The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  She smiled and said, “I shall hardly be here long enough to call them mine, though it is true I would like to wash the dust off my hands and take off my cloak. Will you send someone to find my serving-woman? You should have a wife if you are to think of being regent here, Meleagrant.”

  “There is time enough for that,” he said, “but I will show you to the apartments I have prepared for my queen.” He led the way up the old stairs. They were also ill-kept and neglected; Gwenhwyfar, frowning, thought less well of choosing him as regent. If he had moved into the castle and restored it, had installed a wife and good servants to keep it well, with fresh hangings and good cleaning, and smart men-at-arms, well—but his soldiers looked more villainous than he did himself, and she had not yet seen any woman about the place. A faint qualm was beginning to steal over her; maybe she had not been too wise to come here alone, not to insist on her escort accompanying her every step of the way—

  She turned on the stairs and said, “I will have my chamberlain accompany me, if you please, and I want my woman sent for at once!”

  “As my lady wishes.” He grinned. His teeth seemed very long, yellow and stained. She thought, He is like a wild beast . . . and edged against the wall in terror. Yet it was from some inner reserve of strength she drew to say firmly, “Now, please. Call sir Ectorius, or I will go right down into the hall again until my serving-woman is here. It is not seemly for Arthur’s queen to go alone with a strange man—”

  “Not even with her brother?” asked Meleagrant, but Gwenhwyfar, ducking beneath his outstretched arm, saw that Ectorius had come into the hall after her and called, “Foster-father! Accompany me, if you will! And send sir Lucan to find my servant!”

  The old man came slowly up the stairs after them, passing Meleagrant, and Gwenhwyfar put out her arm to lean on him. Meleagrant looked but ill pleased at this. They came to the head of the stairs, to the chamber where Alienor had once dwelt; Gwenhwyfar had been in a little room behind hers. Meleagrant opened the door. It smelled stale and dank inside, and Gwenhwyfar hesitated. Perhaps she should insist on going at once downstairs and to business; she could hardly refresh herself or rest well in a room as dirty and neglected as this—

  “Not you, old man,” said Meleagrant, turning suddenly and pushing Ectorius down the stairs hard. “My lady does not need your service now.” Ectorius stumbled, off balance, and at that moment Meleagrant pushed her into the room and slammed the door hard behind her. She heard the bar thrown down and stumbled to her knees; by the time she got up she was alone in the room, and no amount of hammering on the door brought any sound at all.

  So Morgaine’s warning had been right. Had they murdered her escort? Had they killed Ectorius and Lucan? The room where Alienor had borne her children and lived and later died was cold and dank; there were only some old rags of linen sheets across the great bed, and the straw smelled foul. Alienor’s old carved chest was there, but the wood carving was greasy and smeared with dirt, and it was empty. The hearth was clogged with ash as if there had been no fresh fire lighted there for years. Gwenhwyfar beat on the door and shouted until her hands and her throat were sore; she was hungry and exhausted, and sickened by the smell and the dirt of this place. But she could not budge the door, and the window was too small to climb out—and there was a twelve-foot drop outside. She was imprisoned. Through the window she could see only a neglected barnyard with a single mouldy-looking cow wandering and bellowing at intervals.

  The hours dragged by. Gwenhwyfar had to accept two things, that she could not get out of the room by her own efforts, and that she could not attract the attention of any person who would be likely to come and let her out. Her escort was gone—dead or imprisoned, in any case unable to come to her aid. Her waiting-woman and page were probably dead, certainly well out of reach. She was here, and alone, at the mercy of a man who would probably use her as a hostage to exact some kind of concession from Arthur.

  Her own person was probably safe from him. As she had pointed out to Morgaine, all his claim rested on the fact that he was the only surviving son of her father; bastard, but still of the royal blood. However, when she thought of his rapacious grin and huge presence, she was terrified; he might easily abuse her or try to force her to acknowledge him as regent of this country.

  The day dragged on; the sun moved slowly from the small crack of window, across the room, and away again, and at last it began to grow dark. Gwenhwyfar went through into the little chamber behind Alienor’s that had been her own when she was a child; once her mother had dwelt in Alienor’s chamber. The dark confined space, no more than a closet, felt comfortingly secure; who could hurt her in here? No matter that it was dirty and stale, the bedstraw mildewed; she crept into the bed and wrapped herself in her cloak. Then she went back into the outer room and tried to shove Alienor’s heavy carved chest against the door. She had discovered that she was very much afraid of Meleagrant, and even more afraid of his ruffianly men-at-arms.

  Certainly he would not let them hurt her—the only bargaining power he had was her safety. Arthur would kill him, she told herself, Arthur would kill him if he offered her the slightest insult or harm.

  But, she asked herself in her misery, would Arthur really care? Although he had been kind and loving to her all these years and treated her with all honor, still he might not be sorry to be quit of a wife who could not bear him a child—a wife who was, furthermore, in love with another man and could not conceal it from him.

  If I were Arthur I would make no move against Meleagrant; I would tell him that now he had me, he might keep me, for all the good it would do him.

