Sword of the Rightful King (2 page)

“Since you refuse to be king here, under my guidance, I will let you go off south,” she said, standing so that they were eye to eye. “But know this—
you
did not decide to go to Cadbury at the first. Do you remember complaining? Whining? Being afraid?”

He did, but did not want to acknowledge it.

“You had night sweats.”

Startled, his eyes flew wide open. He wondered how she knew that. He had taken the sheets down to the river himself.

“But you went at last. Because
I
willed it,” she said. “Because I wanted you to be my eyes and ears in that place.”

“A spy!” Now he was furious and his eyes drew down into the same thin slits as hers so that for the first time he looked like her son. “I am a prince. You cannot expect me to be a spy.”

“Not a
spy
, no.” Her voice was suddenly smooth, a stone under fast water. She put her hand on his forearm. “Not a spy—not in the court of a man you admire. How could I ask such a thing?”

But she just did
, he thought, then wondered,
or did I mistake her?

She was smiling at him. “Not a spy,” she repeated, “but still your mothers man. Of course you tell your mother all that happens at court. It is expected. As you have done for these past three years. Did you think I did not listen?”

He had in fact thought just that. She'd never reacted to anything he'd told her by so much as a blink. When he'd reported on the balls, the tourneys, the hours of practice on horse and with sword, the time Arthur had gifted him with a pair of brachet hounds, even the names of the girls he had flirted with and the one he had, briefly, loved—none of that had seemed to interest her. Now, suddenly, he understood why. But even had he known something about Arthur's policies, about his allegiances and alliances, he would not have repeated what he knew. He was not a spy.
Never
a spy. He shuddered.

If she noticed his shudder, Morgause did not remark on it. Instead she continued as if she hadn't guessed how he felt. “I want to know what Arthur says behind closed doors. I want to know which of the Companions regards him with awe, which with a certain cynicism. I want to know the Companion who is most in need of funds, which one drinks too much, and which one forgets himself with the pretty maids. Or...”—she smiled her cat smile—“the pretty boys.”

“Mother, I...” He put up a hand to hold back her words, but it was like trying to stop the onrushing sea.

“You are
not
to be guiled by Arthur. I sent you there to observe, so that we may be ready when the time comes. Not to play at swords, not to speak love to unworthy maidens. You are there for us, for what we can and will be.”

Her face was now fierce with her desire. It made her ugly. He hardly knew her when she was like this.

“Arthur is nothing but a petty usurper, for all you like his manners,” she whispered harshly. “Some day—and soon—he will be plucked from the throne. That is the day I prepare for. The day I prepare
you
for.” Her eyes glistened.

“Mother!” His voice cracked as if he were thirteen again.

“And you must beware especially of that jackdaw, that black rag of a man, that Druid priest, that...”

“Merlinnus.” Gawaine put his hand on hers, but she shook him off, as if his hand were a wet, dirty thing. She had never been one for mawkish displays of affection, but she had never before shrugged him off so thoroughly. Not even when he was a muddy boy, in from a ride in the rain. So he smiled at her to hide his hurt. “His name is
Merlinnus
, Mother, and he is not really so terrible.” He shook his head. “Just terribly old.”

“Old? You think that is all he is?
Old
?” She shook with sudden rage, as if the bitter winds had her by the throat. In that moment she looked as old as Merlinnus. Unaccountably her hand went up to her right cheek.

Gawaine stifled his sigh.
Now she will begin the litany, the bloodlines
, he thought.
The old story that holds her in such thrall
. For a moment he looked away.
She is the only one still moved by it
. Then, fearing himself a coward, he looked back, steeling himself for the onslaught of her words.

