The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  He had never called her so before, and she came and stood close to him, her arm around his waist. He said softly, “I have missed you,” and laid his face for a moment against her breast.

  “And I you, my dear,” she said, “and when all have gone to rest this night, I shall prove it to you . . . why, do you think, have I arranged that you shall have a guest chamber to yourself, when even Arthur’s dearest Companions have had to be housed four to a room and sometimes two to a bed?”

  He said, “I thought it was so that none other need share quarters with me.”

  “And so it shall be for the dignity of Avalon,” said Morgaine, “though even Taliesin shares his chamber with the bishop—”

  “I do not admire his taste,” said Kevin. “I would sooner be housed in the stable with the other donkeys!”

  “I would have it that the Merlin of Britain should be lodged in a chamber to himself, even if it is no bigger than a stall for one of those donkeys,” said Morgaine. “But it is large enough for you and for My Lady, and"—she smiled and looked pointedly at the bed—"and for me, I dare say.”

  “You will always be welcome, and if My Lady is jealous I will turn her face to the wall.” He kissed her, holding her tight for a moment with all the strength in his wiry arms. Then, letting her go, he said, “I thought you would like to hear—I rode with your son to Avalon. He is a well-grown lad, and a clever one, and has some of your gift for music.”

  “I dreamed of him the other night,” she said. “In my dream, I think he played on a pipe—like Gawaine’s.”

  “Then you dreamed truly,” said Kevin. “I like him well, and he has the Sight. He will be schooled in Avalon for a Druid.”

  “And then?”

  “Then? Ah, my dear,” said Kevin, “things must go as they will. But I doubt not he will make a bard and a notable wise man—you need have no fear for him upon Avalon.” He touched her shoulder gently. “He has your eyes.”

  She would have liked to ask more, but turned to something else. “The feast will not be till tomorrow,” she said, “but tonight the closest of Arthur’s friends and Companions have been bidden to dine. Gareth is to be made a knight upon the morrow, and Arthur, who loves Gawaine like a brother, has chosen to honor him at a family party.”

  “Gareth is a good man and a good knight,” said Kevin, “and I will gladly do him honor. I like not Queen Morgause greatly, but her sons are fine men and good friends to Arthur.”

  Even though it was a family party, there were many close kinsmen to sit at Arthur’s table here on the eve of Pentecost: Gwenhwyfar and her kinswoman Elaine, and Elaine’s father, King Pellinore, and her brother, Lamorak; Taliesin and Lancelet, and three of Lancelet’s half-brothers—Balan, son of the Lady of the Lake, and Bors and Lionel, both of whom were sons of Ban of Less Britain. Gareth was there, and as always, Gawaine stood behind Arthur at table. Arthur had protested, as they came into the hall. “Sit here beside us tonight, Gawaine—you are my kinsman, and king in your own right in Orkney, and I like it not that you should stand like a serving-man behind my place!”

  Gawaine said roughly, “I am proud to stand and serve my lord and king, sir,” and Arthur bent his head.

  “You make me feel like those old Caesars,” he complained. “Need I be guarded night and day even in my own hall?”

  “For the dignity of your throne, sir, you are even as those Caesars, and more,” insisted Gawaine, and Arthur laughed helplessly.

  “I can deny nothing to those of you who were my Companions.”

  “So,” Kevin said in an undertone to Morgaine, where they sat side by side, “it is not hubris then or arrogance, but he wishes only to please his Companions—”

  “I think, truly, it is so,” Morgaine said in an undertone. “This he loves best, I think, to sit in his own hall and look upon the peace he has wrought; whatever his faults, Arthur truly loves the rule of order and the kingdom of law.”

  Later, Arthur gestured them all to silence, calling young Gareth to him. “Tonight you will watch in the church by your arms,” he said, “and in the morning before mass, whichever knight you choose shall make you one of my Companions. You have served me well and honorably, young as you are. If you wish for it, I will myself make you knight, but I will understand if you wish that your brother should give you this honor.”

