The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  She could not face me at that. And again I told myself, fiercely: Had she and Lancelet been honest with Arthur, had they fled from the court together, to live beyond Arthur’s kingdom, so that Arthur could have taken him another wife to get an heir for the kingdom, then I would not have meddled.

  But from that day, Gwenhwyfar hated me; and that I regretted most, for in a strange way I had loved her. Gwenhwyfar never seemed to hate her kinswoman; she sent Elaine a rich gift and a silver cup when her son was born, and when Elaine had the boy christened Galahad, for his father, she named herself his godmother and swore that he should be heir to the kingdom if she did not give Arthur a son. Sometime that year she indeed announced she was pregnant, but nothing came of it, and I think, indeed, it was only her desire for a child, and her fancy.

  The marriage was no worse than most. That year Arthur had to face war on the northern coast, and Lancelet spent little time at home. Like many husbands, he spent his time at war, coming home two or three times a year to see to their lands—Pellinore had given them a castle near his own—to receive the new cloaks and shirts Elaine wove and embroidered for him—after he married Elaine, Lancelet always dressed as fine as the King himself—to kiss his son, and later his daughters, to sleep with his wife once, or maybe twice, and then he was off again.

  Elaine always seemed happy. I do not know whether she was truly happy, being one of those women who can find their best happiness in home and babes, or whether she longed for more than this and yet abode bravely by the bargain she had made.

  As for me, I dwelt at court for two more years. And then, at Pentecost of the second year, when Elaine was pregnant with her second child, Gwenhwyfar had her revenge.

  7

  As with every year, the day of Pentecost was Arthur’s high festival. Gwenhwyfar had been awake since earliest daylight. On this day, all of those Companions who had fought at Arthur’s side should be at court, and this year Lancelet would be here too . . .

  . . . last year he had not come. Word had been sent that he was in Less Britain, answering a call from his father, King Ban, who sought to settle trouble in his kingdom; but Gwenhwyfar knew in her heart why Lancelet had not come, why he had chosen to stay apart.

  It was not that she could not forgive his marriage to Elaine. Morgaine and her spite had brought that about—Morgaine, who would have had Lancelet for herself and would stop at nothing to part him from the one he truly loved. Rather than see him in Gwenhwyfar’s arms, Gwenhwyfar supposed, Morgaine would have seen him in hell, or in his grave.

  Arthur, too, missed Lancelet sorely, that she had seen. Although he sat in his high seat at Camelot, and dealt justice to all manner of men—he was loved, loved far more than any king Gwenhwyfar had heard tell of before this—she could see that always he looked back to the days of battle and conquest; she supposed all men were like that. Arthur would bear to his grave the scars of the wounds he had taken in his great battles. When they had fought year after year to bring peace to the land, he had spoken as if he wished for nothing more than leisure to sit at home in Camelot and enjoy his castle. Now he was never so happy as when he could get some of his old Companions about him, and fall to talking of those old evil days when there were Saxons and Jutes and wild Northmen on every hand.

  She looked at Arthur where he lay sleeping. Yes, and he was still the handsomest and goodliest of all his old Companions; at times she thought he was fairer of face and better to look at even than Lancelet, though it was unfair to compare them, one so dark, one so blond. And after all they were cousins, they were of one blood . . . how, she wondered, had Morgaine come into that kindred? Perhaps indeed she was a changeling, nothing human at all, but left by the evil fairy folk to do wickedness among mankind . . . a sorceress schooled in un-Christian ways. Arthur too was tainted by that background, though she had gotten him to go often to mass and to speak of himself as Christian. Morgaine liked not that, either.

  Well, she would fight to the last to save Arthur’s soul! She loved him well, he was the best husband a woman could ever have had, even had he been no High King but a simple knight. Surely the madness that had seized her was long gone. It was right and fitting she should think kindly of her husband’s cousin. Why, it was at Arthur’s own will that she had first lain in Lancelet’s arms. And now it was all past and over, and she had confessed it and been absolved; her priest had told her it was as if the sin had never been, and now she must strive to forget it.

