The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “There is Uriens, and Marcus of Cornwall—he too grows old. . . . They shall see that their king is not too proud to come and speak to them today. Stay here by Gwenhwyfar, Lance, let it be like old times today.”

  Lancelet did as he was asked, sitting on the bench beside Gwenhwyfar. At last he asked, “Is Arthur ill?”

  Gwenhwyfar shook her head. “I think he has penance to do and is brooding about it.”

  “Well, surely Arthur can have no great sin on his soul,” Lancelet said, “he is one of the most spotless men I know. I am proud that he is still my friend—I do not deserve it, I know, Gwen.” He looked at her so sadly that again Gwenhwyfar almost wept. Why could she not have loved the two of them without sin, why had God ordained that a woman must have only one husband? She was grown as bad as Morgaine, that she could think such a thing!

  She touched his hand. “Are you happy with Elaine, Lancelet?”

  “Happy? What man alive is happy? I do as best I can.”

  She looked down at her hands. For a moment she forgot that this man had been her lover and remembered only that he had been her friend. “I want you to be happy. Truly, I do.”

  His hand closed for a moment over hers. “I know, my dear. I did not want to come here today. I love you, and I love Arthur—but the day is past when I can be content to be his captain of horse and—” His voice broke. “And the champion of the Queen.”

  She said suddenly, looking up, her hand in his, “Does it seem sometimes to you that we are no longer young, Lancelet?”

  He nodded and sighed. “Aye—it does so.”

  Morgaine had taken the harp again and was singing. Lancelet said, “Her voice is as sweet as ever. I am put in memory of my mother singing—she sang not so well as Morgaine, but she had the same soft, low voice—”

  “Morgaine is as young as ever,” said Gwenhwyfar jealously.

  “It is so with those of the old blood, they seem ever young until the day they are suddenly old,” Lancelet said; then, bending down to touch her cheek in a light kiss, he said abruptly, “Never think you are less beautiful than Morgaine, my Gwen. It is a different beauty, that is all.”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “Love, I cannot bear it if you are unhappy. . . .”

  She said, “I do not think I know what it means, to be happy.”

  How is Morgaine so untouched? That which wrecked my life and Arthur’s, it lies lightly on her, there she sits laughing and singing, and yonder knight with the serpents about his wrists, is glamoured by her.

  Soon after, Lancelet said he must go back to Elaine, and left her; and when Arthur returned, there were Companions and old followers coming to him for concessions, to give him gifts and recall their service. After a time Uriens of North Wales came, portly now and greying, but he still had all his own teeth, and he led his men into the field when he must.

  He said, “I have come to ask you a favor, Arthur. I want to marry again, and I would like to be allied with your house. I have heard that Lot of Lothian is dead, and I ask your permission to marry his widow, Morgause.”

  Arthur had to stifle a laugh. “Ah, for that, my friend, you must ask leave of sir Gawaine. Lothian is his now, and no doubt he would be glad to marry his mother away, but no doubt, the lady is old enough to have a mind of her own. I cannot order her to marry—it would be like ordering my mother to marry!”

  Gwenhwyfar was struck by sudden inspiration. This would be the perfect solution—Arthur himself had said that if it became known at court, Morgaine could be scorned or shamed. She reached out and touched Arthur’s sleeve. She said in a low voice, “Arthur, Uriens is a valuable ally. You have told me that the mines of Wales are valuable as they were to the Romans, for iron and lead . . . and you have a kinswoman whose marriage is in your keeping.”

  He looked at her, startled. “Uriens is so old!”

  “Morgaine is older than you,” she said, “and since he has grown sons and grandsons, he will not mind too much if Morgaine does not give him children.”

  “That is true,” said Arthur with a frown, “and this seems a good match.” He raised his head to Uriens and said, “I cannot order lady Morgause to marry again, but my sister, the Duchess of Cornwall, is not married.”

  Uriens bowed. “I could not presume to ask so high, my king, but if your sister would be queen in my country—”

  “I will compel no woman to marry unwilling,” said Arthur, “but I will ask her.” He beckoned one of the pages. “Ask the lady Morgaine if she will come to me when she has finished singing.”

