“It is kind of you, Lancelet,” she said stubbornly, “but I shall go nowhere until my son is born.”
“Even if you were to be taken to Avalon itself?” Arthur asked. “You and our son would be safer there than anywhere in this world.”
She shivered and crossed herself. “God and Mary Virgin forbid!” she whispered. “I would as soon go into the fairy country itself!”
“Gwenhwyfar, listen to me—” he began urgently, then sighed in defeat, and she knew she had won. “Have it as you will. If the danger of travel seems greater to you than the danger of remaining here, then God forbid I should force you to travel. . . .”
Gaheris said wrathfully, “Arthur, will you let her do this? I say to you, you should bundle her on to her horse and send her forth whether she will, or not! My king, will you listen like this to a woman’s raving?”
Arthur shook his head wearily. “Peace, cousin,” he said, “it is easy to see you are no married man. Gwenhwyfar, do as you will. Elaine may remain with you, and one serving-woman and a midwife and your priest, but no more. Everyone else must ride at daybreak. And now you must go to your chamber, Gwen, I have no more time for this!”
And Gwenhwyfar, dutifully raising her cheek for his dutiful kiss, had no sense that she had won a victory.
The other women set forth at daybreak. Meleas begged to stay with the Queen, but Griflet would not have it. “Elaine has neither husband nor child,” he said. “Let her stay. Yet if I were King Pellinore I would not let my daughter remain, queen or no. You shall go, my lady.” And Gwenhwyfar fancied that the look he gave her was one of scorn.
And Arthur made it clear to her that the main part of the castle was now the army camp, and she must keep to her chambers with Elaine and the serving-women. Most of her furniture had been sent to Camelot; a bed was brought up from the guest chamber, and she slept in it with Elaine. Arthur spent his nights in the camp with the men, sending to inquire for her once a day, but she rarely saw him.
At first she thought every day that she would see them march out to do battle with the Saxons, or that the battle would sweep over them here, but day followed day and then week came after week and she heard no news. Solitary riders and messengers came and went, and Gwenhwyfar could see more armies gathering, but immured in her chamber and the tiny garden behind it, she heard only such scattered bits of news as her servant and the midwife could bring, much garbled and mostly gossip. The time hung heavy over her; she was queasy in the morning and wished for nothing but to lie in bed, though later she felt well and would pace the garden restlessly, with nothing to do but make pictures in her mind of the marauding Saxons off the coast, and think of her child. . . . She would have liked to sew on baby clothes, but she had no wool to spin and the big loom had gone already.
However, she had the small loom, and the silks and spun wool and embroidery gear which had gone with her to Tintagel, and she began to plan the weaving of a banner. . . . Once Arthur had promised her that when she gave him a son she might ask him for whatever gift was in his power to give, and she had it in mind that on that day she would ask him to put aside the pagan banner of the Pendragon and raise Christ’s cross. That would make all this land under the High King a Christian land, and Arthur’s legion a holy army under the protection of Mary the Virgin.
It was most beautiful as she planned it—blue, with gold thread, and her priceless crimson-dyed silks for the mantle of the Virgin. She had no other occupation, so she sewed at it from morning to night, and with Elaine to help her, it grew swiftly under her fingers. And into every stitch of this banner shall I weave my prayers that Arthur shall be safe, and this a Christian land from Tintagel to Lothian. . . .
One afternoon the Merlin came to visit her, Taliesin the venerable. She hesitated—was it right she should have that old pagan and demon worshipper near to her at such a time as this, when she bore Arthur’s son, who would one day be the king of this Christian land? But looking at the old man’s kindly eyes, she recalled that this was Igraine’s father and would be great-grandfather to her babe.
“May the Eternal bless you, Gwenhwyfar,” he said, spreading out his arms in blessing. She made the sign of the cross, then wondered if he would be offended, but he seemed to take it simply as an exchange of blessings.
“How do you, lady, in this close confinement?” he said, looking around the room. “Why, you might be dungeoned here! You would be better in Camelot, or in Avalon, or on the isle at Ynis Witrin—you went to school there with the nuns, did you not? And there, at least, you would have had fresh air and exercise! This room is like to a byre!”
“I have air enough in the garden,” said Gwenhwyfar, resolving that the bedding should be aired that very day and that the serving-woman should air and sweep the room which was littered with their possessions—it was too small for four women.
“Then make certain, my child, that you walk every day in the fresh air, even if it is raining—air is medicine for all ills,” he said. “I can well believe that you are dull here. No, child, I did not come to reproach you,” he added gently. “Arthur told me your happy news, and I rejoice for you, as do we all. And I especially—not many men live so long as to look on the face of their great-grandchildren.” His creased old face seemed to glow with benevolence. “If there is anything I can do for you, you must command me, lady. Are they sending you suitable fresh food, or only soldiers’ rations?”
Gwenhwyfar assured him that she had everything she could wish for—every day a basket of the finest provisions to be had reached her—though she did not tell him she had little wish for food.
She told him of Igraine’s death and that she lay buried in Tintagel, and that Igraine’s last act had been to tell her of her child. Of the Sight she said little, but she did ask, looking at the old man with troubled eyes, “Sir, do you know where dwells Morgaine, that she did not come even to her mother’s deathbed?”