  Yet she could not help remembering, a little, on this morning when Lancelet would be coming to court with his wife and son . . . he was a married man, married to her own cousin. Now he was not only her husband’s kinsman but her own kinsman as well. She could greet him with a kiss, and it would be no sin.

  Arthur turned over, as if her thoughts could disturb him, and smiled at her.

  “It is Pentecost day, sweetheart,” he said, “and all of our kinfolk and friends will be here. Let me see you smile.”

  She smiled at him and he drew her down against him, kissing her and letting his fingers circle her breasts.

  “You are certain what we do this day will not offend you? I would not have anyone think you were less to me,” he said anxiously. “You are not old, God may yet bless us with children if it is his will. But the lesser kings have demanded it of me—life is never certain, so I must name an heir. When our first son is born, sweet, then it will be as if this day had never been, and I am sure young Galahad will not begrudge the throne to his cousin, but serve and honor him as Gawaine has done for me. . . .”

  It might yet be true, Gwenhwyfar thought, surrendering herself to her husband’s gentle caresses. There were such things told of in the Bible: the mother of John the Baptizer, who had been cousin to the Virgin—God had opened her womb long after she was past the age of bearing, and she, Gwenhwyfar, was not yet thirty . . . why, Lancelet had said once that his mother was older than this when he was born. Perhaps this time, after all these years, she would arise from her husband’s bed bearing again the seed of his son in her body. And now that she had learned not only to submit to him as a good wife must, but to take pleasure in his touch, his manhood filling her, surely she was softened and all the more ready to conceive and bear. . . .

  No doubt it was all for the best, when for a time three years ago she had thought she bore Lancelet’s child, but something had gone amiss . . . three months she had not had her moon-blood and she had told one or two of her ladies that she was with child; and then, after three more months, when she should have felt the first quickening, it had proved to be nothing after all . . . but now, surely, with this new warmth she had known since she had been all wakened, this time it would come about as she wished. And Elaine would not gloat and triumph over her again. . . . She might, for a little time, have been the mother of the King’s heir, but Gwenhwyfar would be the mother of the King’s son. . . .

  She said something like that later, when they were dressing, and Arthur looked at her, troubled. “Is Lancelet’s wife unkind or scornful to you, Gwen? I had thought you and your cousin were good friends. . . .”

  “Oh, we are,” said Gwenhwyfar, blinking back tears, “but it is always so with women . . . those women who have sons think ever they are the betters of any woman who is barren. The wife of the swineherd, in her childbed, no doubt thinks with scorn and pity of the Queen who cannot give her lord so much as a single son.”

  Arthur came and kissed the back of her neck. “Don’t, sweeting, don’t cry. I would rather have you than another woman who could have given me a dozen sons already.”

  “Truly?” Gwenhwyfar said, a hint of scorn in her voice. “Yet I was only something my father gave you with a hundred horsemen, just a part of the bargain—and you took me dutifully to get the horses—but I was a bad bargain—”

  He raised his eyes and stared at her with a blue incredulous gaze. “Have you been thinking of that and holding it against me all these years, my Gwen? But surely you must know that since the first moment that I looked
on your face, no one could be dearer to me than you!” he said and wound his arms around her. She was rigid, blinking back tears, and he kissed her at the corner of her eye. “Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar, could you think—you are my wife, beloved, my own dear wife, and nothing on earth could part us. If I wanted only a brood mare to get me sons, God knows I could have had enough of them!”

