The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Arthur smiled at the slender, dark young man who knelt before him. “How old are you, young Uwaine?”

  “Fifteen, my lord and king.”

  “Well, then, rise, sir Uwaine,” said Arthur graciously. “You may watch this night by your arms, and tomorrow one of my Companions shall make you knight.”

  “By your leave,” said Gawaine, “may I be the one to confer this honor on my cousin Uwaine, lord Arthur?”

  “Who better than you, my cousin and friend?” Arthur said. “If that is agreeable to you, Uwaine, let it be so. I receive you willingly as my Companion for your own sake, and because you are stepson to my dear sister. Make him a place at table there, you men, and you, Uwaine, may fight in my company tomorrow in the mock battles.”

  Uwaine stammered, “I thank you, my k-king.”

  Arthur smiled at Morgaine. “I thank you for this gift, my sister.”

  “It is a gift to me as well, Arthur,” Morgaine said. “Uwaine has been like a true son to me.”

  Gwenhwyfar thought, cruelly, that Morgaine looked her age; her face was touched with subtle lines, and there were streaks of white in the raven hair, though her dark eyes were as fine as ever. And she had spoken of Uwaine as her son, and she looked at him with pride and affection. Yet her own son must be older yet. . . .

  And so Morgaine, damn her, has two sons, and I not so much as a fosterling!

  Morgaine, seated at Uriens’ side down the table, was conscious of Gwenhwyfar’s eyes on her. How she hates me! Even now when I can do her no harm! Yet she did not hate Gwenhwyfar; she had even ceased to resent the marriage to Uriens, knowing that in some obscure way it had brought her back to what she had once been—priestess of Avalon. Still, but for Gwenhwyfar, I would have been married to Accolon at this moment, and as it is, we are at the mercy of some servant who might spy on us, or blab to Uriens for a reward . . . here in Camelot they must be very discreet. Gwenhwyfar would stop at nothing to make trouble.

  She should not have come. Yet Uwaine had wished for her to see him knighted, and she was the only mother Uwaine had ever known.

  Uriens could not, after all, live forever—though sometimes, in the dragging years, she felt that he had decided to rival old King Methuselah—and she doubted that even the stupid pig farmers of North Wales would accept Avalloch as king. If she could only bear Accolon a child, then no one would question that Accolon, at her side, would reign rightly.

  She would have risked it—Viviane, after all, had been nearly as old as she was now when Lancelet was born, and she had lived to see him grown. But the Goddess had not sent her even the hope of conception, and to be honest, she did not want it. Uwaine was son enough for her, and Accolon had not reproached her for childlessness—no doubt he felt that no one would seriously believe it was Uriens’ son, though Morgaine doubted not she could persuade her old husband to acknowledge the child his own; he doted on her in everything, and she shared his bed often enough—too often, for her taste.

  She said to Uriens now, “Let me fill your plate. That roast pig is too rich for you, it will make you ill. Some of those wheaten cakes, perhaps, sopped in the gravy, and here is a fine fat saddle of rabbit.” She beckoned to a serving-man carrying a tray of early fruits and chose some gooseberries and cherries for her husband. “Here, I know you are fond of these.”

  “You are good to me, Morgaine,” he said, and she patted his arm. It was worth it—all the time she spent in cosseting him, caring for his health, embroidering him fine cloaks and shirts, and even now and then, discreetly, finding a young woman for his bed and giving him a dose of one of her herb medicines which would allow him something like normal virility; Uriens was convinced that she adored him, and never questioned her devotion or denied her anything she asked.

  The feasting was breaking up now—people moving about the hall, nibbling at cakes and sweets, calling for wine and ale, stopping to speak to kinsmen and friends whom they saw only once or twice a year. Uriens was still munching his gooseberries; Morgaine asked leave to go and speak to her kinswomen.

  “As you like, my dearest,” he mumbled. “You should have cut my hair, my wife, all the Companions are wearing their hair shorn—”

  She patted his scanty locks and said, “Oh, no, my dear, I think it is better suited to your years. You do not want to look like a schoolboy, or a monk.” And, she thought, there is so little of your hair that if you cut it short, your bald spot would shine through like a beacon! “Look, the noble Lancelet still wears his hair long and flowing, and Gawaine, and Gareth—no one could call them old men!”