He shook his head slowly. “I am sorry, I know not.”
“But this is scandalous, that Morgaine should not let her kin know whither she has gone!”
“It may be that—as some of the priestesses of Avalon do—she has gone on some magical quest, or secluded herself to seek vision,” Taliesin ventured, and he too looked troubled. “In that case I would not have been told, but I think, if she were in Avalon, where my own daughter dwells with the priestesses, I would have known. I know not.” He sighed. “Morgaine is a woman grown, and she need not seek leave of any man to come and go.”
It would serve Morgaine right, thought Gwenhwyfar, if she came to grief for her own stubbornness and the godless way in which she did her own will! She clenched her fists and did not answer the Druid, looking down so that he would not see her anger . . . he thought well of her, she would not have him think otherwise of her. Nor did he notice, for Elaine was showing him the banner.
“See, this is how we spend our prisoned days, good father.”
“It grows swiftly,” said the Merlin, smiling. “I see well that there is no time—what is it your priests say, the Devil finds work for the idle—you have left no place for the Devil to do his work here, you are as busy as a hive of bees, you two. Already I can see the beautiful design.”
“And as I wove it, I prayed,” said Gwenhwyfar defiantly. “With every stitch I wove a prayer that Arthur and the cross of Christ may triumph over the Saxons and their pagan Gods! Will you not rebuke me then, Lord Merlin, that I do this when you bid Arthur fight under their pagan banner?”
The Merlin said mildly, “Prayer is never wasted, Gwenhwyfar. Do you think we know nothing of prayer? When Arthur was given his great sword Excalibur, it was sheathed in a scabbard into which a priestess worked prayers and spells for safety and protection, and she fasted and prayed for five days all the time she worked upon it. And no doubt you have taken note that even though he is wounded, he sheds but little blood.”
“I would have him protected with Christ, not sorcery,” said Gwenhwyfar hotly, and the old man smiled and said, “
God is one and there is but one God—all else is but the way the ignorant seek to put Gods into a form they can understand, like the image of your Virgin there, lady. Nothing befalls on this world without the blessing of the One, who will give us victory or defeat as God shall ordain. Dragon and Virgin alike are the signs of man’s appeal to what is higher than we.”
“But would you not be angry if the Pendragon banner was torn down and the standard of the Virgin raised over our legion?” asked Gwenhwyfar scornfully.
He stood close to her, reaching out a wrinkled hand to caress the brilliant silks. “Such a thing of beauty as this is,” he said gently, “and made with such love, how could I possibly condemn it? But there are those who love their Pendragon standard as you love the cross of Christ—would you deny them their holy things, madam? Those of Avalon—Druid, priest and priestess—would know that the banner is but a symbol, and the symbol is nothing, while the reality is all. But the little folk, no, they would not understand, and they must have their dragon as a symbol of the King’s protection.”
Gwenhwyfar thought of the little people of Avalon and the far hills of Wales who had come bearing bronze axes and even little arrows of flint, their bodies smeared crudely with paint. She shuddered in horror that a folk so wild and savage should fight at the side of a Christian king.
The Merlin saw her shivering and mistook its cause. “It is dank and chill here,” he said. “You must go out more into the sunlight.” But then understanding touched him and he put his arm around the woman at his side and said gently, “Dear child, you must remember—this country is for all men, whatever their Gods, and we fight against the Saxons not because they will not worship our Gods but because they wish to burn and ravage our lands and take all that we have for themselves. We fight to defend the peace of these lands, lady, Christian and pagan alike, and that is why so many have flocked to Arthur’s side. Would you have him a tyrant who put the souls of men in slavery to his own God, as not even the Caesars dared to do?”
But she only shivered, and Taliesin said he must go, but that she should send him word if she had need of anything.
Elaine asked, “Is Kevin the Bard in the castle, Lord Merlin?”
“Yes, I think so—I should have thought of that. I shall send him to come and play his harp for you ladies while you are cloistered here.”
“We would willingly have him,” said Elaine, “but what I was asking is, might we borrow his harp . . . or yours, Lord Druid?”
He hesitated, and said, “Kevin would not lend his harp—My lady is a jealous mistress.” He smiled. “And as for mine, it is consecrated to the Gods and I may let no other touch it. But the lady Morgaine did not take her harp with her when she went away; it is in her rooms. Shall I have it sent here, lady Elaine? Can you play it?”
“Not well,” said Elaine, “but I know enough of harp music to do it no harm, and it would give our hands something to do when we are weary of stitching.”
“Yours,” said Gwenhwyfar. “I have always thought it unseemly for a woman to play on the harp.”
“So be it, unseemly then,” said Elaine, “but I think I shall go mad shut away here if I have nothing to do, and there is none to see me, even if I dance naked like Salome before Herod!”
Gwenhwyfar giggled, then looked scandalized—what would the Merlin think? But the old man laughed heartily. “I will send you Morgaine’s harp, lady, and you may indulge in your unseemly pastime—though indeed I see nothing unseemly in the making of music!”
