The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  He had not minded when she and Lancelet . . . he had been a part of that . . . if there was sin it was not all hers, she had done as her husband wished. . . .

  Oh, yes, but Lancelet was his kinsman and dearest friend. . . .

  There was a commotion in the courtyard; Gwenhwyfar went to the window, peering out, but she could see only that same corner of the barnyard, and that same bellowing cow. Somewhere there was noise, shouting and yelling and the clash of weapons, but she could not see and the sound was muffled by the walls and stairs; it might be no more than those villains of Meleagrant’s, fighting or brawling in the courts, or even—oh, no! God forbid it!—murdering her escort. She tried to crane her neck so she could see further from the slit of window, but there was nothing to see.

  There was a sound outside. The door flew open and Gwenhwyfar, turning apprehensively, saw Meleagrant, a naked sword in hand. He gestured with it. “Get within—into that inner chamber,” he ordered. “In with you, and not a sound from you, madam, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Does this mean someone has come to rescue me? He looked desperate, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she could get no information from him. She backed away, slowly, into the little inner room. He followed her, his hand on the sword, and Gwenhwyfar flinched, her whole body cringing in anticipation of the stroke . . . would he kill her now, or hold her as hostage for his own escape?

  She never knew his plan. Meleagrant’s head suddenly exploded in a spray of blood and brains; he crumpled with a weird slowness, and Gwenhwyfar sank down, too, half fainting, but before she reached the floor, she was in Lancelet’s arms.

  “My lady, my queen—ah, my beloved—” He caught her against him, holding her, and then, half senseless, Gwenhwyfar knew he was covering her face with kisses. She made no protest; it was like a dream. Meleagrant lay in his blood on the floor, the sword lay where it had fallen. Lancelet had to lift her over the body before he could set her on her feet.

  “How—how did you know?” she stammered.

  “Morgaine,” he said tersely. “When I came to Camelot, Morgaine said she had tried to bid you delay till I was there. She felt it was a trap—I took horse and came after you, with half a dozen men. I found your escort imprisoned in the woods near here, tied and gagged—once I had freed them, it was not hard—no doubt he thought himself secure.” Now Lancelet let her go long enough to see the bruises on her face and body, her torn gown, the cut lip where it was swollen. He touched them with shaking fingers. “Now do I regret he died so quickly,” he said. “It would give me delight to make him suffer as you have suffered—ah, my poor love, my darling, you have been so cruelly used—”

  “You don’t know,” she whispered, “you don’t know—” and she was sobbing again, clinging to him. “You came, you came, I thought no one would come, that no one would want me now, that no one would ever touch me again—now when I am so shamed. . . .”

  He held her, kissing her again and again in a frenzy of tenderness. “Shamed? You? No, the shame is his, his, oh, and he has paid for it . . .” he muttered through his kisses. “I thought I had lost you forever, he might have killed you, but Morgaine said no, you lived—”

  Even then, Gwenhwyfar spared a moment of fear and resentment—did Morgaine know how she had been humiliated, violated? Ah, God, if only Morgaine need not have known! She could not bear it, that Morgaine should know of this!

  “Sir Ectorius? Sir Lucan—”

  “Lucan is well enough; Ectorius is not young, and he has suffered grave shock, but there is no reason to think he will not live,” Lancelet said. “You must go down, my beloved, and show yourself to them; they must know that their queen lives.”

  Gwenhwyfar looked at her torn gown, touched her bruised face with hesitant hands. She said, her voice catching in her throat, “Can I not have a little time to make myself proper? I do not want them to see—” and she could not go on.

  Lancelet hesitated, then nodded. He said, “Yes; let them think he dared offer you no insult. It is better that way. I came alone, knowing I could match Meleagrant; the others are downstairs. Let me look in the other chambers—a man of his kind would not dwell here without some woman or other.” He left her for a moment, and she could barely endure to see him out of her sight. She edged away from the body of Meleagrant on the floor, looking down at the man as if he were a wolf’s carcass killed by some shepherd, without even distate for the blood.