  Uriens’ eyes were on Morgaine where she sat, her dark gown lending fairness to her skin. “She is very beautiful, your sister. Any man would think himself fortunate to have such a wife.”

  As Uriens went to his seat, Arthur said thoughtfully, watching Morgaine come toward them, “She is long unmarried—she must wish for a home of her own where she will be mistress, rather than serving another woman always. And she is too learned for many young men. But Uriens will be glad that she is gracious and will rule his home well. I wish, though, that he were not quite so old. . . .”

  “I think she will be happier with an older man,” Gwenhwyfar said. “She is not a giddy young thing.”

  Morgaine came and curtseyed to them. Always, in public, she was smiling and impassive, and Gwenhwyfar was for once glad of it.

  “Sister,” said Arthur, “I have had an offer of marriage for you. And after this morning"—he lowered his voice—"I think it well you should not live at court for a time.”

  “Indeed I would be glad to be gone from here, brother.”

  “Why, then—” Arthur said, “how would you like to live in North Wales? I hear it is desolate there, but no more than Tintagel, surely—”

  To Gwenhwyfar’s surprise, Morgaine blushed like a girl of fifteen. “I will not try to pretend I am as surprised as all that, brother.”

  Arthur chuckled. “Why, he did not tell me he had spoken to you, the sly fellow.”

  Morgaine colored and played with the end of her braid. She did not, Gwenhwyfar thought, look anywhere near her age. “You may tell him I should be happy to live in North Wales.”

  Arthur said gently, “Does the difference in age not bother you?”

  Her face was rosy. “If it does not bother him, it does not bother me.”

  “So be it,” said Arthur, and beckoned to Uriens, who came, beaming. “My sister has told me that she would like it well to be Queen of North Wales, my friend. I see no reason we cannot have the wedding with all speed, perhaps on Sunday.” He raised his cup and called out to the assembled company, “Drink to a wedding, my friends—a wedding between the lady Morgaine of Cornwall, my dear sister, and my good friend King Uriens of North Wales!”

  For the first time that day it sounded like a proper Pentecost feasting, as the applause, cries of congratulation, acclaim, all stormed up. Morgaine stood still as a stone.

  But she agreed to this, she said he had spoken to her . . . Gwenhwyfar thought, and then she remembered the young man who had been flirting with Morgaine. Was that not Uriens’ son—Accolon, Accolon, that was it. But surely she could not have expected him to offer for her; Morgaine was older than he was! It must have been Accolon—will she make a scene? Gwenhwyfar wondered.

  And then, with another surge of hatred, Now let Morgaine see what it is like to be given in marriage to a man she does not love!

  “So you will be a queen, too, my sister,” she said, taking Morgaine’s hand. “I shall be your bride-woman.”

  But for all her sweet words, Morgaine looked her straight in the eye, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she had not been deceived.

  So be it. We will at least be rid of one another. And no more pretense of friendship between us.

  Morgaine speaks . . .

  For a marriage destined to end as mine did, it began well enough, I suppose. Gwenhwyfar gave me a fine wedding, considering how she hated me; I had six bride-women and four of them were queens. Arthur gave me some fine
and costly jewelry—I had never cared a great deal for jewelry, having not been accustomed to wear it in Avalon and never having learned since, though I had a few pieces that had been Igraine’s. Now he gave me many more of our mother’s gems, and some that had been plunder of the Saxons. I would have protested, but Gwenhwyfar reminded me that Uriens would expect to see his wife finely dressed as befitted a queen, and I shrugged and let her deck me out like a child’s doll. One piece, an amber necklace, I remembered seeing Igraine wear when I was very young but never since; once I had seen it in her jewel chest when I was but small, and she said Gorlois had given it her and one day it should be mine, but before I was old enough to wear it I was priestess in Avalon and had no need of jewels. Now it was mine, with so many other things that I protested I would never wear them.