  Gareth wore a white tunic; his hair was like a golden halo curling around his face. He looked almost like a child, a tall child towering to a good six feet high, with shoulders like a young bull. His face was fuzzy with soft golden down too fine to be shaven. He said, stammering a little in his eagerness, “Sir, I beg you—I mean no offense to you nor to my brother, but I—if he will—could I be made knight by Lancelet, my lord and my king?”

  Arthur smiled. “Why, if Lancelet will have it so, I have no objection.”

  Morgaine remembered a little child prattling of Lancelet to a painted wooden knight she had carved for him. How many people, she wondered, saw such a childhood dream come true? Lancelet said gravely, “I should be honored, cousin,” and Gareth’s face lighted as if a torch had been set to it. Then Lancelet turned to Gawaine and said, with punctilious courtesy, “But it is for you to give me leave, cousin—you stand in a father’s place to this lad, and I would not usurp your right—”

  Gawaine looked awkwardly from one to the other of them, and Morgaine saw Gareth bite his lip—only now, perhaps, did he understand that this might be seen as an offense to his brother, and that the King had done him the honor of offering to make him a knight—an honor he had refused. What a child he was, despite his great strength and height and precocious skill at arms!

  Gawaine said gruffly, “Who would be made knight by me when Lancelet would consent to do it?”

  Lancelet flung an exuberant arm around each of them. “You do me too much honor, both of you. Well, go, lad,” he said, releasing Gareth, “go to your arms, I will come and watch with you after midnight.”

  Gawaine watched as the boy loped away, with his long awkward stride, and then said, “You should be one of those old Greeks, as it was told in that saga we read when we were boys. How was he called—Achilles—whose true love was the young knight Patroclus, and neither cared anything for all the fine dames of the court of Troy—God knows every lad in this court worships you as their hero. Pity you have no mind to the Greek fashion in love!”

  Lancelet’s face turned dusky red. “You are my cousin, Gawaine, and can say such things to me—I would not hear such things from any other, even in jest.”

  Gawaine laughed loudly again. “Aye, a jest—for one who professes devotion only to our most chaste Queen—”

  “You dare!” Lancelet began, turning on him, and gripped his arm with strength enough to break his wrist. Gawaine struggled, but Lancelet, though he was the smaller man, bent his arm backward, growling with rage like an angry wolf.

  “Here! No brawling in the King’s hall!” Cai thrust himself awkwardly between them, and Morgaine said quickly, “Why, Gawaine, what then will you say to all those priests who profess devotion to Mary the Virgin beyond all things on earth? Would you have it they all have a scandalous carnal devotion to their Christ? And indeed, we hear of the Lord Jesus that he never married, and that even among his chosen twelve there was one who leaned on his bosom at supper—”

  Gwenhwyfar gave a shocked cry. “Morgaine, hush! Such a blasphemous jest!” Lancelet let go of Gawaine’s arm; Gawaine stood rubbing the bruise, and Arthur turned and frowned at them.

  “You are like children, cousins, squabbling and bickering—shall I send you to be beaten by Cai in the kitchens? Come now, be friends again! I heard not the jest, but whatever it was, Lance, it cannot have been so serious as all that!”

  Gawaine laughed roughly and said, “I jested, Lance—all too many women pursue you, I know, for what I said to have anything at all of truth,” and Lancelet shrugged and smiled, like a bird with ruffled feathers.

  Cai chuckled. “Every man at court envies you your handso
me face, Lance.” He rubbed the scar that pulled his mouth up tight into a sneer, and said, “But it may not be all that much of a blessing, eh, cousin?”

  It dissolved into good-natured laughter, but later Morgaine, crossing the court, saw Lancelet still pacing, troubled, feathers still ruffled.

  “What is it, kinsman, what ails you?”

  He sighed. “I would that I might leave this court.”

  “But my lady will not let you go.”

