The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Well, I will speak of it again with Lancelet. He says he has no mind to marry, but I will make him understand it means not exile from my court. Would it not be good for me and mine, if our children, some day, might have Lancelet’s sons to follow them?”

  “God grant that day may come,” said Gwenhwyfar, and crossed herself. They stood together at the height, looking out over the Summer Country, which lay spread before them.

  “There is a rider on the road,” said Arthur, looking down the road which led toward the castle; then, as the rider drew nearer, “It is Kevin the Harper, come here from Avalon. And at least this time he has had sense enough to travel with a serving-man.”

  “That is no serving-man,” said Gwenhwyfar, her sharp eyes resting on the slender form riding behind Kevin on his horse. “That is a woman. I am shocked—I had thought the Druids were like to priests, and stayed far from women.”

  “Why, some of them do, sweetheart, but I have heard from Taliesin that all those who are not in the highest rank may marry, and frequently they do,” he said. “Perhaps Kevin has taken him a wife, or perhaps he has only travelled with someone coming this way. Send one of your women to tell Taliesin that he is here, and another to the kitchens—if we shall have music this night, it is only fitting we have something like a feast to celebrate it! Let us walk this way and welcome him—a harper of Kevin’s skill is worthy of welcome from the King himself.”

  By the time they reached the great gates, they had been opened, and Cai himself had stepped forward to welcome the great harper to Camelot. Kevin bowed to the King, but Gwenhwyfar’s eyes were on the slender, ill-clad form behind.

  Morgaine bowed and said, “So I have returned to your court, my brother.”

  Arthur went and embraced her. “Welcome back, my sister—it has been so long,” he said, his cheek lingering against hers. “And now that our mother has gone from us, we who are kinfolk should be together. Do not go from me again, sister.”

  She said, “I had no thought of it.”

  Gwenhwyfar came and embraced her too, feeling the other woman’s body sharp-boned and thin against her arms. She said, “You look as if you had been long on the road, my sister.”

  “True—I have come very far,” Morgaine said, and Gwenhwyfar kept her hand as they walked within.

  “Where have you been? You were so long away—almost I thought you would never return,” Gwenhwyfar said.

  “Almost I thought so myself,” said Morgaine. But, Gwenhwyfar noticed, she did not say, either, where she had been.

  “Such gear as you left with us—your harp, your gowns, all these things—they were left at Caerleon. Tomorrow I will send for them as swiftly as a messenger can ride,” Gwenhwyfar said, as she took her to the room where her women slept. “Till then, if you will, I will lend you a gown—you have been travelling long, sister, and you look as if you had been sleeping within a cow byre. Were you attacked by robbers and your gear stolen?”

  “I had ill fortune indeed on the road,” Morgaine said, “and if you will send someone to me that I may bathe, and dress myself clean, I will bless you. I would ask the loan of a comb too, and pins for my hair, and a shift.”

  “My gown will be too long for you,” said Gwenhwyfar, “but no doubt you can pin it up somehow until your own clothes have come. Combs and veils and shifts I will give you gladly, and shoes as well—those look as if you had walked in them from here to Lothian and back!” She beckoned to one of her waiting-women and said, “Bring the red gown, and the veil that goes with it, and a shift and my other indoor shoes and hose—choose everything so that my lord’s sister is dressed as is fitting to her station. And send for a bath and a bath-woman too.” She looked disdainfully at the gown Morgaine was taking off, and said, “If that one cannot be fitly aired and cleaned, give it to one of the dairy-women!”

  When Morgaine appeared at the King’s table she wore the red gown, which lent color to her dark skin and became her well; they besought her to sing, but she would not, saying that as Kevin was at hand, no one would listen to a robin’s chirping when a nightingale was near.