She was not slow in getting to her point. “Together that old man and that petty
king
...” She spit the last hard word out, spraying spittle. “They have conspired to steal your birthright, Gawaine. My mother married Uther Pendragon for the High King's throne, so that her children should sit on it after he was gone. Surely she didn't marry him for love. Uther was a pig, an upstart; he wore drippings in his beard. His clothes smelled of dog. No—worse than dog. He smelled like a rutting wild boar. Did you know he once laid his filthy hands on me?
Me
! His wife's daughter, a princess in my own right. I never told you that. But he forced me, a child. Goddess—he was a terrible king and a worse man.”

Her eyes had taken on the mad look Gawaine hated. No good ever came of that look. Whippings were ordered, executions announced, true loves sundered, forced marriages perpetrated—tortures, dismemberments, exile. He held up his hand to stop her, though he knew not even the gods could stem that tide. Did he believe her? He no longer tried, for she always mixed truth and lies into her stories, like honey in poison to sweeten it as it went down.

“My mother had no male children by Uther, so the throne should by marriage right have come to me and thus to you.” She continued as if his weariness were not written upon his face; her hand clutched the bodice of her dress like a claw.

Gawaine had a sudden thought:
She
is
mad
.

Morgause went on. “But I have five sons. And all living, all grown strong and sturdy and smart. You are the eldest; you are to be king here of the Orkneys when you choose to claim it, Gwalchmei.”

He flinched at the use of his old name,
Gwalchmei
. It was a wonder that she did not notice his distaste. Only
she
still called him that. Changing it was one of the first things he had done upon arriving at Arthur's court three long wonderful years earlier.

“By rights, Gwalchmei,
you
should be High King as well.”

This time he could not keep from sighing. Kingship should be about strength, not blood; about power, not birthright. Arthur was a strong and a mighty king. Who, then, could be better upon the high throne?

She threw her right arm up, as if summoning the old dark gods. “Gwalchmei of Orkney, High King of all Britain.” She stared at him, almost fondly. “You do well to listen to me, Gwalchmei.”

But he was no longer listening at all.

3

A
FTER
G
AWAINE LEFT
, Morgause went back up the stone steps to her tower, holding up her green linen skirt so it would not tangle in her legs. She moved like a girl still, those long legs carrying her up the stone risers with ease.

That went well
, she thought.
I can always persuade him. He is his father's son
.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she walked along the alure till she came to her favorite spot where she could stare out across the blue-black sea. White terns were busy bringing up sand eels while the kittiwakes and guillemots rode the waves like little satisfied housewives.

“What fools those little birds are,” she said, marking them.

Above her, gannets hovered and then dove into the dark water. Great power was in their dives. They owed allegiance only to the sea and sky and took what they wanted from both. She admired them that.

Taking the gold torque from her neck and the gold circlet from her brow, she sighed. She took off the gold-and-red-enameled bracelets from her arm. Loosing the belt from her waist, with its jangle of brooches and the small jeweled dagger, she set them all on the stone. Then she let the wind work on her waist-length hair, twisting the dark loops into elf knots, as she thought how much she hated Arthur. The man who had stolen her fathers crown and her sons' inheritance. Who had taken away her own right to be Britain's mother queen.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, in the tower room, free of her boys, Morgause plucked up a glass vial and held it up to the sun. The light picked out bits of red pulp that the pestle had not quite ground down.

She thought about the dead man in her hidden dungeon.
He
had been a spy; she was sure of it. Even though he'd not admitted any such, just wept for his mother at the last.

They always do that
, she thought.
Men are but little boys when it comes to their mothers
.

He had admitted nothing, but it was what he did not say that was important. She knew deep in her breastbone that he was a spy.

A spy's heart was always worth something.

She smiled thinly and set the vial down in its iron holder.

Now
, she thought,
to make the brew
.

 

W
HILE THE BREW
sat on the highest shelf, stewing, steeping, all its granularities dissolving, Morgause went downstairs to greet the messengers. She had dressed carefully for them, in a white linen overgown with eyelets that allowed the red undergown to show through. On her black hair sat a crown of filigree gold. The torque and circlet were brilliantly shined, and she'd added four large-stoned rings to her fingers.