  “You are right, as always,” Uriens said smugly. “I suppose it is fitted to a mature man. It is all very well for a boy like Uwaine to clip his hair short.” And Uwaine, indeed, had shorn his hair close to the nape of his neck in the new fashion. “I mark there is gray in Lancelet’s hair as well—we are none of us young anymore, my dear.”

  You were a grandsire when Lancelet was born, Morgaine thought crossly, but she only murmured that none of them was as young as they had been ten years ago—a truth with which no one could possibly argue—and moved away.

  Lancelet was still, she thought, the finest-looking man she had ever seen; next to him even Accolon seemed too perfect, his features too precise. There was grey in his hair, yes, and in the smoothly trimmed beard; but his eyes twinkled with the old smile. “Good day to you, cousin.”

  She was surprised at his cordial tone. Yet, she thought, it is true what Uriens said, we are none of us so young anymore, and there are not many of us who remember that time when we were all young together. He embraced her, and she felt his curly beard silky against her cheek.

  She asked him, “Is Elaine not here?”

  “No, she bore me another daughter but three days since. She had hoped the child would be already born, and she well enough to ride to Pentecost, but it was a fine big girl and she took her own time in coming. We had hoped to have her three weeks ago!”

  “How many children have you now, Lance?”

  “Three. Galahad is a big lad of seven, and Nimue is five years old. I do not see them very often, but their nurses say they are clever and quick for their age, and Elaine would name the new little one Gwenhwyfar, for the Queen.”

  “I think I shall ride north and visit her,” Morgaine said.

  “She will be glad to see you, I am sure. It is lonely there,” said Lancelet. Morgaine did not think Elaine would be glad to see her at all, but that was between her and Elaine. Lancelet glanced toward the dais where Gwenhwyfar had taken Isotta of Cornwall to sit at her side while Arthur spoke with Duke Marcus and his nephew. “Know you yonder Drustan? He is a fine harper, though not like to Kevin, of course.”

  Morgaine shook her head. “Is Kevin to play at this feast?”

  “I have not seen him,” Lancelet said. “The Queen likes him not—the court is grown too Christian for that, though Arthur values him as a councillor and for his music as well.”

  She asked him bluntly, “Are you grown a Christian too?”

  “I could wish I were,” he said, sighing from the bottom of his heart. “That faith seems too simple to me—the idea that we have only to believe that Christ died for our sins once and for all. But I know too much of the truth . . . of the way life works, with life after life in which we ourselves, and only we, can work out the causes we have set in motion and make amends for the harm we have done. It stands not in the realm of reason that one man, however holy and blessed, could atone for all the sins of all men, done in all lifetimes. What else could explain why some men have all things, and others so little? No, that is a cruel trick of the priests, I think, to coax men into thinking that they have the ear of God and can forgive sins in his name—ah, I wish it were true indeed. And some of their priests are fine and sincere men.”

  “I never met with one who was half so learned or so good as Taliesin,” said Morgaine.

  “Taliesin was a great soul,” Lancelet said. “Perhaps one lifetime of service to the Gods cannot creat
e so much wisdom, and he is one of the great ones who has served them for hundreds of years. Next to him, Kevin seems no more fit to be the Lord Merlin than my little son to sit on Arthur’s throne and lead his troops into battle. And Taliesin was big enough to make no quarrel with the priests, knowing they served their God as best they could, and perhaps after many lives they would learn that their God was bigger than they thought him. And I know he respected their strength to live chastely.”

  “That seems to me blasphemy and a denial of life,” said Morgaine, “and I know Viviane would have thought it so.” Why, she wondered, do I stand here arguing religion with Lancelet, of all men?