  The next day Kevin sought private audience with Arthur, and he and the King and Taliesin, too, were closeted for many hours, and even had supper brought to them there; but Gwenhwyfar never knew what they spoke of—Arthur told her little of affairs of state. No doubt, they were angered with him that he had chosen to renounce his vows to Avalon, but soon or late they must accept it—that he was a Christian king. As for Gwenhwyfar, she had other things to think of.

  That spring there was fever at the court, and some of her women fell sick of it, so that until Easter was past she had no leisure to think of anything else. She had never thought she would be glad of Morgaine’s presence, but Morgaine knew much of herb lore and of healing, and she thought it was due to Morgaine’s wisdom that there were no deaths in the court—in the country round, she heard, many died, though mostly little children and old folk. Her little half-sister Isotta took the fever, but her mother heard and would not have her stay at court, so that she was sent back to the island, and later in that month Gwenhwyfar heard that she had died. She mourned for the girl—she had come to be fond of her, and had hoped to marry her to one of Arthur’s Companions when she was older.

  Lancelet fell sick of the fever too, and Arthur gave orders that he should be quartered in the castle and nursed by Gwenhwyfar’s own women. While there was still danger that she might take the fever she did not go near him—she had hoped herself pregnant again, but it turned out not to be so; only her own hopes and illusions. When he began to recover she went often and sat by his side.

  Morgaine came too, to play the harp, while he was unable to leave his bed. One day, watching them when they spoke of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar caught the look in Morgaine’s eyes, and thought, Why, she still loves him! She knew Arthur still hoped for this—a match between Morgaine and Lancelet and she watched, sick with jealousy, as Lancelet listened to Morgaine’s harp.

  Her voice is so sweet; she is not beautiful, but she is so wise and learned—beautiful women are so many, Elaine is beautiful, and Meleas, and the daughter of King Royns, and even Morgause is beautiful, but why should Lancelet care for that? And she marked the gentleness of Morgaine’s hands as she lifted him and gave him her herb medicines and cooling drinks. She, Gwenhwyfar, was not good at all with the sick, she had no skills, she sat dumb while Morgaine talked and laughed and amused him.

  It was growing dark, and at last Morgaine said, “I can no longer see the harp strings, and I am hoarse as a crow—I can sing no more. You must drink your medicine, Lancelet, and then I will send your man to you, to get you settled for the night—”

  With a wry smile Lancelet took the cup she put in his hand. “Your drinks are cooling, kinswoman, but ugh! The taste of them—”

  “Drink it,” Morgaine said, laughing. “Arthur has put you under my command when you are sick—”

  “Aye, and I do not doubt, if I refused you should beat me and put me supperless to bed, while if I drink my medicine like a good lad I shall have a kiss and a honey cake,” Lancelet said.

  Morgaine chuckled. “You cannot have a honey cake yet, you can have your nice gruel. But if you drink up your potion, you shall have a goodnight kiss and I will bake you a honey cake when you are well enough to eat it.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Lancelet said, wrinkling up his nose. Gwenhwyfar could see that Morgaine did not like the jest, but when he had emptied the cup she bent over him and kissed him lightly on the brow, and drew up the covers under his chin as a mother smooths a child’s cradle. “There, now, good child, go to sleep,” she said, laughing, but the laughter sounded bitter to Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine went away.

  Gwenhwyfar stood by Lancelet’s bed, and said, “She is right, my dear, you should sleep.”

  “I am weary of Morgaine being always right,” said Lancelet. “Sit you here by me for a little, dear love—”

  It was seldom he dared speak so to her, but she sat herself on his be
d and let him hold her hand. After a little he pulled her down beside him and kissed her; she lay along the edge of his bed and let him kiss her again and again, but after a long time he sighed, weary, and did not protest when she rose from his side. “My dearest love, this cannot go on like this. You must give me leave to depart from the court.”

  “What? To chase Pellinore’s favorite dragon? Why, what will Pellinore do in holidaytime, then? It is his favorite hunting,” Gwenhwyfar said, jesting, but it was like a pain in her heart.