  “But you have not,” she said, still stiff and cold in his arms. “I would willingly take your son to foster, and bring him up as your heir. But you thought me not worthy to foster your son . . . and it was you who pushed me into Lancelet’s arms—”

  “Oh, my Gwen,” he said, and his face was rueful like a punished child. “Do you hold it against me, that old madness? I was drunk, and it seemed to me that you loved Lancelet well . . . I thought to give you pleasure, and if it might truly be so, that it was my fault you did not bear, then you could have a child by one so close to me that I could in good conscience call whatever child came of that night, my own heir. But mostly it was that I was drunk—”

  “At times,” she said, her face set like stone, “it has seemed to me that you loved Lancelet more than me. Can you say in truth that it was to give me pleasure, or was it for the pleasure of him you loved best of all—?”

  He dropped his arm from her neck as if he were stung. “Is it a sin, then, to love my kinsman and think, too, of his pleasure? It is true, I love you both—”

  “In Holy Writ it speaks of that city that was destroyed for such sins,” said Gwenhwyfar.

  Arthur was as white as his shirt. “I love my kinsman Lancelet with all honor, Gwen; King David himself wrote of his cousin and kinsman Jonathan, Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of woman, and God smote him not. It is so with comrades in battle. Dare you to say that such a love is a sin, Gwenhwyfar? I will avow it before the throne of God—” He stopped, unable to force further sound through his dry throat.

  Gwenhwyfar heard her own voice cracking with hysteria.

  “Can you swear that when you brought him to our bed . . . I saw it then, you touched him with more love than ever you have given the woman my father forced on you—when you led me into this sin, can you swear it was not your own sin, and all your fine talk no more than a cover for that very sin that brought down fire from Heaven on the city of Sodom?”

  He stared at her, still deathly white. “You are certainly mad, my lady. On that night you speak of—I was drunk, I know not what you may have thought you saw. It was Beltane, and the force of the Goddess was with us all. I think all your prayers and thoughts of sin have turned your mind, my Gwen.”

  “No Christian man would say so!”

  “And that is one reason why I like not to call myself a Christian!” he shouted back at her, losing patience at last. “I am tired of all this talk of sin! If I had put you away from me—aye, and I was counselled to do so, and would not because I loved you too well—and taken another woman—”

  “No! Rather would you share me with Lancelet, and have him too—”

  “Say that again,” he said very low, “and wife or no, love or no, I will kill you, my Gwenhwyfar!”

  But she was sobbing hysterically now and could not stop herself. “You say you wished for a son, and so you led me into such sin as God cannot pardon—if I have sinned, and God has punished me with barrenness, was it not you who led me into that sin? And even now, it is Lancelet’s son is your heir. Can you dare say it is not Lancelet you love best, when you make his son your heir and not your own son, when you will not give me your son to foster for you—”

  “Let me call your women, Gwenhwyfar,” he said, with a deep breath. “You are beside yourself. I swear to you, I have no son, or if I do, it is some chance-gotten child from my days in battle, and the woman knew me not, nor who I was. No woman anywhere near my own station has ever come to me and said she bore my child. Priests or no, sin or no, I cannot believe any woman would be ashamed to admit that she had borne the son of a childless High King. I have taken no unwilling woman, nor played at adultery with any man’s wife. What is this mad talk of a son of mine you would foster as my heir? I tell you, I have none. I have often wondered if some sickness in boyhood, or that wound I took, might have gelded me . . . I have no son.”

  “No, but that is a lie!” Gwenhwyfar said angrily. “Morgaine bade me not speak of it, but long ago I went to her, I begged her for a charm to help my barrenness. I was in despair, I said I would give myself to another man, since it was likely you could not father a son. And at that time Morgaine swore to me that you could father a child, that she had seen a son of yours, fostered at the court of Lot of Lothian, but she made me promise not to speak of it—”

  “Fostered at the court of Lothian . . .” said Arthur, and then he caught at his chest, as if in dreadful pain there. “Ah, merciful God!” he said in a whisper, “and I never knew. . . .”

  Gwenhwyfar felt sudden terror striking through her. “No, no, Arthur, Morgaine is a liar! No doubt it was but her malice, it was she who contrived Lancelet’s marriage to Elaine, because she was jealous . . . no doubt she was lying to plague me. . . .”