  “Viviane, like Taliesin, came from another world and another time,” said Lancelet. “They were giants in those days, and now we must make do with such as we have. You are so like her, Morgaine.” He smiled, a rueful half-smile, and it wrenched her heart; she remembered that he had said something like this to her . . . nay, she had dreamed it too, but she could not remember all . . . but he went on, “I see you here with your husband and your fine stepson—a credit he will be to the Companions. I always wished you happiness, Morgaine, and for so many years you seemed so unhappy, but now you are queen in your own country, and you have a good son. . . .”

  Surely, she thought, what more could any woman want . . . ?

  “But now I must go and pay my respects to the Queen—”

  “Yes,” she said, and could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “You would be eager to do that.”

  “Oh, Morgaine,” he said, dismayed, “we have known each other so long, we are all kin, cannot we let the past die? Do you despise me so much, do you still hate her as much as that?”

  Morgaine shook her head. “I don’t hate either of you,” she said. “Why should I? But I thought, now you were wedded—and Gwenhwyfar too deserves to be left in peace.”

  “You have never understood her,” said Lancelet hotly. “I well believe you have disliked her since you were both young girls! It is not well done of you, Morgaine! She has repented her sin, and I—well, I am wedded, as you say, to another. But I will not shun her as if she were a leper. If she wants my friendship as her husband’s kinsman, it is hers!”

  Morgaine knew he spoke sincerely; well, it was nothing to her. She had now from Accolon what she had so long desired from him . . . and strangely even that was painful, like the space left by an aching tooth after it was drawn; she had loved him so many years that now when she could look on him without desire, she felt hollow inside. She said softly, “I am sorry, Lance, I had no wish to make you angry. As you say, it is all past.”

  I dare say he really believes that he and Gwenhwyfar can be no more than friends . . . maybe for him it is so, and Gwenhwyfar has grown so pious, I doubt it not at all. . . .

  “So there you are, Lancelet, as always, chattering with the court’s most beautiful ladies,” said a merry voice, and Lancelet turned and caught the newcomer in a bear hug.

  “Gareth! How goes it with you in the North country? And so you too are a married man and a householder . . . is it two children your lady has given you now, or three? Handsome, you are better-looking than ever—even Cai could not mock you now!”

  “I would like it well to have him back in my kitchens,” laughed Cai, coming up to clap Gareth on the shoulder. “Four sons, is it not? But the lady Lionors has twins, like one of the wildcats of your country, does she not? Morgaine, I think you grow ever younger with the years,” he added, bending over her hand; he had always liked her.

  “But when I see Gareth grown, and such a man, I feel older than the hills themselves.” Morgaine too laughed. “A woman knows she is getting old when she looks at every tall young man and says to herself, I knew him before he was breeched. . . .”

  “And, alas, ’tis true of me, cousin.” Gareth bent to hug Morgaine. “I remember, you used to carve me wooden knights when I was no more than a babe—”

  “You remember still those wooden knights?” Morgaine was pleased.

  “I do—one of them Lionors keeps with my treasures still,” Gareth said. “It is bravely painted in blue and red, and my oldest son would gladly have it, but I treasure it too greatly. Did you know I called it Lancelet when I was a babe, cousin?”

  The older man laughed too, and Morgaine thought she had never seen Lancelet so carefree and merry as he was now among his friends. “Your son—he is almost as old as my Galahad, I think. Galahad is a fine boy, though he looks not much like my side of the family. I saw him but a few days ago, for the first time since he was out of breechclouts. And the girls are pretty, or they seem so to me.”

  Gareth turned back to Morgaine and said, “How does my foster-brother Gwydion, lady Morgaine?”

  She said shortly, “I have heard he is in Avalon. I have not seen him,” and turned away, leaving Lancelet to his friends. But Gawaine joined them, bending to give Morgaine an almost filial embrace.

  Gawaine was a huge man now, monstrously heavy, with shoulders that looked—and probably were—strong enough to throw down a bull; his face was hacked and bitten with many scars. He said, “Your son Uwaine seems a fine lad. I think he will make a good knight, and we may need such—have you seen your brother Lionel, Lance?”