Her sons were off under Hwyll's stewardship to gather birds' eggs from the cliffs, something they enjoyed and that would keep them away for hours, even overnight if Hwyll could manage it.

As Morgause descended the stone stairs, she thought about the men awaiting her: messengers from all the little kings and lords and lairds and chieftains of the north. Come to her bidding.

She'd let
them
stew and steep as well, in the Great Hall. Wine and meats and cheeses had been provided, and piss pots, too, but the doors had been barred on the outside so the men couldn't leave. It was a lesson in queenship, so they'd know who was in command here.

When she arrived at the doors to the Great Hall, her guards greeted her stone-faced. Nodding at them, Morgause waited for the doors to be opened, never for a moment showing her annoyance at how long it took.

Finally the doors gaped wide and she stepped forward.

Entrance
, she thought.
Or en
-trance. She meant to cast a spell upon them all.

 

T
HE MESSENGERS
looked up as one from their food, except for a single man, in the far dark corner, using the pot.

The small-boned, gold-crowned woman in white seemed to glow with beauty. Her streams of black hair, her dark sea-colored eyes, all added to her mystery. She did, in fact, entrance.

“My men,” she said, opening her arms as if to gather them in.

They bowed their heads.

She moved as if without effort till she was sitting on the throne at the west end of the hall. It was the warmest spot in the huge room, being close to the fire. The great corbelled windows shone down shafts of light onto the throne, which further enhanced the sitters stature and mystery.

“Majesty,” one man cried and fell to his knees.

The others quickly followed suit.

She waited till they rose again, then waited another moment still. Then at last, when she judged all eyes were on her alone, she spoke. “Do you bring me pledges from your good masters? Will they march against the usurper Arthur under my banner? Will they set my son, the rightful heir, upon the High King's throne?”

Where a moment before there had been enchantment and single-mindedness, now there was chaos. Some of the men looked down at the floor; others studied the high beamed ceiling with fierce determination. One messenger coughed mightily and it took two men to beat upon his back to still him. Chairs scraped, dishes rattled, flagons were set down noisily upon the table. But no one answered the queen's challenge.

Morgause stood. Glaring at the men, trying to force their eyes on her by the rigidness of her posture, she cried, “Speak!”

For nearly a minute there was utter silence in the hall. Then one man cleared his throat.

Morgause turned to him. “You!” she said, and pointed. “Come here to me.”

Reluctantly he moved forward till he was right in front of her. Even more reluctantly he raised his head till his eyes met hers.

“What does your master say?” She was cold and hot at once; fury and sorrow and something else warred beneath her breast. Perhaps it was fear.

The man looked away. He spoke to the far wall. “Majesty, my master says that as long as Arthur is under the black mages protection, as long as he is first in battle and surrounded by those who love and honor him, we cannot rise against him.”

“So says my master as well!” cried someone from the crowd.

“And mine.”

Their voices, like an ocean wave, broke against her small, white-clad body.

Fury won the war beneath her breast. “Fools!” she said, her voice rising slowly till the hall seemed filled with it. “Running dogs of puling, pustulant masters. Go back to them and say that I, the North Witch, Queen of the Orkneys and beyond, daughter of Duke Gorlois and Ygraine, who was afterwife of Uther Pendragon, himself the High King, will myself rid this land of the usurper Arthur. And I will do it permanently. Then I will set one of my own sons upon the throne with my own hands. After, I shall deal with all of you as you deserve.” She held up two fingers, and the men seemed to cower before her, feeling the magic as dogs do whips.

She glared at them. “Arthur
will
die. And you after.”

The guards threw open the doors and the messengers ran out, pushing and stumbling and fighting with one another to be first outside. Last was the man who'd been at the pot when she arrived.

Smiling thinly, Morgause held three fingers up and said something under her breath. The man dropped to all fours and, howling, galloped away, looking more and more like a whipped hound the farther he got from the hall.