  The one thing I asked of them—to delay the wedding till I could send for Morgause, who was my only living kinswoman—they would not do. Perhaps they thought I might come to my senses and protest that when I agreed to marry into North Wales, I had Accolon in mind, not the old king. I am sure Gwenhwyfar knew, at least. I wondered what Accolon would think of me; I had all but pledged myself to him, and before that night fell I had been publicly promised to his father! I had no chance to ask.

  But after all, I suppose Accolon would want a bride of fifteen, not one of four-and-thirty. A woman past thirty—so women mostly said—must content herself with a man who had been often married and wanted her for her family connections, or for her beauty or possessions, or perhaps as a mother for his children. Well, my family connections could hardly be better. As for the rest—I had jewels enough, but I could hardly imagine myself as a mother to Accolon and whatever other children the old man might have. Grandmother to his son’s children perhaps. I reminded myself with a start that Viviane’s mother had been a grandmother younger than I was now; she had borne Viviane at thirteen, and Viviane’s own daughter had been born before Viviane was fourteen.

  I spoke but once alone with Uriens, in the three days which elapsed between Pentecost and our bridal. Perhaps I hoped that he, a Christian king, would refuse when he knew; or perhaps even now he wanted a young wife who could give him children. Nor did I want him to take me under false pretenses and reproach me later, and I knew what a great thing these Christians made of an untouched wife; I suppose they had it from the Romans, with their pride of family and worship of virginity.

  “I am long past thirty years old, Uriens,” I said, “and I am no maiden.” I knew no gracious or polite way to say such things.

  He reached forward and touched the small blue crescent between my brows. It was fading now; I could see it in the mirror which had been one of Gwenhwyfar’s gifts. Viviane’s had faded, too, when I came to Avalon, but she had used to paint it with blue dye.

  “You were priestess of Avalon, one of the maidens of the Lady of the Lake, and you went as a maiden to the God, is it so?”

  I assented.

  Uriens said, “Some of my people still do so, and I make no great effort to put it down. The peasants feel that it is all very well for kings and great folk, who can afford to pay priests and the like to pray them out of Hell, to follow the way of Christ, but it would be hard on them if the Old Ones, who had been worshipped in our hills since time out of mind, should not have their due. Accolon thinks much the same, but now so much of power is going into the hands of the priests, it is needful I too must not offend them. As for me, I care not what God sits on the throne in Heaven, or what God is worshipped by my people, so that my kingdom is at peace. But once I wore the antlers. I swear I will never reproach you, lady Morgaine.”

  Ah, Mother Goddess, I thought, this is grotesque, this is madness, you jest with me . . . I might well have made a happy marriage with Accolon, after all. But Accolon was young and would wish for a young wife. . . . I said to Uriens, “One more thing you must know. I bore a child to the Horned One. . . .”

  “I have said I will not reproach you with anything that is past, lady Morgaine—”

  “You do not understand. It went so ill with me when that child was born that I will certainly never bear another.” A king, I thought, a king would want a fertile bride, even more than his younger son. . . .

  He patted my hand. I think he actually meant to comfort me. “I have sons enough,” he said. “I have no need of others. Children are a fine thing, but I have had my share and more.”

  I thought: He is foolish, he is old . . . but he is kind. If he had professed a madness of desire for me, I would have been sickened by him, but kindness I can live with.

  “Do you grieve for your son, Morgaine? If you wish, you may send for him and have him fostered at my court, and I swear to you that neither he nor you shall ever hear a word of reproach, and he shall be decently reared as befits the son of the Duchess of Cornwall and the Queen of North Wales.”

  This kindness brought tears to my eyes. “You are very kind,” I said, “but he is well where he is, in Avalon.”

  “Well, if you decide otherwise, tell me,” he said. “I would be glad of another boy about the house, and he would be the right age, I suppose, for a playmate to my youngest son, Uwaine.”

  “I thought Accolon was your youngest, sir.”

  “No, no, Uwaine is only nine years old. His mother died when he was born . . . you wouldn’t think an old fellow like me could have a boy as young as nine, would you?”

  Why, yes, I would, I thought with an ironic smile, men are as proud of their ability to father sons as if it took a great skill. As if any tomcat could not do the same! At least a woman must bear a child in her body for most of a year and suffer to bring it forth, and so she has some reason for pride; but men accomplish their trick with no thought or trouble at all!