  After a moment Lancelet returned. “There is a room yonder which is clean, and chests there with some garments laid away—I think it was the old king’s room. There is even a mirror.” He led her down the hall. This room had been swept, and the bed straw on the big bed was fresh and clean, and there were sheets and blankets, and fur comforters—not too clean, but not disgusting, either. There was a carved chest she recognized, and inside it she found three gowns, one of which she had seen Alienor wear, and the others made for someone taller. Handling them, through a mist of tears, she thought, These must have been my own mother’s. I wonder that my father never gave them to Alienor. And then she thought, I never knew my father well. I have no idea what manner of man he was, he was only my father. And that seemed so sad to her that she wanted to weep again.

  “I will put this on,” she said, and then she broke into a weak laugh. “If I can manage without a woman to dress me—”

  Lancelet touched her face gently. “I will dress you, my lady.” He began to help her off with her gown. And then his face twisted, and he lifted her up in his arms, half-dressed as she was.

  “When I think of that—that animal, touching you—” he said, with his face muffled against her breast, “and I who love you barely dare to lay a hand on you—”

  And for all her faithfulness, she had only come to this; God had rewarded her for her virtue and self-restraint by betraying her into Meleagrant’s hands for rape and brutality! And Lancelet, who had offered her love and tenderness, who had scrupulously stepped aside that he might not betray his kinsman—he had to witness it! She turned in his arms, embracing him.

  “Lancelet,” she whispered, “my love, my dearest—take away from me the memory of what was done to me—let us not go from here yet for a little while—”

  His eyes overflowed with tears; he laid her down gently on the bed, caressing her with shaking hands.

  God did not reward me for virtue. What makes me think he could punish me? And then a thought which frightened her, perhaps there is no God at all, nor any of the Gods people believe in. Perhaps it is all a great lie of the priests, so that they may tell mankind what to do, what not to do, what to believe, give orders even to the King. She raised herself, pulling Lancelet down to her, her bruised mouth searching for his, her hands wandering all over the beloved body, this time without fear and without shame. She no longer cared, nor felt restraint. Arthur? Arthur had not protected her from ravishment. She had suffered what she had had to suffer, and now, at least, she would have this much. It had been by Arthur’s doing that she had first lain with Lancelet, and now she would do what she would.

  They rode out of Meleagrant’s castle two hours later, side by side, their hands reaching out between their horses to touch as they rode, and Gwenhwyfar no longer cared; she looked straight at Lancelet, her head held high with joy and gladness. This was her true love, and never again would she trouble herself to hide it from any man.

  5

  On the shores of Avalon the priestesses wound slowly along the reedy shore, torches in hand. . . . I should have been among them, but there was some reason I could not go. . . . Viviane would have been angry with me that I was not there, yet I seemed to stand on a far shore, unable to speak the word that would have brought me to them. . . .

  Raven paced slowly, her pale face lined as I had never seen it, a long streak of white at the side of her temple . . . her hair was unbound; could it be that she was still maiden, untouched save by the God? Her white draperies moved in the same wind that made the torches flare. Where was Viviane, where was the Lad
y? The sacred boat stood at the shore of the eternal lands, but she would come no more to the place of the Goddess . . . and who was this in the veil and wreath of the Lady?

  I had never seen her before, save in dreams. . . .

  Thick, colorless hair, the color of ripe wheat, was braided in a low coronal over her brow; but hanging at her waist where the sickle knife of a priestess should have hung . . . ah, Goddess! Blasphemy! For at the side of her pale gown a silver crucifix hung; I struggled against invisible bonds to rush forward and tear away the blasphemous thing, but Kevin stepped between us and held my hands in his own, which twisted and writhed like misshapen serpents . . . and then he was writhing between my hands . . . and the serpents were tearing at me with their teeth . . .