  He seized both her arms, pulling her down. “No, make this not a jest, Gwen—you know it and I know it, and God help us both, I think even Arthur knows it, that I have loved none but you, or ever will, since first I set eyes on you in your father’s house. And if I am to remain a true man to my king and my friend, then I must depart from this court and never set eyes on you again—”

  Gwenhwyfar said, “I would not hold you, if you feel that you must go—”

  “As I have gone before,” he said violently. “Every time I rode forth to war, half of me longed that I should fall at Saxon hands and return no more to hopeless love—God forgive me, there were times when I hated my king, whom I have sworn to love and serve, and then I thought, no woman should part the friendship that was between us two, and I have sworn I would think of you no more, save as the wife of my king. But now there are no more wars, and I must sit here day by day and look upon you at his side in his high seat, and think of you in his bed, his happy and contented wife—”

  “Why do you think I am any more happy or contented than you?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “At least you can choose whether to stay or to go, but I was given into Arthur’s hands without even so much as ‘will you or no?’ Nor can I rise and ride forth from court when things go not to my will, but must stay here within walls and do what is expected of me . . . if you must go, I cannot say, Stay; and if you stay, I cannot say to you, Go! At least you are free to go or to stay as makes you happiest!”

  “Do you think there is happiness for me, either in staying or going?” Lancelet demanded, and for a moment she thought that he would weep. Then he mastered himself and said, “Love, what do you want me to do? God forbid I should give you more unhappiness. If I am gone from here, then is your duty plain, to be a good wife to Arthur, no more and no less. If I stay here—” He broke off.

  “If you feel it is your duty to go,” she said, “then you must go.” And tears flooded down her face, blurring her sight.

  He said, and his voice was strained as if he had had a mortal wound, “Gwenhwyfar—” He so seldom spoke her formal name, it was always my lady or my queen, or when he spoke to her in play it was always Gwen. When he spoke it now, it seemed to her she had never heard a sweeter sound. “Gwenhwyfar. Why do you weep?”

  Now she must lie, and lie well, because she could not in honor tell him the truth. She said, “Because—” and stopped, and then, in a choking voice, she said, “because I do not know how I shall live if you go away.”

  He swallowed hard and took her hands between his own and said, “Why, then—why, love—I am not a king, but my father has given me a small estate in Brittany. Would you come with me away from this court? I—I know not, perhaps it would be the more honorable way, than stay here at Arthur’s court and make love to his wife—”

  He loves me, then, Gwenhwyfar thought, he wants me, this is the honorable way . . . but panic flooded through her. To go forth alone, so far, even with Lancelet . . . and then the thought of what everyone would say of her, should she be so dishonored. . . .

  He lay clasping her hand in his. He said, “We could never return, you know—never. And it’s likely we should be excommunicated, both of us—that would mean little to me, I am not so much a Christian as all that. But you, my Gwenhwyfar—”

  She put up her veil over her face and wept, knowing what a coward she was.

  “Gwenhwyfar,” he said, “I would not lead you into sin—”

  She said bitterly, “We have sinned already, you and I—”

  “And if the priests are right we will be damned for it,” Lancelet said bitterly, “and yet have I never had more of you than these kisses—we have had all the evil and the guilt, and none of the pleasure which is said to come from sin. And I am not so sure I believe the priests—what sort of God goes about every night like a night watchman, peeping here and prying there like an old village gossip to see if any man beds with his neighbor’s wife—”

  “The Merlin said something like that,” Gwenhwyfar said, low. “And sometimes it seems to me sensible, and then again I wonder if it is the Devil’s work to lead me into evil. . . .”

  “Oh, talk not to me of the Devil,” he said, and pulled her down beside him again. “Sweetheart, my own, I will go away if you want me to, or I will stay, but I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. . . .”

