“At home Mama makes me stay inside, practicing with our scribe,” he volunteered. “She is most keen that I learn to read and write.”
“Very handy things to know,” I concurred. “But if you’d like to do more riding, there’s a pony in the stables that could use some exercise. Did you know that Gawain and I rode together when we were children?”
Mordred shook his head, so I launched into the tale of our escapades when King Lot and Gawain had come to visit my father in Rheged. I didn’t mention that I had bested the young Orcadian in horse racing, however, as I wanted to give Mordred as much pride in his family as possible.
“We’ve been friends ever since,” I concluded, noting that the boy had buttered a chunk of bannock and consumed the whole thing while I talked.
“Will I have time to learn to ride, if I’m to be a page?” he asked.
“Of course. And in a couple of years you’ll become a squire—and from there a warrior. I have no doubt you’ll make your family proud.” I watched him lick the butter from his fingers and, after dusting the crumbs from my hands, grinned over at him. “Want to go down to the stable and take a look at that pony?”
The boy gave me another thoughtful appraisal, then nodded, so we pushed away from the table and headed for the horse yard. By the time I’d introduced him to Whitenose and showed him the King’s stallion and my own two mares, he was asking questions and volunteering comments like any other youngster. I heaved an inner sigh of relief, glad to have found a common ground between us.
It was not so easy with Arthur, however.
Mordred and I entered the room with the long table early that afternoon. Arthur and Bedivere were going over a list of the hostels where royal messengers could stop for lodging, and they both glanced up when we entered.
Exhausted from the ordeal of the night before, my husband barely glanced at the lad before turning to me.
“This is Mordred, brother of Gawain of the Orkney Isles,” I announced as the youngster made a proper bow. Morgause may have been a hellcat, but at least she had taught this youngest child good manners. I thought of how pleased Igraine would have been.
Arthur nodded curtly and immediately went back to studying his list. It was Bedivere who smiled at the boy.
“Well come to the Court of King Arthur,” the lieutenant said. “May it prove to be a happy home for your new life.”
The boy looked at both men, observing them from behind that silent guard.
“We’ve been down with the horses,” I explained. “Mordred took a fancy to the pony, Whitenose—I thought I’d give him the animal so he can learn to ride.”
Arthur grunted noncommittally, and Bedivere rose to his feet. “Why don’t I take Mordred round to find a place to sleep?” he suggested. “What say we give him Beaumains’s place since the kitchen boy is north with Lance?”
Mordred moved to Bedivere’s side, though his eyes were still fastened on Arthur. I glanced up at the lieutenant and smiled gratefully as he put an arm around the lad’s shoulder, and they moved toward the door.
When the leather curtains had flapped shut behind them, I marched over to the table and stood in front of my husband, arms folded and hackles raised.
“What sort of greeting is that to give the child?” I demanded. “Why, the poor boy has gone through all sorts of horrible things, and you didn’t even smile at him.”
Arthur looked up wearily from his work. “I never said I would help you raise him, Gwen. You know I’ve no fancy for youngsters—I’ve told you you can take on as many as you wish, but don’t bring them into our personal life. That holds as true for Mordred as for any street urchin.”
We stared at each other across the worktable in silence, and finally he gave me a tired, crooked smile. “Ah, lass, don’t ask me to be everything to everyone”—he sighed—“and I won’t ask it of you.”
“Fair enough.” I grinned with understanding of his plea, and coming round the table, planted a kiss on the top of his head.
***
Whatever Arthur might or might not be as a father, he was still the husband I loved and admired.
Motherhood
When the need to provide Mordred with a home came up so fast, both my heart and mind knew full well what I was giving up. Still, I dreaded having to tell Lance that I would not be coming with him.
Certainly it was not for lack of love I’d made this choice, yet I had no idea how to explain it or what his reaction would be. How could he possibly understand, not having been with me at Igraine’s deathbed? A hundred questions and memories rose to haunt me, and I finally put the problem aside by telling myself I’d find the words when Lance arrived. In the meantime I concentrated on getting to know my stepson.
I gave Mordred daily riding lessons and arranged a small celebration of his birthday in the midst of the May Day festivities. And Bedivere agreed to tutor him in Latin, picking up where his teacher in the Orkneys had left off.
The boy was bright and willing to learn, and while neither reading nor writing were among my favorite pastimes, he was very good at both. He enjoyed showing me how proficient he was and offered to help me get through one of the scrolls he was working on.
It turned out to be about the Trojan War, and we had great fun with it—I explained the background of Gods and people that Cathbad had taught me about years before, while the boy sharpened my Latin vocabulary and syntax. I wasn’t sure anyone in Logres would understand a reference to the “wine-dark sea,” any more than they cared how many boats a Greek warlord had called forth on his expedition to retrieve his brother’s wife, but Mordred and I enjoyed it, and that was enough.
***
Lance returned to Court during the lovely month of May.
“Good afternoon, M’lady.”
He had entered the kitchen unannounced, and I whirled around to find him smiling down on me. It was the moment I’d been trying to put off, and it caught me totally unprepared.
I stared at him, speechless, the spoon in my hand forgotten as it dripped eggs and milk onto the floor. Flustered, I put it back in the bowl and handed the whole thing to Cook with the admonition, “It’s a custard for Mordred’s tea.”
Taking off my apron, I motioned for Lance to follow me out the door. My heart was pounding in my ears, and all I could think of was the need to find someplace private where we could talk.
But it was Lance who chose the setting.
A huge, solitary oak stands between the courtyard and the stables, the lone remnant of what had once been a thick grove of trees. He guided me toward it without a word—its lack of privacy should have told me he already knew.