  “Even to you, Morgaine, I will not talk of the Queen,” he said stiffly, and it was Morgaine’s turn to sigh.

  “I am not the keeper of your conscience, Lancelet. If Arthur does not chide you, who am I to speak a word of reproach?”

  “You don’t understand!” he said fiercely. “She was given to Arthur like something bought at market, part of a purchase in horses because her father would have kinship with the High King as part of the price! Yet she is too loyal to murmur—”

  “I spoke no word against her, Lancelet,” Morgaine reminded him. “You hear accusations from yourself, not from my lips.”

  She thought, I could make him desire me, but the knowledge was like a mouthful of dust. Once she had played that game, and beneath the desire he had feared her, as he feared Viviane herself; feared her to the edge of hatred because of that desire. If his king commanded he would have her, but would soon come to hate.

  He managed to look directly at her. “You cursed me, and—and believe me, I am cursed.”

  And suddenly the old anger and contempt melted. He was as he was. She clasped his hand between her own. “Cousin, don’t trouble yourself about that. It was many, many years ago, and I don’t think there is any God or Goddess who would listen to the words of an angry young girl who thought herself scorned. And I was no more than that.”

  He drew a long breath and began to pace again. At last he said, “I could have killed Gawaine tonight. I am glad you stopped us, even with that blasphemous jesting. I—I have had to deal with that, all my life. When I was a boy at Ban’s court, I was prettier than Gareth is now, and in the court of Less Britain, and like enough in other places, such a boy must guard himself more carefully than any maiden. But no man sees or believes any such thing unless it touches him, and thinks it only a slightly vulgar joke made about other people. There was a time when I thought it so too, and then a time when I thought I could never be otherwise. . . .”

  There was a long silence, while he stared grimly at the flagstones of the courtyard.

  “And so I flung myself into experiment with women, any woman—God help me, even with you who were my own mother’s fosterling and pledged maiden to the Goddess—but there were few women who could rouse me even a little, till I saw—her.” Morgaine was glad he did not speak Gwenhwyfar’s name. “And since that moment there has been no other. With her, I know myself all man.”

  Morgaine said, “But she is Arthur’s wife—”

  “God! God!” Lancelet turned and struck his hand against the wall. “Do you think that does not torment me? He is my friend; if Gwenhwyfar were wedded to any other man who dwells this earth, I would have had her away with me and to my own place—” Morgaine saw the muscles of his throat move as he tried to swallow. “I do not know what will become of us. And Arthur must have an heir to his kingdom. The fate of all Britain is more important than our love. I love them both—and I am tormented, Morgaine, tormented!”

  His eyes were wild; for a moment it seemed to Morgaine that she saw some hint of madness. Ever after, she wondered, Was there anything, anything I could have said or done that night?

  “Tomorrow,” Lancelet said, “I shall beg Arthur to send me out on some difficult quest—to go and make an end forever of Pellinore’s dragon, to conquer the wild Northmen beyond the Roman wall—I care not what, Morgaine, anything, anything to take me away from here—” and for a moment, hearing in his voice a sadness beyond tears, Morgaine wanted to hold him in her arms and rock him at her breast like a babe.

  “I think I came near to killing Gawaine tonight, had you not stopped us,” Lancelet said. “Yet he was only jesting, he would have died with horror if he knew—” Lancelet turned his eyes away and at last said in a whisper, “I know not if what he said is true. I should take Gwenhwyfar and be gone from here, before it becomes a scandal to all the courts of the world, that I love the wife of my king, and yet . . . yet it is Arthur I cannot leave . . . I know not but what I love her only because I come close, thus, to him.”

  Morgaine put out her hand to stop him. There were things she could not bear to know. But Lancelet did not even see.