  “I do not know what I want,” she wept, and let him hold her, sobbing. At last he murmured, “We have paid for the sin already . . .” and his mouth covered hers. Trembling, Gwenhwyfar let herself surrender to the kiss, his eager hands searching at her breast. She almost hoped that this time he would not be content with that, but there was a sound in the hallway and Gwenhwyfar drew herself upright, in sudden panic. She sat on the edge of the bed as Lancelet’s esquire came into the room. He coughed and said, “My lord? The lady Morgaine told me you were ready to go to your rest. By your leave, my lady—?”

  Morgaine again, damn her! Lancelet laughed and let go of Gwenhwyfar’s hand. “Yes, and I doubt it not, my lady is weary. Will you promise to come and see me tomorrow, my queen?”

  She was both grateful and angry that his voice sounded so calm. She turned away from the light the serving-man carried; she knew her veil was crushed and her dress rumpled, her face smeared with crying and her hair coming down. How she must look—what would the man think they had been doing? She put her veil over her face and rose. “Good night, sir Lancelet. Kerval, care you well for my king’s dear friend,” and went out, hoping forlornly that she could get down the hall to her own room before she burst into weeping again. Ah God, how—how dare I pray to God that I may sin further? I should pray to be free of temptation, and I cannot!

  16

  A Day or two before Beltane-eve, Kevin the Harper came again to Arthur’s court. Morgaine was glad to see him; it had been a long and weary springtime. Lancelet had recovered from the fever and gone north to Lothian, and Morgaine had thought she should ride to Lothian too, to see how it was with her son; but she did not want to go in Lancelet’s company, nor would he have wished for her as a travelling companion; she thought, My son is well where he is, another time I will go and see him.

  Gwenhwyfar was sorrowful and silent; in the years Morgaine had been absent, the Queen had altered from a lighthearted, childish woman to a silent, thoughtful one, more pious than was reasonable. Morgaine suspected that she pined after Lancelet, and knowing Lancelet, Morgaine thought with a touch of contempt that he would neither leave the woman in peace nor lead her wholeheartedly into sin. And Gwenhwyfar was a good match for him—she would neither give in to him nor give him up. She wondered what Arthur thought, but it would have taken a braver woman than she to ask him.

  Morgaine welcomed Kevin to court, and to herself she thought it not unlikely that they would keep Beltane together—the sun tides ran hot in her blood, and if she could not have the man she wanted (and she knew it was still Lancelet to whom she was drawn), it might be as well to take a lover who found delight in her; it was good to be cherished and sought after. And, as neither Arthur nor Lancelet would do, Kevin spoke with her freely of affairs of state. She thought, with a moment of bitter regret, had she stayed in Avalon, by now, she would be consulted in all the great affairs of her time.

  Well, it was too late for that; done was done. So she greeted Kevin in the great hall and had him served food and wine, a task Gwenhwyfar gladly gave over to her—Gwenhwyfar liked well enough to hear Kevin play on the harp, but she could not bear the sight of him. S
o Morgaine served him, and spoke to him of Avalon.

  “Is Viviane well?”

  “Well, and still resolved to come to Camelot at Pentecost,” said Kevin, “and it is well, for Arthur would scarce listen to me. Though he has promised not to forbid the Beltane fires this year, at least.”

  “It would do him little good to forbid them,” said Morgaine. “But Arthur has trouble nearer home, too.” She gestured. “Beyond that window, almost within sight from the heights of the castle, lies the island kingdom of Leodegranz—had you heard?”

  “A chance-come traveller told me he was dead,” Kevin said, “and he left no son. His lady Alienor died with her last child, a few days after his death. The fever was cruel in that country.”

  “Gwenhwyfar would not travel thither for the burying,” Morgaine said. “She had little to weep for—hers was not a loving father. Arthur will have consulted her about setting a regent there—he says that now the kingdom is hers, and if they should have a second son, that son shall have it. But it seems not likely now that Gwenhwyfar will have even one.”