  What did Meleagrant want? If she, Gwenhwyfar, were dead, there would be no one else with the shadow of a claim on the Summer Country’s throne; there were some young nephews and nieces by her sisters, but they dwelt far away and probably did not know or care about this land. Perhaps he simply meant to murder her or leave her here to starve. The night dragged on. Once she heard some men and horses moving about in the barnyard below; she went to the small window and peered out, but she saw only a dim torch or two, and although she yelled and shouted through her sore throat, no one raised his eyes or took the slightest notice.

  Once, far into the night, when she had fallen into a brief, nightmare-ridden doze, she started up, thinking she heard Morgaine calling her name; she sat bolt upright on the dirty straw of the bed, staring into the thick darkness, but she was alone.

  Morgaine, Morgaine. If you can see me with your sorcery, say to my lord when he comes home that Meleagrant is false, that it was a trap . . . and then she wondered, would God be angry with her for calling on Morgaine’s sorcery to deliver her? And she fell to praying softly until the monotony of her prayers put her to sleep again.

  She slept heavily, this time, without dreams, and when she woke, her mouth dry, she realized it was full day and she was still prisoner in the empty and filthy apartment. She was hungry and thirsty, and sickened with the smell of the place, not only the stale straw and mould, but the smells from one corner she had had to use as a latrine. How long were they going to leave her here alone? The morning wore away and Gwenhwyfar no longer even had the strength or courage to pray.

  Was she being punished, then, for her guilt, for not valuing enough what she had had? She had been a faithful wife to Arthur, yet she had hungered after another man. She had meddled with Morgaine’s sorcery. But, she thought in despair, if I am being punished for my adultery with Lancelet, for what was I being punished while I was yet a faithful wife to Arthur?

  Even if Morgaine could see, with her magic, that she was imprisoned, would she trouble to help her? Morgaine had no reason to love her; indeed, Morgaine almost certainly despised her.

  Was there anyone who really cared? Why should anyone care what happened to her?

  It was past noon when at last she heard a step on the stairs. She sprang to her feet, wrapping herself tightly in her cloak, and backed away from the door. It was Meleagrant who came in, and at sight of him
she drew back even farther.

  “Why have you done this to me?” she demanded. “Where is my woman, my page, my chamberlain? What have you done with my escort? Do you think Arthur will allow you to rule this country when you have offered insult to his queen?”

  “His queen no longer,” Meleagrant said quietly. “When I am done with you, he will not have you back. In the old days, lady, the consort of the queen was king of the land, and if I hold you and get sons on you, no man will gainsay my right to rule.”

  “You will get no sons from me,” Gwenhwyfar said with a mirthless laugh. “I am barren.”

  “Pah—you were married to a damned beardless boy,” he said, and added something more, which Gwenhwyfar did not completely understand, only that it was unimaginably foul.

  “Arthur will kill you,” she said.

  “Let him try. It is harder than you would think to attack an island,” said Meleagrant, “and by that time, perhaps, he will not care to try, since he would have to take you back—”

  She said, “I cannot marry you, I have a husband.”

  “No man in my kingdom will care one way or the other,” said Meleagrant. “There were many who chafed at the rule of the priests, and I have cast forth every damned priest of them! I rule by the old laws, and I will make myself king by that law, which says your man rules here—”

  She whispered, “No,” and backed away, but he sprang at her and pulled her toward him.

  “You’re not to my taste,” he said brutally. “Skinny, ugly, pale wenches—I like better a woman who’s some flesh to her bones! But you’re old Leodegranz’s daughter, unless your mother had more blood to her than I think she could have had! And so—” He pulled her to him. She struggled, got her arm loose, and struck him hard across the face.

  He shouted as her elbow struck his nose, grabbed her arm and shook her, hard; then hit her with his clenched fist across the jaw. She felt something snap and tasted blood bursting in her mouth. He hit her again and again with his fists; she put her arms up, terrified, to ward off his blows, but he went on beating her. “Now,” he yelled, “there’ll be no more of that, you’ll find out who’s your master—” He seized her wrist and wrenched at it.

  “Oh, no—no—please, please, don’t hurt me—Arthur, Arthur will kill you—”

  He answered her only with an obscenity, wrenched at her wrist, flung her down on the dirty straw of the bed, knelt beside her, hauling at his clothing. She writhed, shrieking; he hit her again and she lay still, crouched on a corner of the bed.

  “Take off your gown!” he ordered.

  “No!” she cried, huddling her clothes about her. He reached out, twisting her wrist, and held her while he ripped her gown deliberately down to the waist.

  “Now will you take it off, or shall I tear off every rag of it?”

  Shaking, sobbing, with trembling fingers, Gwenhwyfar pulled her gown over her head, knowing that she should fight, but too terrified of his fists and blows to resist. When she had done he pulled her down, held her down on the dirty straw, pushing her legs open with a rough hand. She struggled only a little, frightened of his hands, sickened by his foul breath, his huge hairy body, the big meaty phallus that thrust painfully into her, pushing and pushing till she felt she would break in two.