  “Morgaine! What is it?” Elaine shook her bedfellow’s shoulder. “What is it! You were crying out in your sleep—”

  “Kevin,” she muttered, and sat up, her unbound hair, raven-dark, moving about her like dark water. “No, no, it wasn’t you—but she had fair hair like yours, and a crucifix—”

  “You were dreaming, Morgaine,” Elaine said. “Wake up!”

  Morgaine blinked and shuddered, then drew a long breath and looked up at Elaine with her customary composure. “I am sorry—an evil dream,” she said, but her eyes still looked haunted. Elaine wondered what dreams pursued the King’s sister; for sure they must be evil, for she had come here from that evil island of witches and sorceresses . . . yet somehow Morgaine had never seemed to her an evil woman. How could any woman be so good when she worshipped devils and refused Christ?

  She turned away from Morgaine and said, “We must get up, cousin. The King will return this day, so last night’s messenger said.”

  Morgaine nodded and got out of bed, pulling off her shift; Elaine modestly averted her eyes. Morgaine seemed to be without shame—had she never heard that all sin came into this world through the body of a woman? Now she stood shamelessly naked, rummaging in her chest for a holiday shift, and Elaine turned away and began to dress.

  “Make haste, Morgaine, we must go to the Queen—”

  Morgaine smiled. “Not too much haste, kinswoman, we must give Lancelet time to be well away. Gwenhwyfar would not thank you for making a scandal.”

  “Morgaine, how can you say such a thing? After what has happened, it is no more than reason that Gwenhwyfar should be afraid to be alone at night and should wish her champion to sleep at her very door . . . and indeed, it was fortunate Lancelet came in time to save her from worse—”

  “Don’t be more of a fool than you must, Elaine,” said Morgaine with weary patience. “Do you believe that?”

  “You, of course, know better by your magic,” flared Elaine, so loudly that the other women who slept in the room turned their heads to hear what the Queen’s cousin and the King’s sister were quarrelling about. Morgaine lowered her voice and said, “Believe me, I want no scandal, no more than you. Gwenhwyfar is my sister-in-law and Lancelet is my kinsman too. God knows, Arthur should not chide Gwenhwyfar for what befell with Meleagrant—poor wretch, it was none of her doing, and no doubt it must be given out that Lancelet came in time to rescue her. But I have no doubt Gwenhwyfar will tell Arthur, at least in secret, how Meleagrant used her—no, Elaine, I saw how she was when Lancelet brought her back from the island, and I heard what she said, her terror that that damned hellhound might have managed to get her with child!”

  Elaine’s face went dead white. “But he is her brother,” she whispered. “Is there any man alive would do such sin as that?”

  “Oh, Elaine, in God’s name, what a ninny you are!” Morgaine said. “Is that what you think the worst of it?”

  “And you are saying—Lancelet has shared her bed while the King was away—”

  “I am not surprised, nor do I think it the first time,” said Morgaine. “Have sense, Elaine—do you begrudge it? After what Meleagrant did to her, I would not be surprised if Gwenhwyfar would never again wish any man to touch her, and for her sake I am glad, if Lancelet can heal that hurt for her. And now, perhaps, Arthur will put her away, so that he may get him a son somewhere.”

  Elaine said, staring at her, “Perhaps Gwenhwyfar will go into a convent—she told me once she was never happier than in her convent at Glastonbury. But would they have her, if she had been paramour to her husband’s captain of horse? Oh, Morgaine, I am so ashamed of her!”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” Morgaine said. “Why should you care?”

  Elaine said, surprising herself with her outburst, “Gwenhwyfar has a husband, she is wife to the High King, and her husband is the most honorable and kindly king ever to rule these lands! She has no need to look elsewhere for love! Yet how can Lancelet turn away to seek any other lady, if the Queen stretches out her hand?”