  But I said, trying to make a jest of it, “When I was a young girl, sir, there was a saying in my country: a husband of forty may not become a father, but a husband of sixty surely will do so.”

  I had done this deliberately. If he had gone stiff and offended by the ribaldry of that, I would have known how I must treat him in the future, and taken great care always to speak him modest and quiet. Instead he laughed heartily and said, “I think you and I may agree well enough, my dear. I have had enough of being married to young girls who don’t know how to laugh. I hope you will be content, marrying an old fellow like me. My sons laugh at me because I married again after Uwaine was born, but to tell the truth, lady Morgaine, a man gets used to being married, and I do not like living alone. And when my last wife died of the summer fever—well, it is true that I wished to be akin by marriage to your brother, but also, I am lonely. And it comes to me that you, who are unmarried so many years beyond the women of your age, you may not like it so ill to have a home and a husband, even if he is not young and handsome. I know you were not consulted about this marriage—but I hope you will not be too unhappy.”

  At least, I thought, he does not expect me to be madly excited about the great honor of being married to him. I could have said that it would be no change—I had not truly been happy since I left Avalon, and since I would be unhappy wherever I was, at least it would be better to be away from Gwenhwyfar’s malice. I could no longer make pretense to be her loyal kinswoman and friend, and that saddened me somewhat, because there had been a time when we had truly been friends, and it was not I who had changed. I certainly had no wish to rob her of Lancelet; but how could I explain to her that, though I had once desired him, I despised him, too, and would not have had him for husband as a gift. Oh, yes, if Arthur had married us to each other before he was wed to Gwenhwyfar—but even then it was too late. It was always too late after that afternoon beneath the ring stones. If I had let him take me then, none of this would have come about . . . but done is done, and I had not known what other plans Viviane had had for me; and they had brought me in the end to this wedding with Uriens.

  Our first bedding was about what I expected. He stroked me and fussed and pumped away atop me for a little while, snorting and breathing hard, and then w
as suddenly done and away from me and asleep. Having expected no better, I was not disappointed, nor particularly sorry to curl up in the curve of his arm; he liked having me there, and although after the first few weeks he lay with me but seldom, still he liked having me in his bed and would sometimes hold me in his arms for hours, talking of this and that, and what was more, listening to what I said. Unlike the Romans of the South, these men of the Tribes never scorned to listen to a woman’s advice, and for that, at least, I was grateful, that he would hear what I said and never put it aside as being but a woman’s counsel.

  North Wales was a beautiful country, great hills and mountains that reminded me of the country of Lothian. But where Lothian was high and barren, Uriens’ country was all green and fertile, lush with trees and flowers, and the soil was rich and the crops good. Uriens had built his castle in one of the finer valleys. His son Avalloch, and Avalloch’s wife and children, deferred to me in all things, and his youngest son, Uwaine, called me “Mother.” I came to know what it might have been to have a son to bring up, to look after all the little daily concerns of a growing child, climbing trees and breaking bones, outgrowing his clothes or tearing them in the woods, being rude to his tutors or taking dog’s leave to go hunting when he should have been at his book; the priest who taught Uwaine his letters despaired, but he was the pride and joy of the arms master. Troublesome as he was, I loved him well; he waited on me at dinner, and often sat in hall to listen to me when I played the harp—like all the folk of that country he had an ear for music and a clear and tuneful voice; and like all of that court, Uriens’ family would rather make music themselves than listen to paid minstrels. After a year or two I began to think of Uwaine as my own son, and of course he could not remember his own mother. Wild as he was, he was always gentle with me; boys that age are not easy to control, but there were endearing moments, after days of rudeness or sullenness, when he would suddenly come and sit by me in the hall and sing to my harp, or bring me wild flowers or a clumsily tanned hareskin, and once or twice, awkward and shy as a young stork, he would bend and brush my cheek with his mouth. Often I wished, then, that I had had children of my own that I could rear myself. There was little enough else to do at this quiet court, far away from the wars and troubles to the south.