  “Don’t pull away from me like that, damn you!” he shouted, thrusting violently; she cried out with pain and he hit her again. She lay still, sobbing, and let him do what he would. It seemed to go on forever, his big body straining and pumping on and on, till finally she felt him convulse, thrust agonizingly hard; then he was gone from her, rolled a little away, and she gasped for breath, struggling to pull her clothes around her. He stood up, wrenching at his belt, and gestured to her.

  “Won’t you let me go?” she begged. “I promise you—I promise you—”

  He grinned fiercely. “Why should I?” he asked. “No, here you are and here you’ll stay. Is there anything you need? A gown to put in the place of that one?”

  She stood weeping, exhausted, shamed, sickened. At last she said shakily, “I—can I have some water, and—and something to eat? And"—She began to cry harder than ever, with shame—"and a chamber pot?”

  “Whatever my lady desires,” said Meleagrant sarcastically, and went away, locking her in again.

  Later in the day a crook-backed old crone brought her some greasy roast meat and a hunk of barley bread, and jugs of water and beer. She also brought some blankets and a chamber pot.

  Gwenhwyfar said, “If you will bear a message to my lord Arthur, I will give you this—” and she took the gold comb from her hair. The old woman’s face brightened at the look of the gold, but then she looked away, scared, and sidled out of the room. Gwenhwyfar burst into tears again.

  At last she regained some calm, ate and drank, and tried to wash herself a little. She felt sick and sore, but worse than that was the sense of being used, shamed, ineradicably dirtied.

  Was it true what Meleagrant had said—that Arthur would not have her back now, that she had been spoilt beyond redemption? It might be so . . . if she were a man she would not want anything Meleagrant had used either. . . .

  No, but it was not fair; this was not anything she had done wrong, she had been trapped and tricked, used against her will.

  Oh, but it is no more than I deserve . . . I who am not a faithful wife, but love another. . . . She felt sick with guilt and shame. But after a time she began to recover her composure and to consider her predicament.

  She was here in Meleagrant’s castle—her father’s old castle. She had been raped and was held captive, and Meleagrant had proclaimed his intention of holding this island kingdom by right of being her consort. It was not to be considered that Arthur would let him do so; no matter what he thought of her personally, for his own honor as High King he would have to make war on Meleagrant. It would not be easy, but it should not be impossible to recapture an island. She knew nothing of Meleagrant as a fighter—except, she thought with a rare flash of grim humor, against a helpless woman, whom he had beaten into submission. But it was not to be considered, either, that he could stand against the High King who had driven the Saxons into utter rout at Mount Badon.

  And then she must face him and tell him what had happened to her. It might be simpler to kill herself. Come what might, she could not imagine herself facing Arthur, telling him how Meleagrant had treated her . . . I should have fought against him harder; Arthur, in battle, has faced very death, once he took a great wound which kept him abed half a year, and I—I stopped fighting after a few slaps and blows. . . . She wished she had some of Morgaine’s sorcery; she would turn him into a pig! But Morgaine would never have fallen into his hands, she would have guessed it was a trap; and she would have used that little dagger of hers, too—she might not have killed him, but he would have lost his desire, and perhaps his ability, to ravish any woman!

  She had eaten and drunk what she could, washed herself, and brushed her filthy dress clean.

  Again the day had begun to wane. It could not be hoped for—that she would be missed, that anyone would come for her until Meleagrant began to boast of what he had done, proclaim himself the consort of King Leodegranz’s daughter. She had gone of her own free will, and properly attended by two of Arthur’s Companions. Not until Arthur returned from the Southern Shores, and perhaps not for a week or ten days after that, when she did not return at the appointed time, would he begin to suspect that all was not well.

  Morgaine, why did I not listen to you? You warned me he was a villain. . . . For a moment it seemed that she could see her sister-in-law’s pale, passionless face—calm, slightly mocking—so clearly that she rubbed her eyes; Morgaine, laughing at her? No, it was a trick of the light, it was gone.

  Would that she could see me through her magic . . . perhaps she could send someone . . . no, she would not, she hates me, she would laugh at my ill fortune . . . and then she remembered: Morgaine laughed and mocked, but when it was a real trouble, no one could be kind
er. Morgaine had tended her when she miscarried; she had, against her own protest, been willing to try and help her with a charm. Perhaps Morgaine did not hate her after all. Perhaps all Morgaine’s mockery was a defense against Gwenhwyfar’s own pride, her scorn of the sorceresses of Avalon.

  Twilight was beginning to blur the furniture in the room. She should have thought to ask for some sort of light. Now it seemed she would spend a second night as prisoner here, and it might be that Meleagrant would return . . . and at the thought she felt sick again with terror; she was still sore from his brutal treatment, her mouth swollen, bruises darkening on her shoulders and, she supposed, on her face. And although, when she was alone here, she could think quite calmly about ways to fight him and perhaps drive him away, she knew, with a sick sinking of terror in her body, that when he touched her, she would shrink away in dread and let him do whatever he would, to avoid more blows . . . she was so afraid, so afraid that he would hurt her again. . . .

  And how could Arthur forgive her for this, that she had not been beaten entirely into submission, but had given way like a coward, after the threat of a few blows and slaps . . . how could he take her back as his queen and continue to love and honor her, when she had allowed another man to have her . . . ?