  Arthur said in a distant voice, “Morgaine is a priestess of Avalon. She does not lie. I think, Gwenhwyfar, that we must ask of this. Send for Morgaine—”

  “No, no,” Gwenhwyfar begged. “I am sorry I spoke—I was beside myself and raving as you said—oh, my dear lord and husband, my king and my lord, I am sorry for every word I said! I beg you to forgive me—I beg you.”

  He put his arms around her. “There is need for you to forgive me too, my dear lady. I see now I have done you great wrong. But when you have unloosed the winds, then must you abide by their blowing, whatever they may tear down. . . .” He kissed her very gently on the forehead. “Send for Morgaine.”

  “Oh, my lord, oh, Arthur, I beg you—I promised to her that I would never speak of it to you—”

  “Well, then, you have broken your promise,” Arthur said. “I besought you not to speak, but you would have it so, and now what has been said cannot be unsaid.” He stepped to the door of the chamber and called to his chamberlain, “Go to the lady Morgaine and command that she attend me and my queen as quickly as she may.”

  When the man had gone, Arthur called Gwenhwyfar’s servant, and Gwenhwyfar stood like a stone as the woman put on her holiday robe and braided her hair. She sipped at a cup of hot water and wine, but her throat was tight. She had spoken the unforgivable.

  But if it is true that this morning he has given me his child to bear . . . and a strange pain struck inward through her body even into her womb. Could anything take root and grow in such bitterness?

  After a time Morgaine came into the room in a dark-red gown, her hair braided with crimson silk ribbons; she had dressed well for the festival and looked alive and glowing.

  And I am but a barren tree, Gwenhwyfar thought; Elaine has Lancelet’s son; even Morgaine, who has no husband and no wish for one, has played the harlot and borne a son to somebody or other, and Arthur has fathered a son on some unknown woman, but I—I have none.

  Morgaine came and kissed her; Gwenhwyfar stood rigid within her arms. Then Morgaine turned to Arthur and said, “You commanded me to come, my brother?”

  Arthur said, “I am sorry to disturb you so early, sister. But, Gwenhwyfar,” he said, “now must you repeat in my presence and Morgaine’s what you have said. I will have no secret slanders repeated within my court.”

  Morgaine looked at Gwenhwyfar and saw the marks of tears around her reddened eyes. “Dear brother,” she said, “your queen is ill. Is she pregnant again? As to whatever she has said, well, it’s a true saying, hard words break no bones.”

  Arthur looked coldly at Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine drew back; this was not the brother she knew well, this was the stern face of the High King as he sat in his hall to dispense justice.

  “Gwenhwyfar,” he said, “not only as your husband, but as your king, I command you: Repeat before Morgaine’s face what you have said behind her back, a
nd what she told you, that I had a son in fosterage at the court of Lothian—”

  It is true, Gwenhwyfar thought in that split second. Never before, save when Viviane was murdered before her eyes, have I seen Morgaine’s face other than calm, serene, the face of a priestess. . . . It is true, and somehow it touches her deeply . . . but why?

  “Morgaine,” Arthur said. “Tell me—is this true? Have I a son?”

  What is it to Morgaine? Why should she wish it to be concealed, even from Arthur? She might wish her own harlotries to be hidden, but why should she conceal it from Arthur that he has a son? And then some inkling of the truth struck her, and she gasped aloud.

  Morgaine thought: A priestess of Avalon does not lie. But I am cast out of Avalon, and for this, and unless it is all to be for nothing, I must lie, and lie well and quickly. . . .

  “Who was it?” demanded Gwenhwyfar angrily. “One of the whore priestesses of Avalon who lies with men in sin and lustfulness at their demon festivals?”

  “You know nothing of Avalon,” said Morgaine, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Your words are like the wind, without meaning—”