Mordred, Bastard Son by Douglas Clegg

Author:Douglas Clegg [Clegg, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Alkemara Press
Published: 2016-09-30T22:00:00+00:00

4

While the dances and the bonfires went on in the world above, and the season of lambing had begun, and while the Druids began their sacred duties of augury and of tending the Grove and its oaks and birch, I remained in the cavernous chambers I shared with my mother and aunt. Morgause, never one to miss the dancing and all-night festival of Beltane, slept for days once the fires were out. I found her a-bed with a young man of twenty, and when she saw me staring at the two of them—sleeping, for it was nearly noon and she rarely rose before the midday meal—she stuck out her tongue at me. Later, she told me not to be jealous because she found lovers among the horse herds and the young priests. “I am a foolish woman to sleep with men young enough to be my children,” she said.

“He wasn’t that young. I know him. He reached his midsummer rites two years ago.”

“I might’ve given birth to him when I was fifteen,” she said, laughing. “Some maidens marry at that age.”

“But not a daughter of Ygrain,” I said.

“True. I waited until I was eighteen, and even that was far too young,” she laughed. “But I am foolish, Mordred. I married out of fear, and now simply am married to fear. Morgan has always been the wiser or the two of us.” As she said this, her still-half-asleep eyes lit up wide as she glanced around. “Where is your mother?”

“She has taken to sleeping above. Once I found her near the bogs, curled up in ferns.”

“Ah. The bogs hold the spirits of past sacrifice. The call of shadows,” she said. “It is the way of that dark moon tribe. Or whatever they call themselves.”

“Witches,” I said.

“Do not say it like a fearful cleric from Ravenna,” she said, laughing. “They say it with a bit of spite and bile for good measure. But the art itself is called witchcraft by those folk of the church and the villas. Your father thought she was a witch. He calls her the Witch-Queen whenever her name is brought up.” As soon as she said it, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “By the gods, the white ravens should swoop down and tear out my tongue by its roots lest I tell all the secrets of the Grove.”

“No, my mother told me. He called her a Witch-Queen once, when he caught her at her scrying bowl. She told me it was an honor to be called it.”

“Your father mistook wit—and witch—for wisdom. Arthur could steal Excalibur from Our Lady, and learn the sacred arts that the goddess allows boys to learn. And then he turns on all his teachings and is suddenly wearing a cross and claiming that Excalibur is not the sword of pagan conquerors, but blessed by the Nazarene, who, as I recall, was not one to suggest taking up swords in the first place.”

“He was a good man,” I said. “The Nazarene. Merlin has taught me much of his life.

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