One of Tiger Fang’s offspring, a large orange-and-white tabby, was sunning herself at the base of the tree. She watched us curiously as we approached.
“I’ve been talking with Arthur,” the Breton said, his manner pleasant but constrained. We had stopped beside a stump and he gestured for me to sit down. “He told me about Mordred…all about Mordred.”
I looked up at him sharply; was this, then, to be the public and courtly conclusion of a dance that should have been for life?
“There’s no need to explain, Gwen,” he went on, staring down at his hands as though by not looking at each other we could maintain the formal distance of the moment. “Nor did I say anything to Arthur that either of us might regret.”
My ears heard his words but my mind refused to accept them. Instead, my eyes devoured him.
His face was brown from months of work outside, no doubt at Joyous Gard. Memories of our summer mingled with the sudden realization that he had been fixing it up in preparation for my joining him. It was then my heart rebelled.
All the wild, sweet magic of the love we shared shimmered in the air between us, like a joy that has no idea how fragile it is. The fact that it might have continued, might have flowered into something even more splendid, yet now could not, brought a savage ache to my heart, and my eyes began to brim.
I reached out to him, struggling to find my voice, wanting to tell him how much I loved him, how deeply I cared, and how unable I was to do anything about it.
Tears were glistening in his eyes, too, but he took my hand in his own and the smile he gave me was full of tenderness.
“It seems you’ve finally found your family.”
The words were simple, said gently and with more acceptance than an hour of explanation could have elicited. I stared up at him, weak with relief and gratitude that he understood.
He was looking deeply into my eyes, as though to touch my soul, and my heart began to soar with the pain and beauty of knowing that nothing was really changed between us.
In the tree above, a nightingale burst into song.
Lancelot dropped my hand abruptly and straightened up.
“I left Beaumains at the Garden,” he said, his voice going husky. “So perhaps I’ll just keep traveling for a bit.”
“Oh…”
My elation stumbled on the reality of the situation, for nothing had changed at Court, either. Only the chance to fling ourselves into a life together had been altered—the love remained.
“You aren’t going to stay?” I whispered, knowing it was a foolish question.
He shook his head. “Maybe next year I can come back to Camelot. But not this summer…”
“How long before you leave?”
“As long as it takes to tell you that you’ll always be the lady of my heart, and if you ever need me, I’ll come. Wherever you are, and for whatever reason, I’ll come as soon as you send word.” He reached out and tilted my chin up so that I was looking at him again. “Promise you’ll remember that?”
I nodded mutely, fearful that if I opened my mouth, my heart would lay the whole of our careful composure in shreds. It was enough to know the love was still there, even if the future was not.
The cat had padded over to us and now began to rub against our ankles, weaving back and forth between us. Lance bent down and picking her up, put her in my lap. Unlike her mother, this one was calm and friendly, and she settled under my hands, purring contentedly.
“Don’t get up,” he said. “I’d like to remember you here, just like this.”
So he backed away from me while I petted the cat and fought to keep my tears in check. When he was well into the courtyard, he turned abruptly and strode away as wave after wave of anguish washed over me.
I stayed on the stump, blindly stroking the animal, until I heard the sound of hoofbeats going down the cobbled drive and Lance called farewell to the sentry. Scrambling to my feet, I raced up the steps of the rampart and threw myself against the parapet, shading my eyes and peering into the sunlight.
The plain below was golden green, rich with new grasses and the sweet smell of spring. Buttercups bloomed in the meadows, and larks flew up singing as Lancelot rode past.
He sat his horse with the ease of years in a saddle, letting his mount set the pace but never looking back. Only when the trackway disappeared into the forest did I lose sight of him and the life we might have had together.
A torrent of tears flooded down my face, and I stayed crying against the wind until there wasn’t a single drop left to shed. After the breeze had dried them, I turned slowly back to Camelot.
The sounds of the Court began to drift up to me: the smith at his forge, the girls in the kitchen, the stable hands talking to the horses in the barn. Down in the practice field the men were giving lessons to the squires and I walked slowly along the parapet, drawn toward the cries of warning and encouragement.
Bedivere was demonstrating a particular thrust—one-handed or no, he was still one of Britain’s finest warriors. The boys went through the motion over and over, until they could accomplish the move in one fluid sweep. But it was a small dark head at the sidelines that caught my eye. The helmet in his lap lay forgotten, and the polishing rag, too, as Mordred drank in everything Bedivere was telling his pupils.
I grinned to myself—recognizing Mordred in a crowd was coming as easily to me as if I were his natural mother, just as his eagerness to learn swordplay was as natural to him as to his father. The slow, sure knowledge that I had done the right thing welled up beside my heartbreak.
***
Mordred had a natural aptitude for riding, and by the time the bees were gathering nectar in the lime trees he was ready to go on extended outings. It was fascinating to see what the boy responded to. He loved to watch the golden eagles gliding high and free above the earth, for they reminded him of the Orkneys, and when I took him to Stonehenge for the druids’ midsummer gathering, it brought out just as much superstitious awe in him as the Standing Stones at Castlerigg had in Gawain years before. The lift and swell of the downs made him smile, especially when we galloped through the long grass with the wind in our faces—but the dark, untamed woods filled the boy with dread.
“We don’t have forests at home,” he said one day, scowling into the trees that encircled us. “The Orkneys are all open and free and windswept.”
“Are they bare?” I asked, trying to imagine such a place.
“Not really; there are lots of fields, and a few groves of trees twisted by the winds from across the sea. But nothing as dark and scary as this. I sometimes dream Mama’s lost somewhere in here,” he whispered, glancing nervously from side to side. A shudder crawled across his shoulders. Then, with a visible effort, he lifted his head and spoke more clearly. “I don’t think the High King likes me. Perhaps I should return home.”