  “Well,” said Morgaine, “perhaps now she and Lancelet will go forth from this court. Lancelet has lands in Less Britain, and they have loved one another long, though I think that till this mishap, they had lived as Christian man and woman.” Silently she absolved herself for the lie; what Lancelet had told her in his agony was to be held forever in the depths of her heart.

  “But then would Arthur be the laughingstock of every Christian king in these islands,” said Elaine shrewdly. “If his queen should flee out of his lands with his best friend and his captain of horse, they would call him cuckold or worse.”

  “I do not think Arthur will care what they say of him,” Morgaine began, but Elaine shook her head.

  “No, Morgaine, but he must care. The lesser kings must respect him so that they will rally to his standard when there is need. How can they do so when he allows his wife to live in open sin with Lancelet? Yes, I know you speak of these few days. But can we be certain it will stop at that? My father is Arthur’s friend and vassal, but I think even he would mock at a king who could not rule his wife, and wonder how such a one could rule a kingdom.”

  Morgaine shrugged and said, “What can we do, short of murdering the guilty pair?”

  “What talk!” said Elaine with a shudder. “No, but Lancelet must leave the court. You are his kinswoman, cannot you make him see that?”

  “Alas,” said Morgaine, “I fear I have but little influence with my kinsman in that way.” And inside it was as if some cold thing seized her with its teeth.

  “If Lancelet were married,” said Elaine, and suddenly it seemed as if she wrenched at her own courage. “If he were married to me! Morgaine, you are wise in charms and spells, cannot you give me a charm which will turn Lancelet’s eyes from Gwenhwyfar to me? I am a king’s daughter too, and I am certainly as beautiful as Gwenhwyfar—and I at least have no husband!”

  Morgaine laughed bitterly. “My spells, Elaine, can be worse than useless—ask Gwenhwyfar one day how such a spell rebounded upon her! But Elaine,” she said, suddenly serious, “would you truly travel that road?”

  “I think that if he married me,” Elaine said, “he would come to see that I am no less worthy of love than Gwenhwyfar.”

  Morgaine put her hand under the young woman’s chin and turned up her face. “Listen, my child,” she began, and Elaine felt that the dark eyes of the sorceress were searching into her very soul. “Elaine, this would not be easy. You have said you love him, but love when a maiden speaks so is no more than a fancy. Do you truly know what kind of a man he is? Is this a fancy which could endure for all the years of a marriage? If you wanted only to lie with him—that I could arrange easily enough. But when the glamour of the spell had worn off, he might well hate you because you had tricked him. And what then?”

  Elaine said, stammering, “Even that . . . even that I will risk. Morgaine, my father has offered me to other men, but he has promised me that he will never force my will. I tell you, if I cannot marry Lancelet, I shall go behind convent walls for all of my life, I swear it. . . .” The girl’s whole body trembled, but she did not weep. “But why should I turn to you, Morgaine? Like all of us, like Gwenhwyfar herself, you would have Lancelet, whether as hus
band or paramour, and the King’s sister may choose for herself. . . .”

  Then, for a moment, Elaine thought her eyes tricked her, for in the cold eyes of the sorceress it seemed that tears gathered. Something in her voice made Elaine’s eyes sting too. “Ah, no, child, Lancelet would not have me, even if Arthur bade him. Believe me, Elaine, you would have small happiness with Lancelet.”

  Elaine said, “I do not think women have ever much happiness in marriage—only young girls think so, and I am not so young. But a woman must marry some time or other, and I would rather have Lancelet.” Then she burst out, “I do not think you can do anything of the sort! Why do you mock me? Are your charms and spells all moonlight rubbish, then?”

  She had expected Morgaine to flare up at her, to defend her own craft, but Morgaine sighed and shook her head and said, “I put not much faith in love charms and spells, I told you that when first we spoke. They are for concentrating the will of the ignorant. The craft of Avalon is a very different thing, and not lightly to be invoked because a maiden would rather lie with one man than another.”