  “No—is Lionel here?” asked Lancelet, glancing around, and his eyes fell on a tall, sturdy man, wearing a cloak of a strange fashion. “Lionel! Brother, how goes it with you in your foggy kingdom beyond the seas?”

  Lionel came and greeted them, speaking with so thick an accent that Morgaine found it hard to follow his speech. “All the worse for you not being there, Lancelet—we may have some trouble there, you have heard? You have heard Bors’s news?”

  Lancelet shook his head. “I heard nothing later than that he was to marry King Hoell’s daughter,” he said, “I forget her name—”

  “Isotta—the same name as the Queen of Cornwall,” said Lionel. “But there has been no marriage as yet. Hoell, you must know, is one who can say never yea or nay to anything, but must ponder forever the advantage of alliance with Less Britain or Cornwall—”

  “Marcus cannot give Cornwall to any,” said Gawaine dryly. “Cornwall is yours, is it not, lady Morgaine? I seem to remember Uther gave it to the lady Igraine when he came to the throne, so that you have it of both Igraine and Gorlois, though Gorlois’s lands were forfeit to Uther, if I mind the tale aright—it all befell before I was born, though you were a child then.”

  “Duke Marcus keeps the land for me,” said Morgaine. “I knew never that he claimed it, though I know once there was talk I should marry Duke Marcus, or Drustan his nephew—”

  “It would have been well if you had,” said Lionel, “for Marcus is a greedy man—he got much treasure with his Irish lady, and I doubt it not, he will try to swallow up all of Cornwall and Tintagel too, if he thinks he can get away with it, as a fox gets away with a barnyard fowl.”

  Lancelet said, “I liked better the days when we were all but Arthur’s Companions. Now I am reigning in Pellinore’s country, and Morgaine queen in North Wales, and you, Gawaine, should be king in Lothian, if you had your rights—”

  Gawaine grinned at him. “I have neither talent nor taste for kingship, cousin, I am a warrior, and to dwell always in one place and live at court would weary me to death! I am happy enough that Agravaine shall rule at my mother’s side. I think the Tribes have the right of it—women to stay home and rule, and men to wander about and make war. I will not be parted from Arthur, but I admit I grow weary of life in court. Still, a mock battle is better than none.”

  “I am sure you will win honor and credit,” said Morgaine, smiling at her cousin. “How does your mother, Gawaine? I have not yet spoken with her.” She added, with a touch of malice, “I have heard she has other help than Agravaine in ruling your kingdom.”

  Gawaine chuckled broadly. “Aye, ’tis all the fashion now—it is your doing, Lancelet. After you married Pellinore’s daughter, I suppose Lamorak thought no knight could be great and courtly and win
great renown unless he had first been the para—” He stopped himself at Lancelet’s grim face, and amended hastily, “the chosen champion of a great and beautiful queen. I think it is not just a pose—I think Lamorak truly loves my mother, and I begrudge it not. She was wedded to old King Lot when she was not yet fifteen, and even when I was a little fellow I used to wonder how she could live at peace with him and be always kind and good.”

  “Kind and good is Morgause indeed,” said Morgaine, “nor had she any very easy life with Lot. He may have sought her counsel in all things, but the court was so full of his bastards he had no need to hire men-at-arms, and any woman who came into the court was his lawful prey, even I who was his wife’s niece. Such behavior is thought manly in a king, and if any criticize it in Morgause, I will have a word to say to them myself!”

  Gawaine said, “I know well you are my mother’s friend, Morgaine. I know too Gwenhwyfar does not like her. Gwenhwyfar—” He glanced at Lancelet, shrugged, and held his peace. Gareth said, “Gwenhwyfar is so pious, and no woman has ever had anything to complain about at Arthur’s court—perhaps Gwenhwyfar finds it hard to understand that a woman may have cause for wanting more of life than her marriage gives her. As for me, I am fortunate that Lionors chose me of her own free will, and she is always so busy breeding, or lying-in, or suckling our youngest, that she has no leisure to look at any other man even if she would. Which,” he added, smiling, “I hope she has no desire to do, for if she wished for it I think I could deny her nothing.”