That night Gwenhwyfar dreamed that Arthur stood beside her, but that the serpents on his wrists came alive and crawled to her banner, leaving it all cold with their slime, and fouled. . . . She woke gasping and retching, and that day she had no strength to leave her bed. Arthur came that afternoon to see her, and stood distraught beside her.
“I cannot see that this confinement does you any good, lady,” he said. “I wish you were safe in Camelot! I have had word from the kings of Less Britain—they have driven thirty Saxon ships on to the rocks, and we will be marching out in ten days more.” He bit his lip. “I would this were over, and we all safe at Camelot. Pray to God, Gwen, that we come safe there.” He sat on the bed beside her, and she took his hand, but one of her fingers touched the serpents on his wrist and she drew it back with a gasp of dismay.
“What is it, Gwen?” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “My poor girl, being shut up here has made you ill . . . I was afraid of this!”
She fought to control her tears. “I dreamed—I dreamed—oh, Arthur,” she begged, sitting bolt upright in bed and throwing back the covers, “I cannot bear to think of it, that you would let that foul dragon cover all, as it was in my dream. . . . Look what I have made for you!” Barefoot, she drew him with both hands to the loom. “See, it is near finished, in three days I could have it ready—”
He put his arm round her and held her close. “I wish it did not mean so much to you, Gwenhwyfar. I am sorry. I will carry it to battle beside the Pendragon banner, if you will, but I cannot abandon the vow I have sworn.”
“God will punish you if you keep a vow you have made to pagan folk and not to him,” she cried. “He will punish us both—”
He put away her clinging hands. “My poor girl, you are sick and wretched, and no wonder, in this place. And now, alas, it is too late to send you away even if you would go, there may be Saxon bands between here and Camelot. Try to be calm, my love,” he said, and went toward the door. She ran after him, holding to his arm.
“You are not so angry—?”
“Angry? When you are ill and overwrought?” He kissed her brow. “But we will not speak of this again, Gwenhwyfar. And now I must go, I am expecting a messenger who may come at any instant. I will send Kevin to play for you. His music will cheer you.” He kissed her again and went away, and Gwenhwyfar went back to the banner and began to work at it in a frenzy.
Kevin came late the next day, dragging his misshapen body on a stick; his harp was hitched over one shoulder, giving him more than ever the look of some monstrous hunchback in silhouette against the door. It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his nose wrinkled in distaste, and suddenly she could see the room through his eyes, cluttered with the daily things of four women, the air not overfresh. He raised his hand in the Druid blessing and Gwenhwyfar flinched—she could accept this from the venerable Taliesin, but from Kevin it filled her with dread, as if he would bewitch her and her babe with pagan sorcery; secretly she signed herself with the cross, and wondered if he saw.
Elaine went to him and said courteously, “Let me help you with the harp, Master Harper.”
He shrugged as if to ward her away, though his smooth singer’s voice was perfectly civil. “I thank you, but no one may touch My Lady. If I carry her with my own hands when I can hardly drag myself along on a stick, do you not think there is a reason, madam?”
Elaine bent her head like a scolded child and said, “I meant no harm, sir.”
“Of course not, how could you know?” he said, and twisted painfully, or so it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, to unsling his harp and set it on the floor.
“Are you comfortable, Master Harper? Will you have a cup of wine to soothe your throat before you sing?” Gwenhwyfar asked, and he accepted politely enough. Then, noting the banner of the cross on the loom, he said to Elaine, “You are King Pellinore’s daughter, are you not, madam? Are you weaving a banner for your father to carry into battle?”
Gwenhwyfar said quickly, “Elaine’s hands worked as skillfully as mine, but the banner is for Arthur.”
His rich voice was as detached as if he were admiring a child’s first attempts to spin. “It is beautiful, and will make a fair wall-hanging for Camelot when you go there, madam, but I am sure Arthur will carry the Pendragon banner as did his father before him. But ladies love not to speak of battles. Shall I play for you?” He set his hands to the strings and began to play; Gwenhwyfar listened, spellbound, and her serving-woman crept to the door to listen too, aware of sharing a roya
l gift. He played for a long time in the gathering dusk, and as she listened, Gwenhwyfar was borne away into a world where pagan or Christian made no difference, war or peace, but only the human spirit, flaming against the great darkness like an ever-burning torch. When the harp notes finally stilled, Gwenhwyfar could not speak, and she saw that Elaine was weeping softly in the silence.
After a time she said, “Words cannot say what you have given us, Master Harper. I can say only that I will remember it always.”
Kevin’s crooked smile seemed for a moment to mock her emotion and his own as he said, “Madam, in music he who gives receives as much as he who hears.” He turned to Elaine and added, “I see you have the lady Morgaine’s harp. You, then, know the truth of what I say.”
She nodded, but said, “I am only the worst of beginners at music. I love to play, but no one could find pleasure in hearing me—I am grateful to my companions for their forbearance while I struggle with the notes.”
“That is not true, you know we enjoy hearing you,” said Gwenhwyfar, and Kevin smiled and said, “Perhaps the harp is the one instrument which cannot sound evil no matter how badly played—I wonder if that is why it is dedicated to the Gods?”