  “No, no, I must tell someone or I shall die of it—Morgaine, know you how first I came to lie with the Queen? I had loved her long, since first I saw her on Avalon, but I thought I would live and die with that passion unspent—Arthur was my friend and I would not betray him,” he said. “And she, she—you must never think that she tempted me! But—but it was Arthur’s will,” he said. “It came about at Beltane—” and then he told her, while Morgaine stood frozen, thinking only, So this is how the charm worked . . . I would that the Goddess had stricken me with leprosy before ever I gave it to Gwenhwyfar!

  “But you do not know all,” he whispered. “As we lay together—never, never had anything so—so—” He swallowed and fumbled to put into words what Morgaine could not bear to hear. “I—I touched Arthur—I touched him. I love her, oh, God, I love her, mistake me not, but had she not been Arthur’s wife, had it not been for—I doubt even she—” He choked and could not finish his sentence, while Morgaine stood utterly still, appalled beyond speech. Was this then the revenge of the Goddess—that she who loved this man without hope, should become the confidante of both him and the woman he loved, that she should be the repository of all the secret fears he could speak to no one else, the incomprehensible passions within his soul?

  “Lancelet, you should not say these things to me, not to me. Some man—Taliesin—a priest—”

  “What can a priest know of this?” he demanded in despair. “No man, I think, has ever felt such—God knows I hear enough of what men desire, they talk of nothing else, and now and then some man reveals something strange he may desire, but never, never, nothing so strange and evil as this! I am damned,” he cried out. “This is my punishment for desiring the wife of my king, that I should be held in this terrible bondage—even Arthur, if he knew, would hate and despise me. He knows I love Gwenhwyfar, but this not even he could forgive, and Gwenhwyfar—who knows if she, even she, would not hate and despise me—” His voice choked into silence.

  Morgaine could only say the words she had been taught in Avalon. “The Goddess knows what is in the hearts of men, Lancelet. She will comfort you.”

  “But this is to spurn the Goddess,” Lancelet whispered, in frozen horror. “And what of the man who sees that same Goddess in the face of the mother who bore him . . . I cannot turn to her. . . . Almost I am tempted to go and throw myself at the feet of the Christ. His priests say he can forgive any sin, however damnable, as he spoke words of forgiveness to those who crucified him. . . .”

  Morgaine said sharply that she had never seen any sign that his priests were so tender and forgiving with sinners.

  “Aye, no doubt you are right,” said Lancelet, staring bleakly at the flagstones. “There is no help anywhere, till I am slain in battle or ride forth from here to throw myself in the path of a dragon. . . .” He poked with his shoe at a little clump of grass that was growing up through the stones in the courtyard. “And no doubt sin and good and evil are all lies told by priests and men, and the truth is only that we grow and die and wither even as this grass here.” He turned on his heel. “Well, I will go and share Gareth’s vigil, as I promised him . . . he at least loves me in all innocence, like a younger brother or my son. I should fear to kneel before that altar, if I believed one word of what their priests say, damned as I am. And yet—how I wish there were such a God as could forgive me and let me know myself forgiven. . . .”

  He t
urned to go, but Morgaine caught at the embroidered sleeve of the festival gown he had put on. “Wait. What is this of a vigil in the church? I knew not that Arthur’s Companions had grown so pious.”

  “Arthur thinks often of his kingmaking on Dragon Island,” said Lancelet, “and he said once that the Romans with their many Gods, and the old pagan folk, had something which was needed in life, that when men took on some great obligation, they should do it prayerfully, and be in mind of its great meaning and dedication. And so he spoke with the priests, and they have made it so in ritual, that when any new Companion, not seasoned by battle—where he is tried by the very confrontation with death—when an unblooded man joins with the Companions, there is this special testing, that he shall watch and pray all night by his arms, and in the morning confess all his sins and be shriven, and then be made knight.”

  “Why, then, it is a kind of initiation into the Mysteries that he would give them. But he is no maker of Mysteries, he has no right to confer the Mysteries on another or give initiation, and all garbled in the name of their Christ God. In the name of the Mother, will they even take over the Mysteries?”