Perhaps,” I murmured as Ettard came quietly into the room. She announced that a priest was waiting outside, but the Queen Mother shook her head and Ettard discreetly withdrew.
“Before I forget,” Igraine said when the door had closed, “I’ve left that girl what little property I haven’t given to the monks at Tintagel. It should be enough to keep her comfortable, and I’d appreciate it if you’d find a place for her with you…She still talks about the months we spent at Court when you and Arthur were first married, and I’d feel better knowing she was under your protection.”
“I’ll look after her, M’lady,” I promised.
“Good…” Igraine’s fingers had taken hold of mine and she gave them a little squeeze.
“There is little else about that night you could not imagine for yourself,” she murmured, drawn back again to Tintagel. “I own that I was fully aware Uther was not my spouse, and those who claim that Merlin turned him into such a perfect likeness of Gorlois it fooled even me, credit the Enchanter with more magic than common sense.” She smiled wryly. “Can you believe anyone thinking a woman couldn’t tell the difference between two men?”
When Ulfin, who had accompanied his king disguised as one of Gorlois’s men, rapped sharply on the door, Uther rose and dressed hastily. Once he slung the black cape over his shoulders, Igraine got up and came to stand in front of him, settling the cloak more firmly and drawing the hood up in case one of the sentries looked too closely at his face.
Staring up at the sharp features and burning eyes, she prepared to say good-bye. This was not a relationship to be woven into everyday life, but a gift from the Gods—a touching beyond time that no human could gainsay. They were not the first the Goddess had brought together this way, nor would they be the last, but Igraine knew better than to think it might continue. With deft fingers she traced the line of his cheek before rising on tiptoe to whisper farewell.
Uther’s expression was hard and quick, as though he were already threading his way past guard and sentry in his bid to leave his enemy’s stronghold undiscovered. But he softened for a moment and promised he would find some pretext for making an honorable truce with Gorlois. Then he was gone.
The Duchess returned to bed, too drained to think about the night’s events and too stunned to wonder what kind of child might come of such a union. She lay across the tangled covers, clutching a pillow in her arms and drifting on the edge of time until the day should properly begin.
But dawn brought word that Gorlois had died in a night raid against the High King’s camp, and her household was set buzzing with questions as to how the Duke’s spirit could lie with his wife hours after his death.
Igraine reeled before the news, seeing her world splinter around her. Sorrow and anger warred through her normally calm nature, and she stood like a statue in the center of the storm, staring out across the sea and listening to the cry of the wheeling gulls.
Her daughters crept fearfully into her chamber, clambering onto the rumpled bed and clinging to each other in terror. At thirteen Morgause had grown into a handsome girl with the high, ruddy coloring of Gorlois, though now her face was white and frightened and she whimpered softly. It was ten-year-old Morgan, dark and cunning, who narrowed her green eyes and glared around the room with the fierceness of a cornered animal.
“Will King Uther make us slaves?” Morgause’s voice was barely audible. “Or will he kill us outright, as he killed Father?”
“I…I don’t think he’ll do either,” Igraine answered, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “And we don’t actually know who killed your father. If he was leading an attack against the King, he was probably killed in battle by a man attempting to defend himself.”
The widow’s voice trailed off as her daughters stared at her in disbelief, refusing to consider Gorlois’s death anything but murder. Morgan’s black brows came together in a scowl and she sprang off the bed with the high, unearthly scream of a banshee.
“I can smell him,” she shrieked. “Uther, the Roman who calls himself High King…he stalks Tintagel like a beast, sating his appetite on our family!”